Mikhail

30 (R)

"That's a bit excessive, don't you think?" I shot an unappreciative look at the giant Slav tucking his gun away, disturbingly unfazed by the lifeless body mere feet away from the doors of the elevator.

Blood spurted from the bullet wound in the back of his head, the thick liquid gathering in a pool around him on the cold concrete.

Mikhail turned to me as I raised myself from the dining table, by which the kind doctor had examined me and concluded my aggravated bruises were just that, bruises, not fractures.

Now he was dead, having been oblivious to the professional murderer aiming his gun until it cocked. By then it was too late.

How sad.

Mikhail wouldn't risk my location reaching even his own father's ears.

Wrapped in white satin and Mikhail the ferocious, I had woken up in his bed, surprisingly well rested, secure and comfortable.

For that short moment I had been able to imagine myself not as Natalia Wellesley, but as a normal person, held firmly in those strong arms and shielded from everything immoral and cruel.

I had breathed him in, trailed the tips of my fingers along the warm concrete of his impressive build and admired the sight of him so relaxed as he slept, unaware of my curious and adoring gaze.

But the cruelness of our world had been quick to push past the momentary bliss and invade my consciousness, and I was once more reminded of my father, Vinnie, and the dangerous people after the reckless heirs of the two most powerful families.

"Take the ones you need," he motioned simply to the kitchen island, on which an array of guns and rifles were displayed.

I sighed out deeply, not as bothered by the lifeless doctor in our midst as I should have been.

"You should probably take care of him before Bean develops a taste for humans..." I reasoned, a smile tugging up the corners of my lips as his dog padded from the couches and toward the body, curiously sniffing about.

Mikhail noticed this and muttered underneath his breath, before gruffly ordering the dog to return to its seat on the couch. It did as told, and my smile widened.

I followed the giant man to the guns laid out on the counter, scanning over them quickly.

"Whose army are you expecting?" I wondered, glancing up at him standing stoically by me, fixed on a particular sniper rifle.

He grabbed it and eyed it over firmly, brows pulled down in concentration.

"It's better to be prepared than to be taken by surprise," he advised lowly, the dark focus he held on the metal garnering all of my attention, "you need to learn to plan, kukolka."

If he were to look at me like that, I would be left in a molten and pathetic pool on the floor.

Get a grip, Natalia, you're in the middle of a war.

"And what's your plan?" I furthered, leaning against my hand on the edge of the island with my absentminded gaze trailing along his stunting side profile.

"Don't let yourself be distracted," he grunted out, all too aware of where my treacherous mind was threatening to wander, "we'll kill whomever gets close."

The thought of each willing and capable family with their extensive armies attacking us left our options rather nonexistent. For it to be just us two against them all seemed utterly hopeless, without the support of either of our families.

Mikhail was dead-set on our abilities to fight them off and live, and for once I was the least stubborn person in the room.

"We could run away together," I suggested lightly, amusing myself with the absurd and romantic idea.