Page 109 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

Kiryan kept his promise.

That kind of safety felt strange. I still chose where I went. Someone just made sure danger couldn't stroll up and grab me.

Protection wasn't wrong. Stealing choice and calling it protection was.

Friday evening, a boy knocked over paint and a few kids "helped" in the worst possible way. I ended class late, stayed to mop and wash brushes.

"Elena, see you tomorrow!"

"See you tomorrow."

The last mother and daughter vanished around the corner. The studio went quiet.

I turned off the lights and locked up. Cutting through the alley beside the building saved me two blocks. The bodyguards waited at the other end.

I tightened my grip on my art bag and walked a dozen steps—then stopped cold.

Too quiet.

No footsteps behind me. No engine starting at the street.

I turned. The mouth of the alley was empty.

Where the hell were the guards?

"Anton?"

No answer.

My phone screen had barely lit when a hand shot out of the shadows and clamped my wrist.

I swung my art bag and smashed it into him, spun to run—another man hooked an arm around my neck from behind and slammed me into the wall.

The air punched out of my lungs. My phone hit the ground.

"Let me go!"

I stomped his foot. When his grip loosened even a little, I drove my elbow back hard.

A third man in a black cap blocked the other end.

No way out.

I reached for my pepper spray—my wrist got twisted, and my body hit the wall again.

Pain exploded from my shoulder.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Morozov's woman is a pain in the ass, huh."

That last name turned my blood to ice.

"Where are his guys?" the one in the cap asked.

The man holding me laughed. "To grab this bitch, we killed a few watchdogs."

My ears rang.