Milf Hunter: Seducing And Taming Beauties

Chapter 729: Surprise Motherfucker

Yelena didn’t hesitate. She was already on her feet, grabbing her coat and slipping it on with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before. "I’m coming with," she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. "In case something goes wrong."

Claire’s jaw tightened, but there was a flicker of gratitude in her eyes as she nodded. "Fine. But we move fast."

I opened my mouth to protest, but Claire cut me off before I could even get a word out. "No," she said, her voice sharp. "You should stay here."

Yelena, however, had other ideas. She turned to me, her gaze assessing, her voice smooth and persuasive. "Maybe we should bring him along," she said, her tone leaving no room for doubt. "He’ll be safer with us."

Claire shot her a look, her eyes narrowing. "He’s a civilian."

Yelena countered, her voice firm. She turned to me, her expression serious for once. "Do you know how to use a gun?"

I nodded, meeting her gaze. "I know. I’ve practiced at shooting ranges."

Yelena’s smirk never faded as she tossed me one of the guns, her fingers brushing against mine just long enough to make it clear she was enjoying this a little too much. "Good," she said, her voice laced with approval, "then you’re coming with us."

Claire exhaled sharply, her frustration clear, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she handed me the second gun, her gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made it clear she wasn’t happy about this. "Stay close," she said, her voice low and firm, "and do not do anything stupid."

I nodded, and we piled into the car—Yelena behind the wheel, Claire in the passenger seat, and me in the back. The engine roared to life, and we pulled out of the warehouse, the city lights blurring past us as Yelena drove with the confidence of someone who knew every backroad and shortcut in the city.

Claire directed her to the pickup spot, her voice tight with tension. "Twenty minutes," she said, her eyes scanning the streets like she expected an ambush at every turn.

Yelena glanced at her, her smirk turning into a teasing grin. "You sure have to choose these scary places for pickup points," she said, her voice dripping with amusement. "Couldn’t just meet at a café like normal people?"

Claire shot her a look. "We’re on the run, idiot," she snapped, though there was no real heat in it. "We don’t get the luxury of ’normal.’"

Yelena just laughed, steering the car into the shadow of an abandoned building. The place was a shell—crumbling concrete, broken windows, the kind of spot that screamed trap to anyone with half a brain.

She parked the car, killing the engine, and turned to us. "Both of you stay here," Claire ordered, her voice leaving no room for argument. "If anything goes wrong, provide backup. If we get separated, we meet at Yelena’s safe house."

Yelena and I nodded, though my pulse was already kicking up. Claire shot me one last look—something unreadable in her eyes—before stepping out and shutting the door behind her.

Yelena turned to me, her expression shifting into something almost playful. "Don’t be nervous," she said, her voice light. "Your wife will be fine. Don’t worry about her."

I frowned. "She’s not my wife."

Yelena’s smirk deepened. "Do you want her to be?" she asked, her voice dropping into a teasing purr. "Because if you do, you’ll have to work hard for it." She leaned in, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

"But..." she drawled, her fingers tapping against the steering wheel, "if you want me to be your wife..." She grinned, her voice dropping into a husky whisper. "You don’t have to work hard at all. Haa."

Even in this situation—with Claire outside, with the weight of the night pressing down on us—Yelena was in the mood to chat and laugh. But I knew it was a front. Her fingers were resting on the trigger of her gun, her eyes sharp, her body coiled like a spring. If Claire needed help, Yelena would be there in a heartbeat.

I watched through the windshield as Claire approached the other car, her steps cautious, her hand hovering near her weapon. She reached the back trunk, her fingers gripping the handle—

And then I saw it.

A figure emerged from the shadows, a gun pressed against the back of Claire’s head. My breath caught.

"Come out, both of you!" a female voice shouted, sharp and commanding. "I know you’re in the car!"

I recognized them instantly.

Irene and Alisa—Natalya’s bodyguards.

And the woman holding the gun to Claire’s head?

Polina.

Irene and Alisa moved like shadows, positioning themselves on either side of our car, their shotguns leveled with practiced precision. "Come out," Irene ordered, her voice cold and unyielding. "And don’t play any tricks."

I exchanged a glance with Yelena, whose usual smirk had vanished, replaced by a sharp, calculating focus. She didn’t move, her fingers still resting on the trigger of her gun, but the tension in her body was unmistakable. "Seems like we’re outnumbered," she muttered under her breath, her voice low and dangerous.

I noticed something else, too—Irene and Alisa didn’t look surprised to see me. Not even a flicker of recognition or shock. That meant one thing: This was Natalya’s plan.

But why hadn’t SERA warned me?

My mind raced, but there was no time to dwell on it. Polina, still holding her gun to Claire’s head, called out, "We don’t mean any harm."

Claire’s voice was sharp, her body rigid with tension. "What do you mean by all this?"

Polina’s lips curled into a cold smile. "My boss wants to meet you."

Claire’s eyes narrowed. "Who is your boss?"

"You’ll find out soon," Polina replied, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Irene stepped forward, her shotgun never wavering. "Guns. Now."

Yelena exhaled sharply but didn’t resist as Irene reached in and took our weapons, her movements swift and efficient. "Smart choice," Irene muttered, her voice devoid of warmth.

Polina gestured with her gun. "Get in the car. We’re taking a little drive."

The ride was silent, the tension thick enough to suffocate. Claire sat rigidly in the back with me, her jaw clenched, her eyes burning with barely contained fury.

Yelena, ever the wildcard, leaned back in her seat, her expression unreadable, though I could see the wheels turning behind her eyes.

Irene and Alisa flanked us, their shotguns never far from reach, while Polina drove with the ease of someone who knew exactly where she was going.

And then, the familiar outline of Natalya’s safe house—the cabin—came into view.