Chapter7
760 Words
Lauren’s POV
Her hand shook so hard she nearly dropped the phone. For a long moment she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak—just hovered on the edge of hanging up, of letting pride choke her one more time. But then his voice came—low, steady, unmistakable.
“I was wondering when you’d call.”
The sound of him nearly broke her. A sob ripped free, jagged and raw, before she could swallow it down. She turned her face into her shoulder, muffling the sound, but it was too late.
“Lauren?” His voice sharpened instantly, steel wrapping around her name. “Are you crying?”
Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Her throat burned. She pressed her fist to her mouth, trying to hold herself together.
“I—”
“What happened?” His tone dropped into something lethal. “Who touched you?”
The sob burst again, helpless and betraying. Her silence was all the answer he needed.
Mikhail’s curse was sharp, foreign, vicious. She heard the scrape of a chair, the echo of his movement.
“Stay where you are,” he ordered, his voice dark as thunder. “I’m coming to you. Now.”
The line went dead before she could protest.
Her hand dropped uselessly, the phone clattering onto the counter. She pressed both palms to her face, tears sliding hot and unrelenting. Somewhere in her chest, a voice whispered she should be afraid of what she’d just done. But another voice—quieter, deeper—said it was already too late.
He was coming.
And part of her, God help her, wanted him to.
Mikhail’s POV
Rage roared through Mikhail like fire in his veins. Her broken breathing was still in his ear even after the call ended, every sob seared into him like a brand.
The car screeched up before the order fully left his mouth. He climbed in, his men tense, silent, the air heavy with the storm he carried.
By the time the convoy reached her building, Mikhail was no longer a man—he was a blade honed for blood.
He didn’t knock. The flimsy lock gave way beneath his shoulder, crashing inward. Lauren stood in the living room, clutching her bag, her eyes wide and shimmering with unshed tears. She looked breakable. Vulnerable. His.
“Pack your things,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “You’re not staying here another night.”
She shook her head, trembling. “Mikhail—”
“I said pack.”
Behind him, his men filled the hallway like shadows cast from fire. He didn’t glance back when he gave the order.
“Find the landlord.”
Minutes later, Donnelly was dragged into the stairwell. Pale. Reeking of whiskey. Pathetic.
“Mr. Orlov—sir—I didn’t mean nothing by it. Just business, just—”
Mikhail rolled his cuffs back, precise, unhurried. His eyes cut through the man like glass.
“Business,” he echoed softly. “Your business is cornering my woman in her own home? Breathing your filth onto her skin?”
“I—I never touched her!” Donnelly stammered.
“You thought of it.” Mikhail’s hand clamped on his jaw, forcing him to meet his gaze. “And that is already too much.”
The landlord whimpered.
Mikhail leaned closer, his voice quiet, venom wrapped in silk.
“This city is a body. Streets are veins. Alleys, nerves. I own them. Every twitch, every breath—you exist because I allow it.” His grip tightened until Donnelly gasped. “If you ever come near her again, I’ll cut you out of this body. Slice you apart until nothing remains.”
He brushed his lips against the man’s ear, almost intimate.
“And then I’ll scatter what’s left across this city. A finger in the gutter. An ear in the river. A tooth in the alley. So wide, so far, that not even the rats will know which piece to eat first.”
Donnelly’s legs gave out, sobs choking him.
Mikhail let him crumple, then smoothed his cuffs, expression calm, almost disinterested. “Remove him.”
His men obeyed. The cries faded into silence.
When Mikhail returned to the apartment, Lauren stood by the door, suitcase closed, her hand gripping the handle so tight her knuckles were white.
Her voice was steady, though her eyes shimmered. “I’m ready.”
Mikhail nodded once, offering no explanation, no comfort. He simply held out his hand.
And without another word, she followed him out.
- Writer
