Page 43 of Tattooed Vow

The kiss is everything I need and nothing like I expected. It is soft yet demanding, hesitant yet confident. I can taste the faint bitterness of vodka on his lips and feel the restraint in how he touches me.

When I pull away, my heart races and my breath comes in short, sharp gasps. Dimitri's eyes are darker than I've ever seen, pupils blown wide with need.

“I'm tired,” I murmur, the words an excuse more than anything. “I'm going to bed.”

He nods once, understanding what I wasn't saying. That I need space. To breathe. To process the storm of emotions raging inside me.

Because staying means falling and falling for him is dangerous. But I don’t know how to stop.

Walking toward the bedroom, I can feel his eyes on me, steady, waiting. And I know, with a certainty that terrifies me, that whatever happens in this cabin will change everything.

For better or worse, I’m already caught in his orbit, spinning toward an inevitable collision. And God help me, I want it—I want him—even knowing it can destroy us both.

17

DIMITRI

The dream has its claws in me before I even realize I’m dreaming.

Sandy is screaming.

Her voice slices through the darkness, raw with terror. I’m running, and branches claw at my arms, the ground slick with mud and blood. The forest is endless. The trees bend inward, suffocating me with shadows. My heart pounds like a war drum, and every step feels like I’m sinking deeper into a nightmare I can’t escape.

I see her for a split second. Hands bound, knees scraped, blood smeared down her temple. She is struggling, calling my name.

“Dimitri!”

And then he was there. Morozov.

Cold eyes. Calm smile. A knife in his hand.

He drags her back into the darkness, and I chase them. But no matter how fast I run, they are always out of reach. I scream her name until my throat tears.

She looks back one last time. “You said you’d protect me.”

Then, the forest swallows her whole. Morozov turns, blood dripping from his fingers, and holds out her necklace, a delicate silver chain with a tiny star pendant. It gleams red and wet in the moonlight.

“You always fail the ones who matter,” he sneers. “It’s who you are.”

The accusation hits like a bullet to the chest. Images flash before me—my brother Mikhail’s lifeless body, his children’s tears at the funeral, Aleksandr’s anger as they lowered the casket. Always too late. Always one step behind the danger.

I lunge at Morozov, knife in hand, fury in every swing. But the blade passes through him like smoke. He laughs, the sound cold and final, echoing through the endless trees.

“Too late. You always are,” his voice echoes. “Death follows you like a shadow.”

I jolt upright on the couch, heart racing, shirt damp with sweat. My breath comes hard, too loud in the stillness of the cabin. The fire in the stone hearth has gone out, leaving only embers that glow faintly red. Outside, the wind howls through the pines, a sound too similar to the screams in my nightmare.

I sit in the dark, trying to slow my breathing, but the dream clings to me like a second skin. The image of Sandy’s terrified eyes, her voice breaking. It is carved into me now. My hands won’t stop shaking, and the taste of copper fills my mouth, where I'd bitten my cheek.

I stand and move into the kitchen, grounding myself in the motion. Fill the kettle. Light the stove. Don't think. Don't feel.This is the old routine learned in the trenches of the Bratva, where showing weakness meant becoming prey. My father's voice echoes in my head,“An Avilov shows no fear. We are the ones others fear.”

But even the click of the lighter and the hiss of the flame can’t drown out the echo of Sandy’s screams. I press my palms against the counter, head bowed, forcing air into lungs that feel too tight.

The second safehouse is more remote than the first. A weathered cabin between mountains surrounded by dense forest and frost-covered trails. It is smaller and older, with creaking floorboards that announce every movement. There is one bedroom, one couch, and no escape from each other. The isolation that makes it secure also makes it a trap of a different kind.

And that is the problem. She is close. Too close. I can hear her soft breathing from the bedroom and catch the scent of her skin, vanilla and something uniquely her, lingering in the air. And every instinct I have is screaming at me to push her away before she ends up bleeding in my arms.

I've seen what happens to the people who get close to me. The trail of graves that follows me isn’t just business. It’s personal. Every person I ever cared about has paid the price.

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