The Darkness Within

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Five

A hand vigorously shaking my shoulder pulls me out of a deep slumber, accompanied by Sergei's rumbling voice saying something I'm not lucid enough to make out. I try to swat away his hand, absolutely exhausted from the five rounds of sex we shared before I was too tired to do anything but surrender limply to sleep.

Through the last week—ever since the incident in Sergei's office—he's been making a point to fuck me until I'm too limp and boneless to move, so that I can't protest sharing a bed; not that I'm sure I would, anyway. Something about Sergei is steadying, and I don't mind waking up to him in the mornings—not that I'd ever tell him that.

"Later," I slur, swatting at his hands. It's not unusual for him to wake me up in the middle of the night for bouts of vigorous sex—though normally he wakes me with his mouth or fingers between my legs.

"Kira, wake up! We're on red-alert!" Sergei hisses, shaking my shoulder even harder.

My eyes snap open and I sit up instantly, the fog of sleep dissipating. Red alert means something's gone wrong enough that lives are in direct risk—basically, it means emergency. Sergei lets out a breath of relief, palming the nape of my neck and giving it a squeeze.

I can see through the window that it's dark outside, moonshine glinting off the statues in his courtyard and casting ominous-looking shadows. Are those shadows or are they...people?

I blink. "What's happening?"

Sergei pulls me out of bed, shoving a bundle of clothes at me that I instantly begin to slip on. Warm leggings, a long-sleeved shirt, a warm sweater, and running shoes—all dark colors. He's dressed similarly, and bustles about the room, snagging weapons from drawers and concealing them on himself. It's lucky we fell asleep in his room, because he always has an arsenal of weapons within reach as he sleeps.

"The shitstorm of the century," he responds, handing me two guns. I holster both in the back waistband of my leggings, strap a large hunting knife he gives me on my thigh, and shove a smaller switchblade into my sports bra. "Damien teamed up with the Rostov's, gave them intel on the best way to sneak onto the estate. Apparently, one of the servant's was a fucking mole. There are about seventy men belonging to Mikhail Rostov and Damien trying to infiltrate the main house. The house is on lockdown—they have no way to get in—but the grounds are swarming with enemy combatants."

He nods at the window. One glance out of it confirms what he's said—dozens of men surround the house, looking for a way in. I guess those weren't shadows, after all. They're all armed with semiautomatic rifles and wearing riot gear. Some of them are scaling the sides of the house with ropes presumably attached to grappling hooks, others assessing the walls and windows. I wince when one of the masked men tilts his head up, presumably sees me staring out the window, raises his semi, and lets a stream of bullets shoot the window. They all ricochet, as expected.

"Where are your soldiers?" I demand. Where are the precautionary measures to prevent something exactly like this from happening?

He barks out a laugh that's dripping with rage, grabbing two coats from his closet and throwing one to me. "Half of them are dead. The other half are preparing our escape route. Igor should come any minute to tell us it's ready."

"Escape route?" I question.

"Tunnel system under the house," Sergei says.

When I see some of the men below carrying what appear to be explosive charges, a cold niggle of fear moves through me.

"Sergei," I murmur. "They don't just want to get inside. It looks like they've brought insurance."

He strides up to me, peaks out the window, and mutters a string of blistering curses. "We need to go, now. Igor should be ready. The house is sturdy, the foundation will hold against the first several charges, but eventually they'll make headway."