Page 173 of Betrayal and Vows

"Stay awake," I command, shaking him gently. "Look at me, Anton. Look at me and stay awake."

He struggles to focus on my face. "My beautiful girl," he murmurs. "My brave, beautiful girl."

"I'm not brave," I sob. "I'm terrified. I'm falling apart."

"You're the strongest person I know." His voice is getting weaker.

His eyes are closed. I can feel his heartbeat. Slow. Barely there, but he’s alive. I look around. I will drag this man?—

Rough hands yank me away from Anton's still form. I scream, clawing at the concrete, trying to crawl back to him. His blood is everywhere—on my hands, my clothes, seeping into the warehouse floor.

"No!" I shriek, kicking wildly as they drag me backward. "Let me go! Anton!"

But he doesn't answer. Doesn't move. The pool of crimson beneath him keeps growing.

The devastation hits me like a physical blow. My mother lies crumpled against the far wall, unmoving. Anton's blood pools beneath his motionless body.

Everyone I love—gone.

Raw fury explodes through me, burning away the shock. I am not going down without a fight.

I twist violently in my captor's grip, my elbow connecting with his ribs. He grunts, his hold loosening just enough. I wrench myself free and bolt toward Anton's body.

His gun. I need his gun.

My knees hit the concrete hard as I dive for the weapon lying beside him. My fingers close around the grip just as hands grab my ankles, dragging me backward across the rough floor.

"Get off me!" I snarl, kicking frantically. My heel connects with someone's face and they curse, blood spurting from their nose.

But there are too many of them. Three sets of hands haul me upright, pinning my arms. I thrash like a wild animal, teeth bared.

"Fucking bitch bit me!" one of them howls as I tear a chunk of flesh from his wrist.

I spit his blood in his face and lunge for another one, my fingernails raking across his cheek, leaving deep gouges. He backhands me hard enough to make my ears ring, but I barely feel it through the rage.

"Hold her still!" someone barks.

I slam my head backward into the nose of the man behind me. The crunch is satisfying. His grip loosens, and I slip free again, stumbling toward the exit.

But they're faster. Stronger. They tackle me to the ground, my chin scraping against concrete. Someone's knee presses into my spine.

"Enough," a voice commands. Cold. Authoritative.

Through my tangled hair, I see polished shoes approach. Stefan Popov crouches down, studying me like I'm an interesting insect.

"The famous Lena Rostova," he muses. "You've caused quite a bit of trouble."

I spit blood at his feet. "Go to hell."

He chuckles, then nods to his men. "Bring her. And make sure she doesn't cause any more problems."

Something hard strikes the back of my skull. The warehouse spins, then goes black.

But even as consciousness fades, one thought burns through the darkness:

They may have taken everything from me, but this isn't over. Not even close.

***