Page 78 of Tattooed Vow

She ends the call and turns to me, her expression carefully neutral. “They're on their way back. ETA twenty minutes.”

“And?” I press, my heart hammering against my ribs. “What happened? Is Dimitri?—”

“Dimitri is unharmed,” she assures me quickly. “One of their men was killed. Three others injured.”

Relief floods through me so powerfully that my knees feel weak. "And Morozov?"

Something darkens in Talia's eyes. “Aleksandr will brief us when they arrive.”

Which means the operation hasn’t gone entirely as planned. I swallow hard, trying to interpret what her careful non-answer might mean.

“I should... I should freshen up before they get here,” I say, suddenly needing to be alone and compose myself.

Talia nods in understanding. “Twenty minutes,” she reminds me gently. “I'll be in the main hall.”

In the privacy of my bedroom—or rather, the guest bedroom that has somehow become mine and Dimitri's—I splash cold water on my face. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. The woman who looks back at me seems different from the one who fled for her life two months ago. My face is the same, but something in my expression has changed. I looked...harder.

I quickly change from the loose lounge pants and T-shirt I was wearing into leggings and a simple cotton shirt, brushing through my hair and applying lip balm.

When I descend to the main hall, I can hear the rumble of vehicles approaching along the estate's main drive. Talia stands at the grand entrance, her posture perfect, her face composed. The very image of thepakhan'swife, ready to receive her husband with appropriate dignity.

I don’t know exactly where I fit. I’m not Dimitri’s wife, but I’m more than just his lover. I’m the mother of his child. Yet in a world where tradition clashes with its own contradictions, where roles are both sharply defined and strangely blurred, I find myself a step behind Talia, doing my best to mirror the quiet confidence she carries so effortlessly.

The heavy doors swing open, and they enter. Aleksandr first, followed closely by Dimitri. Both move with the contained energy of men coming down from a surge of adrenaline, their expressions grim but controlled. Behind them are Viktor and Lev, along with several other men I recognize from Dimitri's security team.

My eyes immediately seek out Dimitri, scanning him for injuries. No visible wounds, no blood on his clothes. Just tension in his shoulders and a darkness in his eyes that tell me more clearly than words that something has gone wrong.

Aleksandr goes directly to Talia, taking her hands in his and pressing a brief kiss to her forehead. “It's done,” he says simply.

“Daveed?” she asks, her voice soft.

“Arrangements will be made for his wife and daughter,” Aleksandr replies, and I feel a pang of sorrow for a man I only met once but who had been kind to me. “The others will recover.”

Dimitri's eyes find mine, and the intensity of his gaze makes my breath hitch. Without a word, he crosses to me, his hand coming up to brush my cheek tenderly, making my heart ache.

“You're back,” I whisper, the simple fact of his presence before me more important at that moment than any operational details.

“I promised I would be,” he answers, his voice rough with emotion and fatigue.

Aleksandr clears his throat, drawing our attention. “We should discuss the outcome,” he says, looking between the four of us. “In my office.”

We follow him through the mansion's grand hallways to his office. Once the door closes behind us, formality falls away. Aleksandr pours vodka into three crystal glasses from a decanter on his desk and club soda into the fourth.

“The Butcher is dead,” he announces without preamble, handing glasses to Dimitri and Talia. “He won't be threatening anyone ever again.”

Talia lets out a small breath. “Good.”

“Three of Morozov's enforcers are also dead,” Aleksandr continues, offering me the fourth glass. “We captured another three and they are currently enjoying our hospitality in a secure location.”

I accept the club soda but don’t drink it. My nerves are too raw. “And Morozov?” I question, though I already know the answer from Dimitri's frustration.

Aleksandr's back teeth clench. “He escaped. Helicopter extraction we hadn't anticipated.”

The hope that had been building in my chest deflated. Morozov is still out there. Still hunting me. Still a threat to the fragile future Dimitri and I have just begun to imagine.

“He was wounded,” Dimitri adds, his voice flat. “And he's substantially weakened. No Butcher, no top lieutenants, his operation is in disarray.”

“But still alive,” I add.

---