Page 45 of Tattooed Vow

We stay like that, suspended in the moment, the quiet heat between us undeniable. Her pulse flutters under my palm, and my heart matches its rhythm.

I can kiss her. I want to. It would be so easy to lower my head those few inches, to taste her again, to lose myself in her warmth and forget, for a little while, about Morozov and the Bratva and the price on both our heads.

But easy doesn’t mean right. And I know where this road leads. Attachment means vulnerability. Vulnerability means leverage. And Morozov will use any leverage he can find.

So, I step back again and let the cold seep in. Because that's what is best for her. Even if it feels like carving out my own heart.

“Get dressed,” I say, turning toward the window, where the first pale light of dawn is breaking over the mountains. “I want to check the north side when the sun rises.”

I don’t look back. If I do, I won’t be able to let her leave. And if I don’t leave, I won’t be able to stop myself from pulling her into my arms and never letting go.

We leave the cabin as the morning stretches across the mountains. The air is crisp, nipping at our exposed skin, but the promise of spring lingers in the soil. A light breeze stirs the fresh green leaves above, and pale purple wildflowers dot the trail along the ridge. The snow has mostly melted at this elevation, leaving only patches in the shadowed places beneath the densest trees.

Water drips steadily in the distance, runoff from the thaw winding into a stream that slices through the trees like a silver ribbon. It’s peaceful, although my nerves are still raw from the nightmare.

“Over there,” I say, pointing toward the slope near the tree line where the brush grew thick. “Animal tracks. Probably deer. Could be a blind spot if someone gets creative.”

Sandy stays close, her boots crunching over fallen branches. She's been quiet since we left the cabin, lost in her thoughts. Occasionally, I catch her watching me, her expression guarded, as if trying to solve a puzzle.

Birds chirp overhead, a cheerful counterpoint to our tension. The air smells like moss and new growth, the earth coming alive after winter's long sleep. In another life, it might have been a pleasant morning hike.

We had just rounded the bend near the stream's edge when the underbrush rustled hard behind us. At first, I think maybe it’s a fox or a buck that has stumbled close but then comes the guttural huff. Low, deep, and territorial. My body tensed, instincts sharpening to a knife's edge.

“Stop,” I say sharply, extending an arm in front of her to hold her back.

A young black bear emerges from the trees, not full-grown but still damn big. Its glossy fur bristles as it moves cautiously, snout lifted to catch our scent. It isn’t charging yet, but it isn’t backing down. Its dark eyes track our movements, assessing.

Sandy steps back and slips on wet moss, tumbling over a fallen log with a soft cry. The sudden sound snaps the bear's attentionto her. It rises to its hind legs, towering nearly six feet, ears flicking forward.

It grunts and takes a few steps forward, curiosity turning into challenge. I can see its muscles bunching, preparing to charge.

I step between them instinctively, raising my arms wide, making myself a bigger threat. "HEY! BACK OFF! GO ON!"

The bear hesitates, ears twitching at my voice. I grab a large branch from the forest floor and bang it hard against the nearest tree. The crack echoes through the woods like a gunshot, startling a flock of birds from the canopy.

The bear freezes, uncertain now.

I roar, loud and fierce, slamming the branch again and stomping forward, making myself look as large and aggressive as possible. Every instinct screams to pull my weapon, but I know better. A wounded bear is far more dangerous than a scared one. And a gunshot in these mountains will echo for miles, possibly alerting anyone searching for us. Not to mention that killing wildlife unnecessarily goes against everything my uncle, a hunter who respected nature, had taught me in the forests of my childhood.

After a long second, the bear huffs, dropping to all fours, and backs off slowly into the brush, disappearing with one last grunt. Only when it is gone do I lower the branch, my heart hammering in my chest.

“Sandy?”

She is sitting behind the log, breathing hard, cheeks pale. Her hands are scratched and muddy, and blood trickles from a scrape along her forearm. Her eyes are wide, her pupils dilated with fear.

“I’m okay,” she says quickly, but her voice trembles, belying her words.

I crouch beside her and help her up slowly, scanning for injuries beyond the visible scrapes. “Let me see.”

She winces as I brush dirt and bark from her arms, inspecting the superficial wounds. Her hands shake, and I feel tremors running through her body. The close call rattled her.

“You scared the hell out of me,” I mutter, more to myself than her.

She gives a breathless, humorless laugh. “The bear scared me more.”

I pull her into my chest before I can stop myself, arms wrapping around her with a fierce kind of need. She fits against me perfectly, small but strong, her heart beating wildly against mine.

“You’re okay,” I breathe into her silky hair. “I’ve got you.”

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