Page 9 of Tattooed Vow

I need the controlled violence. I need to bleed off the frustration burning inside me.

My fists slam against the punching bag, the chain creaking with every blow. With each hit, I work it faster and harder, pretending it can extinguish the fire under my skin. Sweat drenches my shirt, plastering it to my back as I move with the bag. Each punch drives deeper into the leather, the impact reverberating up my arms. But it’s not enough to quiet my thoughts.

And it’s not the enemy I keep seeing when I close my eyes.

It’s her. Sandy.

The taste of her lips still lingers like a ghost I can’t exorcise. That kiss was a line I swore I wouldn’t cross. I told myself for months that I could keep my distance. That I was strong enough to stand next to her without taking.

But I took it. And the worst part? She didn’t stop me. Not until it was almost too late.

I throw another punch, harder this time. The leather splits under the impact, sand spilling onto the floor like a wound bleeding out. I mutter a curse and rip off the fraying tape from my knuckles. My skin beneath is raw and red, threatening to split like the bag.

Sandy isn’t like the other women who try to worm their way into this world. She’s sharp, stubborn, and real, making her dangerous. In our world, love isn’t a shield. It’s a target.

I still remember the first time I saw her standing in Aleksandr’s office, spine straight as steel, refusing to back down even when surrounded by men who kill for a living. Her dark blue eyes locked with mine across the room, challenging and unafraid. Most people look at me and see what I want them to see, the weapon, the enforcer, the monster. She looks at me and sees something else. Something I’m not ready to acknowledge.

I can’t afford distractions. Not when enemies are watching from the shadows. And yet, here I am, more distracted than ever by the memory of her body pressed against mine, and her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me closer even as she pushes me away.

The door creaks open, and Aleksandr steps in, dressed in black workout clothes. He looks like he belongs here more than at his party. His eyes take in the split bag and the mess without a word. He arches a brow.

“Stress relief?”

“Something like that,” I grumble, grabbing a towel and wiping the sweat from my face. I still smell her perfume beneath the sweat, leather, and blood.

“Thought I’d sneak in a workout before putting the kids to bed,” he says, setting down a water bottle and stretching his shoulders. “Looks like you beat me to it.”

Aleksandr moves with the effortless grace of a predator, even during something as mundane as stretching. People often mistake his boardroom polish and tailored suits for softness, forgetting who he truly is. He’s not just a businessman. He’s thepakhan. A fighter and killer wrapped in elegance.

I toss the towel aside. “Spar?”

Aleksandr grins. “Always.”

We circle each other on the mat, trading light blows at first. But it doesn’t take long before instinct and tension take over. The sharp sting of knuckles against ribs. The dull thud of fists caught mid-swing. We know each other’s rhythms. He feints left, and I block right. I lunge forward, but he sidesteps with precision. We’ve been doing this dance for decades.

Aleksandr catches me with a swift jab to the jaw that snaps my head back. I taste copper and grin through bloodied teeth.

“You’re holding back,” he says after a few rounds, breathing heavy but steady.

“I’m holding back a lot more than that,” I mutter, wiping blood from my split lip.

“Talk,brat.” There’s no room for argument in his tone.

I hesitate, but I know Aleksandr. He'll drag it out of me if I don't tell him. And he needs to know what’s coming.

“Andrei Morozov,” I hiss. The name tastes bitter on my tongue. “He’s back. His men have been spotted.”

Aleksandr stops immediately, lowering his hands. His brows snap together, and his cool blue eyes darken to the color of thunderclouds. I’ve seen that look before. It’s the calm before violence.

“You certain?”

“Certain enough to lose sleep over it. He isn’t hiding. He wants us to see him. Three of his men were at the docks last night. Another two watched the estate during the party.”

Aleksandr exhales slowly, stepping back to grab his water. He takes a long drink, then leans against the ropes, his gaze distant and calculating.

“It had to be done,” he says quietly. “I gave you the order myself.”

We both remember the night it all began.

---