Page 119 of Ruthless Reign

We hit up the table littered with guns, clips, and a few compact explosives—just in case. There's also tactical gear, like kevlar jackets, binoculars, and night vision goggles.

Pavel gives me a grim nod. “You call the shots.”

“Just bring Liza and Sofiya home alive. Nothing else matters.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

LIZA

Sofiya and I are staring out the window, searching for any clue about what might happen next, when a key turns in the lock and the door swings open. The guard who dropped off the duffel bag earlier stands in the doorway, his imposing figure framed by the light. This time, he's not alone—a second guard accompanies him. He’s bald and equally as intimidating.

Sofiya and I both turn as they enter, facing them in silence. My heart pounds against my ribs, the heavy beats echoing the gravity of the moment when everything changes.

The first guard points at Sofiya. “You're coming with us,” he clips out in a gruff voice.

A panicked look passes between my sister and me. Why separate us now?

The idea of Sofiya facing today alone sends a wave of anxiety through me. Protecting her might be impossible, but I'm determined to try everything I can.

I step in front of Sofiya, blocking her path. “Anatoly agreed that we wouldn’t be separated. We’re not going anywhere unless we're together.”

The guard sneers. “You don't have a choice. My orders were clear—just her.”

Both men step further into the room, their intimidating presence shrinking the already stifling space.

“Let's go. Now!”

Sofiya’s eyes widen with fear, but she steps forward as if to go with him.

I grab her arm to stop her. “He's just trying to scare you,” I remind her. “They won’t touch us. Anatoly wouldn't let them mark us on our wedding day.” Even as the words leave my mouth, I'm not so sure of it. Gathering my courage, I challenge the guards. “I want to speak with Anatoly.”

The bald guard glowers down at me. “We don't take orders from you. Now shut the fuck up, and get out of the way before I drag her out of here.”

My sister puts her hand on my shoulder and whispers, so only I can hear, “Don't make trouble. It's not worth it.”

Her hands shake, and her jaw is tight with strain. She's scared; of course she is. I am too, but I'm more scared about what will happen if we’re separated.

Before I can argue further, Sofiya gently nudges me aside and steps forward.

“What are you doing? We can't give in so easily,” I plead.

Her expression is filled with sorrow. “Let’s not make this harder than it already is.”

My sister is dressed up and looks every inch a beautiful bride. But waiting for her at the end of the aisle is a monster.

Instinctively, I lash out at the bald guard, my fingers clawing at his eyes. He curses, stumbling back, just as the second guard grabs me, his grip iron-tight as he shoves me hard to the ground. A sharp pain shoots through my jaw as I hit the floor.

Sofiya’s anguished cry is the last thing I hear as they drag her away. The door slams shut before I gain my bearings to sit up. This is some surreal nightmare. I’m alone, dazed, and trembling on the cold, unforgiving floor.

Tears prick the corners of my eyes, and a crushing sense of despair squeezes my lungs. I’ve never felt so powerless, so out of control. But I’ve already lost one person I love; I refuse to lose another.

As hard as it is, I drag myself off the floor and stand tall. Even though it feels impossible, I have to trust that Sofiya will find a way to take care of herself, just as I must take care of myself now.

Anatoly will be coming for me soon. And even though Sofiya is right—I can’t overpower these men—I'll still fight back with everything I've got.

The wedding dress I'm wearing is not the one I was fitted for back in Moscow. It’s over-the-top and princessy, and nothing I would ever choose to wear. But on the positive side, it only takes me a few minutes to find hiding places within the ornate gown’s layers of tulle and lace.

I slip the metal nail file into the delicate seam along the inner bodice, where it's hidden but easily accessible. The tweezers find a spot under a fold of lace near the waist. I tuck the shard of the broken makeup mirror into the padded lining of the dress's bustle, careful to place it somewhere it won’t cut through the fabric or my skin. It’s not much, but it’s the best shot I have at defending myself.