Until the End (Volkov Bratva #2)(53)

He howled in pain, a line of blood appearing on his face. He growled words she didn’t understand, snatching her only weapon away, searing pain sparking to life in her palm. Drawing both knees to her chest, she used both feet to kick him in the chest, knocking him off balance, the gun falling from his hands.

Lauren scrambled out from under him, crawling towards the gun, adrenaline making her movements jerky.

A heated palm slapped down on her calf as he started hauling her back, her fingers just inches from the gun. She fought with everything she had, but he was far stronger and bigger than she was, and her strength was waning.

“No, no, no,” she kept saying the word over and over again, making him laugh harder as he easily overpowered her.

“Can’t help you now, can they?” He taunted as he wrenched the down underwear her legs, as far as they would go with the limited space between them.

She couldn’t see. She couldn’t think. She could hardly breathe.

But the more he taunted her, the more she heard Viktor’s voice as he said that damning phrase, Ivan as he callously spoke about her father’s death.

It all came rushing back.

A surge of strength filled her, enough for her to lurch up and bite his ear. She didn’t give until she tasted blood, rearing back with the torn flesh, spitting it out as he fell backwards, reaching for his wounded ear.

Scrambling backwards, she finally grabbed the gun and pointed it at him.

Her hands were trembling, furious tears burning her eyes, but she refused to look away from him.

“You won’t shoot me, you stupid whore.”

She could have stopped there, could have grabbed Naomi’s phone and called the police, because after all, she had the gun now.

Then, she remembered she was not dealing with ordinary men. People like him bought the police to stay out of prison, hired six figure corrupt lawyers to drag the case on, and people like him would never stop.

People like Mikhail.

People like Viktor.

People like Mishca.

She pulled the trigger.

She had been aiming for his head, but managed to catch him in the neck, the recoil sending her flying back a few steps. Blood sprayed everywhere, getting on Lauren’s clothes and skin, and as the heated liquid hit her bare thighs, she thought of what he had been planning to do to her.

She fired again.

And again.

And again until the gun clicked. The longer she pulled the trigger, the more she sobbed.

She was still sobbing hen rapid footsteps carried men up the stairs, Mishca appearing first in the doorway, his eyes wide with horror as he took in the scene in front of him.

If she had not used every bullet to kill the Albanian, Mishca would have been shot as well.





Fear was such an ugly emotion, one that Mishca rarely felt. He had no need, but when he heard the voicemail Lauren left for him, and the unmistakable masculine voice in the background, the dark emotion that flooded him felt something akin to that.

He abandoned his task, breaking several traffic laws as he sped to his club, but they still hadn’t been in time.

“Otstupit’—Back off,” Mishca said so only they would hear though he doubted Lauren could hear anything at the moment.

She had the gun trained on him, though he had no fear. He’d heard the click of the glock and she was shaking so badly that she could hardly aim it correctly. She was covered in blood and her jeans were bunched at her ankles, sticky red liquid coating her thighs.

His heart beat faster.

Mishca had to stay calm, for her.

He called her name, waiting for a reaction, anything that would let him know she hadn’t checked out completely, but she didn’t respond to him, her mouth moving soundlessly. Tears spilled from her eyes, tracking down her cheeks. It broke his heart.

Calmly, Mishca held his hands up, palms out, trying to get her to focus only on him. Her expression brought a pang to his chest. It wasn’t the fear—he expected that—but she looked so broken, reminding him why this life was too much for someone like her.

He carefully took a step towards her, touching the top of the gun, lowering it before taking it from her, tucking it into the waistband of his pants.

“Lauren, are you hurt?” He asked.

It took a moment for her to answer, but when she did, she shook her head no.

“Did he r—” the word caught in his throat as his eyes went to her bare legs again.

It was then, he felt it. The rapid flutter of his heart, the way his mouth went dry. He was terrified of her answer and more afraid for her.

She understood his question without him having to complete it, relief flooding him when she shook her head again.

Crouching down, he pulled her jeans up. There was nothing he could do about the blood for now. Picking her up, Mishca carried her down the stairs, Luka taking up the rear. It had been a strategic move, not just because they would move faster, but also to shield her view of the other body downstairs.

For once in his life, Luka had nothing smart to say a they got in the car and headed towards the safe house. There was no way for Mishca to get her to his apartment without raising any questions.

It was like she had checked out mentally. Her head rested in his lap, his fingers drifting over her hair. She didn’t speak the entire drive there and if it weren’t for his constant checking, he worried that she had passed out.

At the house, Mishca carried her in the house, directly into his bathroom.