Page 40 of Tattooed Vow

“I know. But I trust you,” she sighs.

And that matters more than I can ever say. It’s a gift I never expected to receive, especially not from a woman like her, innocent and untouched by the darkness that defines my existence.

I squeeze her hand gently as we drive deeper into the night, leaving death behind us. For now.

16

SANDY

The mountain road stretches endlessly ahead, winding through thick forests enveloped in the early morning mist. A pale blue hue spills through the trees, lighting patches of dew and setting the branches aglow with a delicate silver sheen.

I pull my legs onto the seat and wrap my arms around them, watching the dense pine trees blur past my window. I should be exhausted, but adrenaline still hums beneath my skin, as persistent and irritating as a mosquito that refuses to be swatted.

I should be terrified, too. After all, only a handful of hours ago, two men tried to kill me. Men who probably knew my name. Knew where I’d been hiding. Who I was hiding with. But instead of fear, I feel something far more dangerous. Comfort.

I glance sideways at Dimitri. One hand rests casually on the wheel, the other drapes across the gear shift, but nothing is relaxed about him. Not in the way his jaw clenches every time we turn a corner. Not in the flick of his eyes to the rearview mirror. He is on edge, yet he makes me feel like I can breathe easily.

How stupid is that?

I know better than to fall for the bodyguard trope. The brooding protector with a haunted past. The emotionally tattered man who wields a gun like an extension of himself and has a body built to make anyone forget common sense. I’ve seen this movie a hundred times. And yet here I am, curled up in his car, watching him drive me deeper into the mountains like my own dark guardian, steering me toward safety on roads only he can navigate.

“We’re close,” he says, breaking the silence that has stretched between us for at least an hour.

His voice is rough with fatigue, his Russian accent thicker now than it has been when this nightmare began three days ago. Three days that feels like three lifetimes.

“Do you know this place?” I ask.

“Never been,” he shrugs, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But if we’re lucky, it’s stocked with enough vodka to survive the apocalypse.”

I can’t help but smile at that, even as my gaze lingers on the purple bruise blooming across Dimitri's cheekbone. A vivid reminder of the Bratva war I’ve been dragged into. The sight makes my stomach clench.

“You're thinking too loud,” Dimitri murmurs, his eyes never leaving the road.

I wonder how he does that. He reads my mind without looking at me. It’s unsettling and comforting all at once, like so many things about him.

“Hard not to think about men trying to kill me,” I reply, aiming for nonchalant but hitting somewhere closer to brittle.

He nods once, acknowledging the truth of it. “Morozov's men are persistent but predictable. This place is off their radar. We'll be safe here until Aleksandr finds Morozov.”

When we finally round the last bend, I lean forward, eager to glimpse our sanctuary.

The second cabin isn’t what I expected. Smaller and simpler but more charming. Like something out of an old storybook, tucked between the trees, with a narrow wooden porch wrapped in the quiet hush of early spring, where the last traces of frost clinging to the railing and new green buds peek through the forest floor.

Dimitri shuts off the engine and is out of the car before I can speak. He scans the tree line first, then steps onto the porch with the fluid ease of a man who knows how to move through danger like it is stitched into his DNA.

I stay in the car, watching him check the windows, inspect the door, and peer around corners. Every motion was precise, carried out with the intention that only comes from hard-earned experience. His vigilance should frighten me as a reminder of our danger, but instead, I find myself mesmerized by him.

Finally, he looks back at me and gives a nod. “All clear.”

I stretch my aching legs and rub my arms against the chill. The mountain air is colder here, crisp and biting against my cheeks. My breath forms little clouds before me, disappearing as quickly as they come. I didn’t pack for this kind of cold. I didn’t pack at all, really. All I have is a small duffel bag with a framed photo of Talia and me and the few clothes I managed to stuff in before we fled. It's not exactly wilderness retreat attire.

Dimitri holds the cabin door open, and I walk inside, my shoulder brushing against his chest as I pass. Even that fleeting contact sends an electric current through me that I try desperately to ignore.

Warmth embraces me like a wool blanket. It smells like cedarwood, pine needles, and something vaguely sweet. Cinnamon, maybe. The interior is rustic but inviting. Wood-paneled walls give the cabin a rustic charm, while a compact kitchen sits neatly to the side, copper pots hanging above the stove like a well-used display. A round table with two mismatched chairs in the corner adds a touch of lived-in warmth, and the modest living area features a faded couch facing a fireplace nestled into a rugged stone wall.

“Not bad,” I note, stepping into the space and turning slowly in a circle. “Cozy.”

He follows me inside, closing the door behind us, and walks straight to the fireplace, where a neatly stacked pile of wood sits beside a note.

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