Page 15 of The Bratva Stalker's Ruthless Claim

---

I suck in a breath. “Help—!”

A gloved hand clamps over my mouth before the scream can leave my throat.

The grip is iron.

I thrash instinctively, panic detonating in my chest.

“Alive,” one of them says sharply.

The voice is deep, rough, and accented. Slavic.

That detail lodges itself in my brain instantly.

“Boss said alive.”

Alive?

What—? Who’s “Boss?”

I kick wildly, my heel slamming into someone’s shin.

He grunts. “Hold her!”

Strong hands grab my arms and yank me out of the seat.

Pain shoots through my shoulder as they drag me across the pavement.

“No—!”

The scream comes out muffled under the gloved hand.

I claw at his wrist, digging my nails in as hard as I can.

He swears under his breath.

Another man grabs my legs.

The world spins violently again as they haul me toward their car.

I bite down.

Hard.

The man holding my mouth jerks back with a sharp curse.

For a split second, his grip loosens.

I suck in a desperate breath. “HELP—!”

A hand slams over my mouth again, harder this time. “Quiet.”

The word is cold. Commanding.

They shove me into the back seat of the sedan.

My shoulder hits the leather door with a painful thud.

Before I can react, someone climbs in beside me and locks his arm across my chest like a steel bar.

---