Page 72 of Tattooed Vow

Something has shifted between us in the three weeks since she told me about the pregnancy. A fragile intimacy has begun to grow, emerging amidst the chaos of our lives. But I've seen the concern in her eyes as I've thrown myself into planning this operation, the hurt when I missed our appointment with the doctor because of an urgent meeting with the other enforcers.

“I needed to review some details,” I explain, gesturing vaguely to the papers on the table. A half-truth.

Sandy crosses the room to stand beside me, her eyes scanning the blueprints. “This is it, then? The place where you're setting your trap?”

I nod studying her profile. The delicate slope of her nose, the fullness of her lower lip, the stubborn set of her jaw. When did she become so essential to me? When did her safety and happiness become as vital as breathing?

“You don't need to do this,” she says quietly, not looking at me. “There are other ways to handle Morozov.”

“None as certain,” I answer. “None as final.”

She turns to me, her eyes searching mine. “And what about us? What about the baby?”

My throat tightens.Us. The baby.Words that still feel foreign on my tongue yet have settled into my heart with surprising ease. I place my hand gently on her stomach, a habit I've developed over the past few weeks.

“Everything I do is for you both,” I reply, holding her gaze. “To ensure you never have to look over your shoulder again. To give our child a future without Morozov's shadow hanging over it.”

Sandy places her hand over mine. “I need you alive for that future, Dimitri.”

“I have no intention of dying tomorrow,” I assure her, allowing a small smile. “I have far too much to live for now.”

She doesn’t return the smile. Instead, she rises on her tiptoes and presses her lips to mine, a kiss both tender and desperate. I respond instinctively, my arms encircling her waist, drawing her against me. For a brief moment, I allow myself to forget what awaits me at dawn.

When we separate, her eyes are bright with unshed tears. “Promise me you'll come back.”

“I promise,” I say, knowing it’s dangerous to make such vows in our world, yet unable to deny her anything in this moment.

“I can't lose the person I love,” she whispers.

The word hits me with unexpected force.Love.She hasn’t said it directly before, and neither have I. We circled each other cautiously, acknowledging our connection without naming it.

I cup her face in my hands. “You won't lose me,malyshka. I swear it.”

She nods, but the fear remains in her eyes. I wish I could erase it, wish I could be something other than what I am. A man whose life has been forged in violence, whose hands have taken more lives than they have saved.

“Come back to bed,” she urges softly, taking my hand. “Just for a little while.”

I glance at the blueprints, waiting for the phone to buzz again with last-minute adjustments to our plan.

“Please,” she adds, and in that single word, I hear the echo of her worries and hopes.

With a nod, I allow her to lead me to bed. We lay together in silence, her head resting on my chest, my arm around her shoulders. I don’t expect to sleep, but there is comfort in her warmth and the steady rhythm of her breathing.

“Do you ever think about leaving?” she asks suddenly, her voice low. “About walking away from all this?”

Have I thought about it? Yes, more frequently since learning of her pregnancy. Fleeting fantasies of a normal life somewhere far from the Bratva, from the blood that stained my family name. But fantasies are dangerous for men like me.

“It’s not as simple as packing our bags and disappearing.”

“But if it were possible?” she presses.

“It’s not possible,” I choke out. “No matter where I go the Bratva will follow. It’s who I am.”

She sighs, burying her face in my chest.

“I will always protect you and our child,” I vow.

She looks into my eyes and nods. She lays her head back on my chest, and we lapse into silence again. Eventually, her breathing deepens and slows, her body growing heavier against mine as sleep claims her once more. I gaze down at her sleeping form, the depth of her trust in me almost overwhelming. One hand still rests protectively over her stomach, even in slumber.

---