Page 20 of Tattooed Vow

I busy myself wiping down the back counter, trying to look natural while watching the blonde man from the corner of my eye. Finally, he stands and makes his way over, sliding onto one of the worn leather barstools with the fluid grace of a predator.

“Whiskey,” he murmurs, lips curving just enough to make me uneasy. His accent is slight but distinctive. Russian or something close to it.

I pour it, forcing my hands to stay steady. Up close, his eyes are the cold blue of a winter sky, rimmed with dark lashes that soften nothing about him.

“How long have you worked here?” he asks, voice smooth but flat.

“Long enough.” I slide his drink across the polished wood, carefully avoiding touching his fingers.

His smirk deepens as he leans forward, fingertips ghosting over the ends of my hair that have fallen loose from my ponytail. “It’s busy. Loud. The kind of place where someone could go missing and no one would notice.”

The hair on the back of my neck stands up. Before I can respond, I catch movement near the far wall. The dark-haired man stands up, edging closer to the bar, watching me. The blonde man follows my gaze, and something unspoken passes between them.

My stomach drops.

I’ve spent too many years looking over my shoulder to ignore what my gut tells me. I sidle away to help a group of tourists waving down the bar, fumbling slightly as I mix their overpriced cocktails. When they turn away, I duck into the break room, grabbing my phone with shaking fingers.

Only one number comes to mind. I’ve sworn I won’t call him again. But fear has a way of stripping away pride.

“Dimitri,” I say the second he answers. “Something’s off. Two guys are watching me. One of them just told me the bar is the kind of place where someone could go missing and no one would notice.”

“At The Underground?” His voice is instantly alert, the low rumble sending me an inappropriate wave of comfort.

“Yes.”

“Stay put. I’m on my way.”

I end the call, leaning against the wall of the tiny break room, trying to slow my racing heart.

I press my eye to the crack through the small window in the door. The two men linger, speaking in low voices. The dark-haired one occasionally glances toward the exit as if plotting his next move. The blonde one maintains that eerie calm, sipping his whiskey with the patience of someone who knows he has all the time in the world.

The music feels louder, the crowd thicker, and every bass beat rattles through my bones. I text Marco that I feel sick and need a few more minutes. He sends back a thumbs-up, but I can tell he doesn’t buy it by his expression. Still, Marco has his own problems and enough sense not to pry into mine.

Ten minutes later, Dimitri walks through the front door, his presence filling the club like he owns it. His sharp suit and icy expression make him stand out like a knife in a room full of spoons. At six feet three inches, with shoulders that fill a doorframe, he’s impossible to miss. But it’s not just his sizethat commands attention. It’s the quiet authority he carries, the dangerous stillness that mirrors the blonde man’s but amplified tenfold.

The two men see him immediately. The blonde-haired man’s hand instinctively goes to his coat as if reaching for a weapon, but the other man grabs his arm, shaking his head. Within seconds, they vanish through the side door.

Dimitri’s eyes follow them, but he doesn’t chase. Instead, he moves straight toward me, slipping through the door into the break room.

“You okay?” he asks, his fingers curling gently at the nape of my neck, sending an electric current down my spine. The familiar scent of his cologne makes my chest ache.

I want to say yes. Pretend it was nothing. But every instinct I have screams that it’s definitely something.

“No,” I admit. “But I’m still standing.”

He nods. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

“I can’t just leave my shift?—”

“Marco will cover for you. I’ll speak to him.”

I grab my bag from my locker, not bothering to change out of my work clothes, a black tank top, dark jeans, and combat boots. Dimitri’s hand rests on the small of my back as he guides me through the crowded club, his body angled to shield me. Normally, I would bristle at the protectiveness. Tonight, I’m grateful for it.

The streets of downtown are still busy with weekend revelry, neon signs reflecting in puddles from an earlier rain. Dimitrileads me to a sleek black Audi parked illegally at the curb, opening the passenger door.

The ride back to my apartment drags in silence. I stare blankly out the window, arms crossed tight over my chest, but the men’s faces play behind my eyes like a reel I can’t shut off. Questions burn on my tongue. Who are they? What do they want? How did they find me? But I bite them back, knowing Dimitri well enough to know he’s already calculating and planning.

His hands grip the steering wheel, the only outward sign of tension in his otherwise composed demeanor. Light from the streetlamps falls in uneven streaks across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the determined set of his jaw.

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