Page 24 of Tattooed Vow

For a moment, understanding flashes in her eyes. Quiet but unmistakable.

“If I had to do it again to stop that?” I add. “I wouldn’t hesitate.”

She doesn’t recoil. Doesn’t flinch. Just nods, her voice soft. “Thank you for telling me.”

The relief that rushes through me is unexpected. She doesn’t see a monster. Not yet. And selfish as it is, I’m not ready to give her a reason to.

We eat in silence. The food is warm and filling, but neither of us tastes it. Too much sits between us, unspoken but thick in the air.

“So, what happens now?” she questions, setting her fork down. “We just hide out here until Morozov gives up?”

I laugh once, dry and bitter. “Morozov doesn’t give up. That’s not how this works.”

“Then what’s the plan?” She leans forward, her eyes burning into mine. “Because I’m not spending the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, waiting for some Russian psychopath to put a bullet in my head just because I happened to be near you.”

Her words cut deeper than I expected. But I don’t flinch. I deserve that.

“Aleksandr is working on it. He has leverage and connections. If anyone can make Morozov back off, it’s him.”

“And if he can’t?”

I don’t answer. I don’t need to. The silence says enough.

Sandy pushes her plate away and paces the length of the kitchen. The storm outside is picking up again, the wind howling like a warning.

“This is insane,” she mutters. “A week ago, I was just a bartender. Now I’m in some back woods bunker with a hitman, hiding from a vengeful Bratva lord.”

“I’m not a hitman,” I say, my voice sharp. “And I never wanted you involved in this.”

“Then why am I?” she snaps, turning on me. “Why drag me into your safehouse, your war?”

Because I can’t stand the thought of something happening to you. Because Morozov won’t stop until he uses you to get to me. Because I’ve tried to stay away, and I can’t.

But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I step closer, just short of touching her.

“Because Morozov knows,” I say quietly. “He knows you’re my weakness.”

Her breath hitches. Her eyes widen. The air between us is electric.

“Come on,” I murmur, gesturing toward the living room. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

As we move through the house, I keep myself between her and the windows. Every instinct is screaming to protect her. Every nerve is lit up.

At the bottom of the stairs, she pauses. “Do you really think we’re safe here?”

I meet her eyes. The fear she’s trying to hide is still hidden behind the defiance.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” I say. It’s not a direct answer, but it’s my only promise.

She studies me for a beat, then nods.

“I trust you,” she says softly.

And just like that, those three words feel like a loaded gun in my hands. Dangerous and far too easy to mess up.

I watch her climb the stairs. She pauses at the top and looks back.

“Goodnight, Dimitri.”

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