Page 25 of Tattooed Vow

“Goodnight,malyshka,” I reply.

When I heard the soft click of the bedroom door locking, I finally let out a breath. I return to the couch, gun beside me, eyes trained on the darkness outside the windows.

The storm outside rages on, but inside, a different kind of tempest is brewing, one I’m not sure we will survive.

10

SANDY

Sleep is impossible. I toss and turn, sheets twisting around me like restraints. The harder I try to calm my thoughts, the louder they get.

Dimitri.

He carries his past and dark edges like a second skin. And worse is the pull I feel toward him. It makes no sense. I know what men like him are capable of, yet my stomach flips whenever I think about how he looks at me. The way he tells me about Morozov without flinching, without hiding. There’s no apology, no excuses. Just the truth.

The fireplace downstairs crackles softly, its light slipping under the door, shadows dancing across the wooden floor. I kick off the covers and pace the room, trying to shake him from my thoughts. But it’s pointless. His voice, his stare, the guarded tenderness he tries so hard to hide. They’re all stuck beneath my skin.

My entire life, I’ve been cautious. Taking measured steps through a world that showed me its cruelty early. And here I am,caught in the orbit of possibly the most dangerous man I’ve ever met. A man with blood on his hands who somehow still makes me feel safe.

The irony doesn’t escape me.

I tug at the ends of my hair, staring out at the sliver of moon hanging low over the pine trees surrounding the cabin. This place is so remote, so silent compared to the constant hum of the city. Maybe that’s part of the problem. Too much quiet leaves too much room for thoughts I can’t afford.

“Get it together,” I mutter, pressing my forehead against the cool glass of the window.

Finally, I give up. Quietly, I open the door and creep down the stairs, careful not to make a sound. The couch is empty.

My chest tightens until I hear the soft clink of glass from the kitchen. Dimitri stands at the counter, shirtless and wearing dark blue sweatpants, nursing a glass of whiskey. The dim light from the stove's hood traces the hard lines of his face and the sculpted muscles of his bare chest, making him look like something carved from stone.

A collection of scars marks him as a roadmap of violence survived. A jagged line across his abdomen. A starburst pattern on his back that could only be a bullet wound. Each one tells a story I’m not sure I want to hear.

He doesn’t seem surprised to see me. His gaze lifts, slow and deliberate. “Can’t sleep?”

I shake my head, hugging my arms across my chest. “Not with all this silence. I’m used to falling asleep to the sound of sirens.”

He gestures to the bottle on the counter. “Join me?”

I hesitate, then cross the room. He pours a glass, sliding it toward me without a word. The whiskey burns, but the warmth is welcome.

We stand in that quiet space, the heat from the fire behind me and him in front of me. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but it pulses between us.

“You shouldn’t be afraid to sleep,” he says after a moment. “You’re safe here.”

I stare into my glass. “It’s not the house I’m worried about.”

The corner of his mouth twitches in the faintest hint of a smile. “Me?”

I don’t answer, but my silence is answer enough.

He leans back against the counter, crossing his muscular arms, and his eyes pin me in place, as if the rest of the world has ceased to exist.

“I’m not your enemy,malyshka.”

“You’re hardly a white knight,” I murmur.

He gives a rough chuckle. “No. I’m not.”

I shift, my fingers toying with the rim of the glass. The heat is getting to me. Whether it’s from the fire, the whiskey, or the man standing across from me, I don’t know.

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