Page 133 of Mission Shift

“That’s good to know,” I said quietly. She had no idea how much that meant to me. I wasn’t about to let her walk away.

Her pained expression held me captivated as I gazed into the windows of her scarred soul. I wanted her to know that I saw her—reallysaw her. Here she was, standing in front of me with deeply carved, unseen wounds, and she was still somehow defiant, determined to keep her identity and return to Ukraine. She wasn’t the enemy I’d once misjudged, nor a broken survivor who needed saving, but a woman who carried more strength in her bones than anyone I’d ever met.

Despite everything she’d been through, she stood tall. And yet, there was something vulnerable underneath it all, somethingthat made every part of me want to protect her—not because she was fragile but because she’d never had anyone who gave a damn before now.

She’d convinced herself that she had a debt she needed to repay, that dying wasn’t a sacrifice. It was justice in her eyes. She was willing to throw herself back into the fire for the people of Ukraine, for the innocents who suffered. For her, death wasn’t something to be feared. It was a way to make amends.

I had to find a way to help her see she didn’t have to die to make this right.

She could do more alive than any martyr ever could. But more importantly, I wanted her to know how good she was. Her deep-seated need to save those in harm’s way and protect the most vulnerable was her superpower. She was the most fiercely determined woman I’d ever come across. Not only did she have the desire to help those in need, she also had the capacity to make it happen. I saw it in her—the fight, the brilliance, the fire.

If only she could see herself through my eyes.

But that was going to take time. Years of trauma had taught her that men only offered affection when it served them, that relationships came with a price tag. The very people meant to protect her had shattered her trust.

Daria wasn’t used to being shown kindness without a catch.

The idea of someone wanting to care for her—with no strings attached—was a foreign concept for her. She needed to be shown love that didn’t demand anything in return, needed to be nurtured in a way she’d never experienced. She needed to feel safe enough to choose her future, not just survive it.

I leaned down and kissed her forehead.

One way or another, I’d help her heal. Yeah, I was drawn to her. And yeah, I wanted her. But that wasn’t relevant right now. If she needed to hate me for a while, if she needed to pushme away or unload her pain on me—I’d take it. I could be that person. I didn’t care if she ever loved me back.

Bottom line—she deserved to be loved, and I was here to do that.

“How about we go for a walk?” I suggested. “Figure out what works for you. No pressure. Just fresh air and some space to think.”

I reached for her hand and wrapped my fingers around hers, pulling her closer.

She stared down at our joined hands, and a strange expression flashed across her face, like what I was doing didn’t quite compute. It was the same look she’d given me when I’d grabbed her hand the first time.

I grinned. “I’m just holding your hand, Daria. You’re not obligating yourself to me for the rest of your life. Relax. It’s okay to enjoy the simple things in life.”

Her lips twitched into what was almost a smile.

We moved through the corridor, climbing the spiraling stairwell and stepping onto the wheelhouse deck. The change in the air hit us right away—here it was cool and biting. Sea wind swept across the teak flooring, strong enough to sting the skin but not enough to send us back inside. Overhead, the skies had become moody; low gray clouds stretched out to the horizon. A storm brewed ahead.

I let my eyes sweep the deck. The polished stainless steel railings and gunmetal gray paint gleamed even under the overcast skies. It made the whole thing look like a floating fortress and five-star resort mashed into one—beautiful, expensive, and over the top.

One of the stewards standing behind the outdoor bar asked, “Would you like something to drink?”

“I’ll have a Sancerre,” Daria said without pausing to consider it.

“Of course.” He gave her a polite nod, then turned to me.

“Beer. Whatever’s cold.”

He disappeared, and I turned to watch the sea churn beneath us, whitecaps curling and breaking in every direction.

“You’re used to boats like this, huh?” I asked.

Daria tilted her head and shrugged. “I’ve traveled by these sorts of yachts a few times. But I usually had a reason. Surveillance. Meetings. Kremlin business. This—this is just running and hoping we don’t get caught.”

I let out a breath. “Hell of a nice way to run.”

The steward returned with Daria’s glass of wine and a bottle of Heineken. He handed us our drinks and quickly gave us space. The small crew on board was quiet, professional, and always in the background—the kind of crew you didn’t see unless something was going wrong.

We walked toward the back of the boat, past sleek built-in seating areas and sun loungers no one was using. I took a sip of the beer, then glanced sideways.

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