Twilight Sins (Kulikov Bratva Book 1)

I don’t consciously decide to run down the stairs—I just blink and find myself at the base of them, staring through the front door onto the dark lawn beyond.

The lights that line the driveway aren’t working. The only illumination comes from the windows of the guard shack—strange, because they are usually locked up tight. A red light pulses against the glass.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Then I see Mariya.

She’s halfway between the house and the gates, crouched into a ready position as three men surround her. I’m halfway out the door when she kicks the closest man in the kneecap. Even from this far, I hear the bone crack. The man groans and drops to the ground.

Mariya wasn’t kidding. She knows what she’s doing.

Everything in me wants to run out and help her, but I know there’s nothing I can do. I’ll be a distraction at best and a death sentence at worst.

Where the hell are the guards?

I keep waiting for backup to arrive, but no one is coming. The possibility that they’re all dead is too horrible to contemplate.

Mariya backs away from the group of men, never allowing them to encircle her. Any time one of them gets close, she lands a blow. A quick jab to the jaw, a kick to the ribs. She even manages to swipe one man’s legs out from under him. He ends up on his side in the grass.

It would almost be funny, the sight of this tiny teenage girl facing off with three burly men—if the reality that she can’t hold them off forever wasn’t hanging over my head.

I scan the road for headlights or any sign of Yakov and Nikandr racing back to the house. But the road is dark.

One of the men grabs Mariya’s arm and manages to pull her off balance. She stumbles, kicking out as she hits the ground. She lands a perfect shot to the man’s balls. He crumples, both hands folded over his groin.

That’s it. I can’t let her do this alone. I’m pregnant and untrained, but I have to be better than nothing.

I hope.

I look around the entryway for some kind of weapon. Anything I could use to defend myself. I’m about to reach for a ceramic vase on a side table when I hear a deep voice bark orders in Russian.

I don’t understand it, but Mariya must. Because she turns and runs towards the gates just as the last man standing reaches into his jacket and pulls out a gun.

Time slows and stretches as her arms and legs pump. Mariya’s dark hair whips from side to side as she sprints.

The gunshot must ring out, but I don’t hear it. All I hear is the strangled scream ripping out of my throat as Mariya jerks forward and crumples to the grass.

This isn’t happening.

This can’t be happening.

But Mariya isn’t moving and the three men around her are now walking towards the mansion.

Towards me.

Mariya needs help, but I can’t help her if I’m captured or dead. So I slam the front door closed, slide the bolt home, and run for the back patio. Hiding and waiting this attack out isn’t an option. I know that. If Yakov and Nikandr were coming, they’d be here by now. I can’t wait for them to save me.

I have to save myself.

I run towards the back doors on instinct. I want to get out of the mansion. The men in the front yard know I’m in here, so I want to be anywhere else. But there are more shadowy figures standing outside the glass doors.

I’m surrounded.

I pivot, ducking around the kitchen island and sliding into the pantry just as the front door bangs open. Deep voices fill the house. The men aren’t worried about being caught. They’re practically shouting. They’re speaking in Russian, so I can’t make heads or tails of their plan or what they’re here for. But I try to triangulate their voices.

As soon as I think the path is clear, I’m going to jump out of the pantry, sprint for the front door, and try to make it to the guard shack. Even if all the guards are dead, the keys to the ATV they use for patrolling the perimeter will be in the shack. I could drive it to the neighbor’s house and…

What comes after that doesn’t matter. Escaping now is what’s important.

Mariya. They shot Mariya.

I can’t carry her. If she can’t walk, then I won’t have a choice but to leave her.

The thought leaves a sob stuck in my throat. I have to bite it back as voices fill the kitchen. The pantry doors are designed to blend in with the cabinetry, but it’s only a matter of time before I’m found. My heart is pounding so hard I’m surprised the men don’t hear it.

I wait until the voices pass. Someone opens the patio door and says something to the men outside. Then the door closes and… nothing.

No voices. No footsteps.

For now, I’m safe in here. The last thing on earth I want to do is open the cabinet and step into the open air. But I don’t have a choice.

For my baby.

For Mariya.

For Yakov.

I push the pantry door open as silently as possible and step onto the tile floor.

I creep to the entryway and towards the door without making a sound. But the men closed the door behind them. I slowly press the lever and pull. The weatherproofing suctions against the wood, popping before it drags across the tile.

Deep in the house, I hear a male voice yell something.

Shit.

I take off at a sprint.

Fuck being quiet. Fuck being stealthy. I have to move. Now.

I jump down the front steps and sprint down the driveway, my bare feet shredding against the pavement. When the driveway turns, I keep going straight. I run through the grass, telling myself my destination is the guard shack. But I can’t look away from the crumpled form of Mariya lying on the grass.

There’s no time. If I don’t move, I’ll never make it out. I can’t stop.

But I’m close enough to her to hear her wheezing breaths. I can smell the metallic tang of blood in the air.

I drop to my knees next to her before I can stop myself. “Mariya!”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t respond.

Her face is a pale splotch in the dark grass, but there’s a puddle of blood at the base of her neck. Rivers of it running off of her skin onto the ground. I run my hands over her, but I can’t see where she was shot. I don’t know if she’ll survive.

“Mariya, can you walk?” I ask, knowing she can’t. Her eyes aren’t even open.

And I can’t carry her.

Tears pour down my face. “I’m so sorry,” I choke out. “I’m sorry. I can’t⁠—”

Before I can figure out what the hell to do, someone slams into me from behind.

I scream, but the sound is muffled by a hood thrown over my head. When I try to pull it off, meaty hands bind my wrists behind my back with zip-ties.

“Help!” I scream, knowing no one can hear me. Knowing there’s no one to help.

My feet drag across the grass as two men drag me by the elbows. They throw me into the back of a car. I just barely manage to roll onto my side and avoid landing directly on my stomach.

Without a word, they shove my legs inside, start the engine, and slam on the gas.

Yakov isn’t coming.

Mariya is shot.

I’m alone.