Ruthless Saint

XXXVIII

MISCHA MALIKOV

I was on the hunt. A lit cigarette on the edge of my mouth and the metal tucked in my holster. The bitter taste of smoke coating my tongue, grounding me just enough to keep my hands steady.

The metal sat heavy in my holster, familiar and reassuring. I wasn't thinking logically, I knew that, but it didn't matter.

She left me.

That was the only thought looping in my head, over and over, until it stopped sounding like words and began to ache like a deep wound.

I didn't know how she was able to leave Russia undetected. That alone should've been impossible.

I'd had eyes on her at all times. Security protocol. Orders given and followed. And yet, she disappeared.

The idea that she'd done it deliberately—planned it and waited for the right moment sat wrong in my chest. I didn't like it. But the alternative was worse. That someone might have gotten to her first. Touched her.

Fuck.

I pressed harder on the gas. Streetlights blurred past the windshield, the city folding in on itself like it was trying to swallow me whole.

Every second that passed without her in my line of sight tightened something feral in my chest.

If she was hurt—

I shut the thought down immediately. I'd survived too long to let panic make decisions for me. Panic got people killed. Panic made mistakes permanent.

I pulled up to the driveway of the small cottage home and killed the engine. The quiet was immediate, oppressive.

For half a second, I just sat there, cigarette burning low, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

I took a deep breath. In. Out.

Then I was out of the car. Standing on the front porch and banging on the door.

The door swung open.

A flash of brown eyes and blood red lipstick. "Mischa."

"Elena."

She looked exactly the same as the last time I saw her. Only a couple of months further along. Silk rose clinging to her hips, hair perfectly done as usual, mouth already curling into a smile meant nothing but trouble.

"Where is she?" Each word left my mouth like a punctured bullet wound. Sharp and on edge.

A raised brow. "Who?"

"Don't fucking play dumb with me, Elena."

She blinked, mock-innocent. "I'm not. What are you talking about?"

"Mika."

She rolled her eyes in this way I hated. "What about her?"

I shook my head, my patience thinning with each minute. I didn't have the time or energy to deal with some bratty Italian girl right now.

"Fucking move." I towered over her and shot her a glare, "Now."

"And if I don't?"

"I'll—"

A low voice. "You'll what?"

Vetrov.

He came up behind her and wrapped a hand around her swollen belly. A flash of irritation appeared in his eyes, and he murmured soft words to Elena.