Page 38 of Tattooed Vow

I step over him and take a breath. My ribs throb where he landed his kick, but adrenaline dulled the pain. Then I run.

Sandy.

I bound up the stairs two at a time, every sense on fire. The bedroom door is cracked open. I push it wide.

“Sandy?” I call out low.

The room is empty, and the sheets are a tangled mess. The air still carries her scent of vanilla and warmth, but she is gone.

My heart kicks harder. I pull the gun from my waistband. I turn toward the bathroom just as something moves?—

The closet door swings open. There is a blur of motion, and I barely dodged the lamp as it crashes down, missing my head by inches. The glass shatters across the floor.

“Blyat!” I curse in Russian.

Sandy freezes, eyes wide, chest heaving. Her hair is wild, and her eyes are full of panic and fury. She stands in pajama bottoms and a thin tank top, her bare feet on scattered tiny pieces of glass. I can see her chest rise and fall rapidly in the pale moonlight, sweat beading her hairline.

“Oh my God,” she gasps. “I thought you were one of them.”

I step closer, carefully avoiding the glass, grabbing her by the shoulders. “Are you okay?”

She nods, still catching her breath. “I heard a commotion downstairs... I didn't know if it was you. I was about to call out but then I heard grunts and fighting and I hid. I?—”

“Get dressed,” I interrupt, scanning her for injuries. “We have to move.”

She blinks in confusion. “What happened?”

“Morozov’s men. They’re dead, but more could be coming.” I release her shoulders, moving to the window to check the perimeter. No movement outside yet, but that doesn’t mean we were safe.

She stares at me. “You killed them?”

“Yes,” I growl. “We don’t have time.”

Sandy doesn’t ask another question. She slips into jeans, tugs on a sweater, and stuffs her things into her duffel bag. Her movements are quick and methodical.

As we descend the stairs, I see her pause at the landing. Her eyes lock onto the body, the one slumped on the bottom stair, blood streaked across the wood.

She gasps, her hand gripping the railing tighter. She doesn’t speak, but her lips part slightly, her skin pale under the soft lamplight.

“Malyshka,” I say quietly, watching her.

She looks at me, swallowing hard. “I... I’ve never seen...”

“You’re safe. I made sure of that.” I move to her side, my hand hovering near the small of her back. I don’t touch her. I’m not sure if she’ll welcome it after what she saw me do.

She nods slowly, as if she is grounding herself in the words. One foot moves forward, then the other. When she reaches the bottom, she exhales a shaky breath and straightens. There is fear in her eyes, but there is also strength.

She steps over the body and turns toward me suddenly, pressing a hand to my chest. “Are you hurt?”

“No. Just a bruise or two.”

Her eyes search mine, scanning my face and arms as if needing proof. She touches the side of my jaw where blood is splattered. “That’s not yours?”

“No.” I gently touch her cheek, letting my thumb brush across her skin. She leans into it slightly.

She closes her eyes for a moment, and when she opens them again, she’s focused.

“Let’s get out of here,” she insists.

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