“Keep moving,” Sasha growls. Feliks shoves his way through the crowd to meet us at the bottom of the stairs, gripping Mom’s arm to steer her through the chaos. But the pack follows us, rabid. They hedge closer, and closer, grabbing and plucking, until a beefy guy with a telephoto lens shoulder-checks me in his haste to reach Sasha.
He pivots so fast I get whiplash. One second, he’s a marble statue; the next, he’s got the photographer’s collar in his fist, slamming him against a pillar in the hangar. The camera smashes against the floor and plastic shards go skittering across polished tiles.
“You touch her again,” Sasha snarls, his scarred throat flexing with every word, “and I’ll feed you your own f*****g camera.”
The photographer gurgles in Sasha’s grip. “I-I’m sorry, man—”
“Not to m
