Willow is in that one, but the windows are tinted. All I can make out is the shape of her—smaller, more delicate than the guards around her.
My men have assured me that she is no prisoner. She’s been seen in town countless times, her movements free and autonomous.
But brainwashing is a form of imprisonment.
And I plan on freeing Willow from all the shackles that have bound her to her mother for the last eleven months.
The jeeps move towards the cliff path. I grab my phone and make the call.
“Pietro,” I say. “It’s time to redeem yourself. They’re heading your way.”
“I won’t let you down, boss.”
I wait until both jeeps have disappeared down the track before I give the signal to follow. They should meet Pietro and his contingent in six minutes.
Gaiman is behind the wheel. Calm and even-tempered, he’s the best driver in situations like this. The vehicle barely makes a sound as we follow at a reasonable distance.
We have to take a more circuitous route than the one Willow is on. It’s a necessary measure to avoid being noticed by the guards on the lookout posts. But before long, I can hear the loud purr of the jeep’s engines.
I check my time. Only four minutes have passed. The road is narrowing now. We’re approaching the far side of the snow-capped hill that will allow for the ambush.
“Not long to go now.” Jax is practically bouncing in his seat, giddy as a kid on Christmas morning.
I stave off the excitement. I’ll celebrate once I’ve won. Once Willow is in my grasp.
Not a moment before then.
The screech of tires is barely audible, cushioned by the blanket of snow on the ground.
But the gunshots definitely aren’t.
The pop-pop-pop of automatic fire echoes through the mountain range, making the trees shiver. Snow shakes into the wind like white rain.
“Speed up,” I growl.
Gaiman accelerates. We round another turn and come to a straightaway. Ahead, I can see the ambush unfolding.
Pietro’s vehicles have blocked the narrow path down into the village. Anya’s black jeeps are halted at an angle. It’s clear their intention is to turn around and haul ass back to the secure compound.
But our appearance has just fucked up their escape plan.
Pietro and the rest of my men are already out in the snow, their weapons trained on both jeeps. The shots I heard fired only moments ago have met their targets. Every single tire on the armored jeeps is flat now. Undrivable.
Sitting ducks.
Once the Mikhailov men realize they’re trapped, they come out from behind their tinted windows. Like us, their weapons are drawn.
I jump out of the passenger seat and move cautiously towards the scene.
“None of you have to die,” I call out. “All I want is what’s already mine.”
“She is not yours,” a husky voice calls back.
The owner of the voice steps forward. He’s a huge man, even taller than me. Must be close to seven feet.
“Keep talking and this will end badly for you and your men.”
“As long as I am breathing, you will not touch—”
Before he’s finished, I pull my gun, aim at his head, and fire. His heavy body hits the ground with a thud. Hot blood melts the snow around his head.
“Anyone else want to test me?” I ask casually. “Or should I keep shooting?”
“Enough!”
The Mikhailov men flinch at the sound of her voice. The back door of the second jeep opens. Thick-heeled black boots hit the snow.
Then she steps out.
But the woman that emerges from the jeep is not who I’m expecting.
She has Willow’s coloring. She has Willow’s black hair and blue eyes. She has Willow’s curves, her scent, her aura.
But this woman is not the same one I married.
Her black hair is shorter than I remember, ending at her shoulders in sharp spikes. Her eyes are harder, colder. Her full mouth is set in a harsh line. The gray turtleneck she’s wearing is skintight, as are the black jeans she’s paired it with, and there’s a new hardness in her body. She’s lost weight, gained muscle.
She looks fucking beautiful.
And fucking deadly.
Somehow, in only eleven months, Anya Mikhailov has managed to transform Willow into a mirror image of herself.
Willow takes a step forward. She’s unarmed, but she looks perfectly at ease as she approaches me.
“I said that’s enough, Leo. Put the gun down.”
“It’s never enough. You know I’ll kill them all.”
“I know you’ll try. But I won’t allow you to hurt them.”
Willow has found her dominance. Was this ruthless Bratva queen always lurking under the surface of the mild-mannered woman I snatched from obscurity? Or was she birthed in the last several months by a woman whose ruthlessness has become legend?
I raise my eyebrows. “I’m not really asking.”
Her eyes narrow before flitting over my men and then hers. She’s taking stock of the situation. Evaluating—not from fear or panic, but from calm certainty. She nods as she makes her decision.
“I’ll come with you if you let them go.”
“A noble gesture.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
I almost smile. “Get in the vehicle, Willow.”
She flinches. “My name is Viktoria Mikhailov. Willow no longer exists.”
“Is that right?” I ask. “Willow’s parents will be disappointed to hear that.”
Her eyes go wide. I can see the information piercing through the tough veneer she’s painted on. Has she believed they were dead this whole time?
“My parents…”
I turn away from her, unwilling to divulge anything else just yet. “You have five seconds to get your ass in my jeep. You know me, Willow. I keep my promises.”
I can see it in her face: she wants to refuse me, to deny me, to fight back like she always has.
But she resists the urge and starts walking towards me.
Even her walk has changed. She moves like a predator, aware of every step and its effect. She knows how to use her new body…
And it’s making me very fucking hard.
“Madam Viktoria!” one of the Mikhailov soldiers says, stepping forward helplessly.
Jax has a gun trained on him in seconds, but he ignores that and looks straight at Willow.
“Madam Viktoria,” he says again, softer.
“It’s okay, Armand,” she sighs. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Your mother–”
“My mother knew this was a possibility,” she interrupts. “She was ready for it.”
Then she raises her left leg and gracefully settles herself into the jeep.
Jax and Gaiman are looking right at me. Gaiman’s expression is veiled. But Jax’s smile isn’t subtle at all.
“Hot damn,” he mutters.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes as I turn to the Mikhailov men, particularly the one who just spoke. Armand. He’s looking after Willow with an expression that speaks to devotion and infatuation.
It’s enough to merit a bullet to his leg. But I promised Willow I wouldn’t. And like I just told her, I keep my promises.
“Pursuing us is not in your best interests,” I inform them. “Unless you want to join the big fucker eating snow.”
Armand’s expression tapers into hate. “We’ll get her back. She belongs here, with us.”