57
Chloe
Hyperventilating, I bring up my gun, pointing the barrel at the stranger. “Drop your weapon and back away!”
I mean to sound authoritative, but instead, my words come out in a hoarse, trembling croak, my throat raw from smoke.
The man’s dark gaze flicks toward me for a millisecond, but he doesn’t move an inch. “Idi syuda, Slavchik.” His deep voice is eerily calm. “Bystro.”
To my shock, I recognize the first portion of the Russian phrase.
Come here, the stranger said, using another diminutive of the child’s name.
Nikolai’s gaze doesn’t leave his opponent’s face, though I know he’s aware of my presence. I can feel the lethal tension emanating from him, see his hard jaw flexing.
“My son isn’t going anywhere with you,” he growls in English at the stranger. “Slavochka, get behin
