Page 33 of Tattooed Vow

“The system failed you both,” I say simply.

She glances at me, an unreadable expression crossing her face. “That's a diplomatic way of putting it.”

“I'm not known for diplomacy,” I reply. “But I know what it's like to be trapped. To see no way out.”

“Is that what this is for you?” she asks suddenly. “A trap? This life with the Bratva?”

I consider her question, the truth sitting heavily in my mind. “It was all I knew. Until recently.”

“And now?”

I meet her gaze steadily. “Now I'm beginning to see other possibilities.”

She doesn’t ask what has changed. She doesn’t need to. She knows.

She takes a slow breath, and for a moment, I think she might step closer, might bridge the distance between us. But the moment passes, and we continue walking, side by side but not touching, both aware of the invisible current running between us.

When we circle back to the cabin, her body sags with exhaustion, emotional and mental, all of it weighing her down.

“I think I’m going to lie down for a bit,” she murmurs.

“Da,” I say gently. “You should.”

She turns to go, then pauses, looking back at me with those ocean-deep eyes. “Dimitri...thank you for listening. For not—” She struggles for words. “For not making me feel broken.”

Something twists in my chest, painful and sweet. “You're not broken, just bent. There's a difference.”

A ghost of a smile touches her lips before she disappears into the bedroom without saying another word.

Once the door clicks shut, I pull on my jacket and step back outside.

This time, I walk the perimeter slowly, my eyes sharp. Something in the air feels off, like a warning I can’t quite hear but still feel deep in my bones.

Then I see it.

A snapped branch. Low to the ground, fresh. Boot prints embedded in the soft soil are wider than mine and heavier. And the ferns nearby are flattened in a way that doesn’t look natural. Someone has crouched here, watched, and waited.

My pulse spikes.

Morozov’s men.

I stare into the trees, my heart thundering. The silence around me is now thick with threat. I crouch low, brushing my fingertips across the disturbed ground, still moist and fresh.

I follow the trail with my eyes, noting the broken undergrowth and the subtle signs of passage. Professional, but not perfect. They'd been careful, but they'd been here. And not long ago.

My mind races through possibilities, calculations, and exit strategies. Based on the varying depths of the footprints, I know there were at least two men, possibly a third. They hadn't approached the cabin directly. They were surveilling and gathering intelligence. That meant they weren't ready to strike yet, but they will be soon.

I curse under my breath, the Russian profanity sharp on my tongue. How had they found us? Who had talked? The safehouse is known only to Aleksandr and our most trusted enforcers. A betrayal within the inner circle is almost unthinkable, but what other explanation is there?

Back on the porch, I take out my phone and punch in the secure line. It rings twice.

Aleksandr answers. “Brat.”

“They’ve been here,” I say, my voice low and steady. “Boot prints. Broken brush. I’d say no more than two, maybe three men. Recent and close.”

A heartbeat of silence. Then Aleksandr speaks, calm and controlled. “I’ll get a second safehouse ready. Somewhere farther out. You’ll get coordinates soon.”

“Understood.”

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