Page 28 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

I expected him to ask how much my "little hobby" was worth. Or to mock me the way Isabella would, for treating cheap brushes like treasure. But he said nothing.

The car rolled onto a quieter stretch of road. Streetlights swept past the windows, slicing his profile into alternating shadow and light.

"The car behind us followed for three blocks," Feodor said, eyes flicking to the rearview.

"Confirm if they have backup," Kiryan said. His whole energy shifted.

"Two cars. Same pattern. They are covering each other."

I looked back. Two sets of blinding high beams crept closer.

"Close your eyes," Kiryan said, gripping the back of my neck and pushing me down. "Get low."

The first hit came fast and brutal—our rear end jolted hard. Feodor yanked the wheel, the car skimming the guardrail. Tires screamed against the pavement. Before I could even breathe, the car on the right slammed into us.

Inertia threw me toward the door. Before my shoulder could hit the glass, a solid arm shot across my chest and hauled me into him.

Gunfire cracked outside. He pressed me between the seat and his chest, and I couldn't see anything but him. I heard him return fire—each shot controlled, steady. I clutched his shirt, fighting the shake in my teeth.

"Don't be scared," he said in a gap between shots, glancing at me as he shifted back just enough.

I finally saw how bad it was. Our window was spiderwebbed with fractures, the car shuddering like it could give out any second.

Kiryan kept firing, aiming at the other car's tires. A sharp burst—then the pursuing car fishtailed, skidded sideways, and slammed to a dead stop.

The second car didn't slow. It surged into the curve and punched up on our left, its front end ramming our rear door over and over. Metal groaned with every impact.

"Feodor. End it," Kiryan ordered, his heartbeat so steady it was almost terrifying.

"Got it." Feodor tightened both hands on the wheel. "Ma'am—hold on."

The engine roared. He eased off just enough to let their bumper slide ahead half a length. Then he punched it—hard. Our car surged, dropped left, and smashed into them.

Their car snapped sideways, smoke and burnt rubber stinging the air.

Feodor steadied us and drove out of the kill zone.

Kiryan looked down at me. "Are you hurt?"

I shook my head.

His thumb brushed my cheekbone, like he had to be sure himself. The rough pad scraped lightly across my skin, and my breath stuttered.

"We are safe now," he said.

I should've pulled away from the warmth of his arms. Then I saw the thin line of blood at his ear.

"You're bleeding."

"Just a scrape."

I lifted my hand. He caught my wrist before my fingers reached it, his palm scorching.

"Do you always call bleeding a scrape?"

"Compared to what I've taken, it is nothing."

He sounded flat, like it meant nothing. I thought of the scars on him—knife marks, bullet wounds. Just now, he'd used that battered body to shield me from everything.