Page 22 of Tattooed Vow

The drive to the safehouse is silent. Sandy sits beside me, her hands folded tightly in her lap, staring out the window like the night holds answers. The tension between us is undeniable. Every breath inside the jeep hums with the strain of everything left unsaid.

Rain patters softly against the windshield, creating streaks that catch the moonlight. I fix my eyes on the road, but my awareness of her, the faint scent of her shampoo, and her breathing rhythm consume me. The wipers squeak rhythmically, marking time like a metronome counting down to something inevitable.

The safehouse is hidden deep in the woods upstate. Old stone walls wrap around the property, and tall pines stand like sentinels guarding the winding driveway. The house is dark brick and slate, sprawling but quiet, with only the faint glow of a few lights burning inside. The isolation is intentional. Aleksandr doesn’t use this place often, but when he does, it’s for situations like this, where vanishing from the world is the only safe option.

“They won't find us here,” I say, breaking the silence. “No one knows about this place except Aleksandr and our most trusted.”

She nods but doesn’t respond. The tension in her shoulders tells me everything her words don’t.

I kill the engine, and for a moment, neither of us moves. The absence of the motor's hum leaves us wrapped in silence, broken only by the soft patter of rain and the occasional distant roll of thunder.

Sandy finally speaks, her voice low. “This is it?”

“This is it,” I say. “Isolated. Secure.”

She steps out first, boots crunching against the gravel. Her eyes scan the tree line, sharp and cautious. I hate that she’s used to doing that and always looking for threats. She moves like someone who never lets her guard down. I should admire it. Instead, it makes me want to rip apart anything that dares to scare her.

I grab our bags from the back. One contains clothes and necessities. The other holds weapons. Insurance I hope we won’t need but can’t afford to be without.

Lightning tears across the sky, illuminating the property in a white flash. Sandy flinches, her silhouette sharp and shadowed against the glowing outline of the house.

Inside, the house smells like cedar and cold stone. Dust lingers faintly, but everything else is meticulously maintained. The living room has exposed beams, worn leather furniture, and a massive stone fireplace. The hardwood floors creak under our steps, the house’s old bones groaning around us. A second-floor balcony overlooks the main room, and the floorboards above creak softly as if remembering footsteps long past.

I flip a switch, and warm light floods the space, chasing shadows to the corners. Outside, the rain grows heavier, drumming against the windows like impatient fingers.

Sandy drops her backpack by the door and crosses her arms. “You’ve got a thing for rustic murder cabins, don’t you?”

I can’t help the ghost of a smile. “It’s safe.”

She arches a brow but stays quiet. Her deep blue eyes wandered the room, taking in every detail. The dark wooden beams overhead, the faded antlers above the hearth, and the shelves sagging with old leather-bound books. I know that look. She isn’t admiring the décor. She’s cataloging, measuring, and preparing for whatever might come next.

“You’ll sleep upstairs,” I say, my voice quieter now. “There’s a lock on the door. Use it.”

She bites her lip, glancing at me. “And you?”

“Down here.” I gesture to the couch.

Her eyes flick toward it, then back to me. “Fine.”

But nothing about the way she says it sounds fine. I light the fireplace, the room filling with the warm glow of crackling flames. It’s more to distract myself than to warm the space. The house is almost too quiet, and with Sandy only feet away, it feels smaller than it should.

Her scent lingers faintly, subtle, and intoxicating. It isn’t just the threat of Morozov that has me on edge. It’s her.

I keep myself occupied by sweeping the cabin's perimeter, scanning for signs of danger. But there’s nothing, just raintapping against the earth and the quiet stillness of the wilderness.

When I returned to the living room, Sandy had removed her jacket and boots. She stands by the fire, warming her hands, her profile lined in gold by the flames. Her red hair falls loose around her shoulders. For a moment, I forget why we’re here, and it’s easy to pretend we’re just stealing a weekend away from the world.

I watch as she wanders to the bookshelves, trailing her slender fingers along the spines. She moves with that quiet strength that has driven me insane since the day I met her.

She pulls a book from the shelf, thumbing through it absently. “Who reads Tolstoy in a safehouse?”

“Aleksandr,” I reply. “He says it reminds him of home.”

“And you?” she asks, replacing the book. “What reminds you of home?”

The question catches me off guard. Home is a concept I abandoned long ago, traded for loyalty and duty to the Bratva. But looking at her stirs a dangerous longing for things I have no right to want.

“I don't think about it,” I mutter.

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