Page 62 of Marked By His Touch

Alexander and I stand there, breathless, our bodies trembling, watching Nikolai fall and disappear into the dark waters. We hear a splash, a chilling sound of his descent into the depths.

I can’t believe it.

“H-he’s gone,” I stutter.

Alexander stares at the water, his gaze fixed on the swirling darkness. His chest heaves.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice rough.

He pulls me close, burying his face in my hair. I can smell his scent: sweat and adrenaline.

“I’m—alive,” I pant.

“I’ll get the medical kit,” he murmurs. “We did it—-You did it, Ava.”

I cling to him, my body trembling, the adrenaline starting to fade, leaving me shaky and vulnerable. I feel the warm pressure of his body against mine.

I’ve missed him. So much.

I glance down at my shoulder, the blood staining my dress, a dark, crimson stain spreading with each passing moment. It’s bleeding again.

Damn it.

Alexander turns towards me. His hands gentle as he reaches for my face. He kisses my cheek, brow, and the tender curve of my jaw; his lips are soft. He reaches for my wound, his fingers working quickly, skillfully, stopping the bleeding again, this time with his ripped white shirt. The pressure of his touch feels good.

“It’s okay, Ava,” he says. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

We hold each other momentarily, the world around us fading away. The chaos of the fight, the fear, the anger—all of it recedes. For now, there’s only him and I.

“We should check on Harvey,” he says, his voice regaining strength.

“Yeah,” I say.

As we turn to leave, we feel a sudden shift beneath our feet. The ship tilts, a subtle movement. The engine thrumming behind us changes pitch.

The ship is turning around, back to Port Haven. Harvey is on the bridge. A small smile spreads on my face.We’re going to be okay.

We burstthrough the heavy oak doors onto the bridge, a scene of controlled chaos unfolding before us. Harvey, pale and streaked with sweat, stands at the helm, his hand on the wheel, his eyes hardened. Behind him, a gaggle of FBI agents and police force operatives have Nikolai’s men cornered, their guns drawn on the Russian mafia members, their bodies tense, ready to strike.

The sound of the ship’s engines thrum and the groaning of the metal railing as it shifts creates a tense, almost electric atmosphere.

“Harvey,” Alexander says. Harvey turns; a glimmer of relief in his eyes.

“You made it,” he says, his voice gruff. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“It’s a long story,” Alexander says, eyes scanning the scene, assessing the situation. “We’re here now.”

Alexander hugs me and holds me close. He’s still holding me when Harvey strides towards us.

“Ava, you’re hurt!” he exclaims, his eyes wide and concerned.

I smile a tight, strained smile, trying to lighten the mood. “Just a bullet in the shoulder,” I say, my voice light despite the throbbing pain that radiates through me. “Nothing a little Band-Aid can’t fix.”

He chuckles, a sound that’s more of a strained exhale than genuine laughter. His eyes, however, remain serious.

“We need to get you to a hospital,” he says, his voice firm.

“If you insist,” I say, cracking a smile. “Just not St. Jude’s this time—”

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