บททั้งหมดของ Under The Devil's Eyes : บทที่ 11 - บทที่ 20

‎Nora’s POV‎I woke up to the smell of Mikhail on the sheets and the dull ache between my thighs. Sunlight sliced through the penthouse blinds, painting gold stripes across his bare back. For one heartbeat the world felt quiet. Then reality slammed back in. The vibration of an incoming call from Mikhail's phone snapped me back from my daze."What the hell do you mean he's gone again? Well fucking find him!". He snapped, jaws clenched. "Elias is missing again". My heart immediately plummets to my stomach.‎Elias was gone.‎Mikhail was already moving, sweatpants low on his hips, phone to his ear, speaking clipped Russian. When he ended the call his eyes found mine, cold and unreadable.‎“Your brother left your apartment after midnight. Phone off. No note.”‎The words hit like ice water. I bolted upright, clutching the sheet to my chest. “What do you mean, left?”‎“Exactly what I said.” He tossed me one of his black hoodies and a pair of joggers. “We’re going now.”‎I dressed in a daze, t

‎Mikhail’s POV‎The private wing smelled of sharp bleach, cold metal, and the faint sweetness of antiseptic that never quite masked the underlying scent of sickness. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too white, turning every face ghostly. I stood at the observation window, palms pressed to the cool glass, watching the doctors move around Elias like silent machines. The steady beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor cut through the hush, each sound a hammer against my ribs.‎Nora sat hunched in the plastic chair beside the bed, drowning in my black hoodie. The sleeves swallowed her hands; only her fingertips peeked out, white-knuckled around Elias’s limp fingers. Her hair was a wild tangle from my hands hours ago, falling over her face in dark ropes. She hadn’t cried since we arrived. She had simply folded in on herself, shoulders curved inward, as if she could make herself small enough to disappear.‎I hated the sight more than I could name.‎I hated the way the overhead lig

‎Mikhail’s POV‎Romanov Estate – 11:58 p.m.‎The estate was too still, the kind of silence that comes right before a storm breaks. I left the Porsche idling on the gravel and took the front steps two at a time. The chandelier was dimmed to a sickly gold, throwing long shadows across the marble.‎My father was waiting exactly where I expected: foot of the grand staircase, arms folded, silver hair catching the low light like frost.‎“You kept me waiting all day,” I said, shrugging out of my coat.‎“You were busy with your fling,” he answered without heat. “Andrei is back.”‎The name hit like a blade between the ribs.‎“Since when?”‎“Two weeks. He asked me not to tell you until he was ready.” My father’s mouth twisted. “He’s always been dramatic.”‎I laughed once, sharp and humorless. “Of course he has.”‎My father started toward the study. I followed.‎“One more thing,” he said over his shoulder. “Viktor lands tomorrow night. Says it’s urgent family business.”‎Uncle Viktor. The name t

‎Third-Person POV.‎The tires of Mikhail’s Porsche screamed as he took the hospital ramp at sixty.‎Two black SUVs full of his men skidded in behind him, doors flying open before the vehicles even stopped.‎The emergency bay lights painted everything red and blue, strobing across Mikhail’s face like war paint.‎A nurse tried to intercept him at the doors.‎“Sir, you can’t—”‎He didn’t slow.‎“Where’s Aleksei Volkov?”‎“ICU, fourth floor, but family only—”‎He shoved past her, boots pounding the linoleum. His men fanned out behind him like a dark tide.‎The ICU was chaos: nurses crying, security guards pale and useless, blood smeared across the floor in long streaks.‎Mikhail’s vision tunneled.‎He found Aleksei in a glass-walled room, hooked to machines, chest wrapped in crimson-soaked bandages.‎A doctor was stitching a six-inch gash across his ribs.‎Aleksei’s eyes, glassy with painkillers, still found Mikhail the second he walked in.‎“Mikhail…” A wet cough. “Trap… don’t go alone…”

‎Nora’s POV‎Romanov Estate – 10:27 a.m‎Katarina’s voice floated through the haze of sleep like warm honey.‎“Dorogaya… the doctor is here.”‎I surfaced slowly, pain dragging me awake.‎She helped me sit against the headboard, gentle fingers smoothing my hair.‎The doctor worked in quiet efficiency: cold gel, tape, whispered Russian to Katarina, painkillers slipped into my palm.‎When they left, sunlight poured through the tall windows, turning the room into a dark cathedral.‎Midnight-blue walls, charcoal silk sheets, heavy oak furniture that looked centuries old.‎A single silver frame on the nightstand held a black-and-white photo of a younger Mikhail and a woman who had to be his mother.‎Everything screamed money, power, and him.‎I was drowning in him.‎Katarina promised breakfast, then talk.‎My stomach dropped. Talk meant questions. Questions meant the contract, Elias, the kidnapping.‎I scanned for my phone: gone.‎I was cut off, blind, trapped in a fortress full of predator