Page 4 of Tattooed Heart

I strip them of their weapons, radios, and keycards, working quickly and methodically. Their own zip ties bind their wrists behind their backs, and I shove rolled socks between their teeth to keep them quiet. If I'm lucky, it’s a temporary fix, giving me just a few minutes before someone realizes they’re gone.

I need to move. But where? Escape would be suicide. Even if I made it past the fences, past the lockdown protocols, there’d be nowhere to run. Morozov would find me. Or worse, he’d find Sandy.

No. Running isn’t the answer. I need to return to my cell and erase every trace of this. Make it appear as though they madetheir move and failed. Let it be another message. One he won’t miss.

I drag them into a supply closet and lock it from the outside. Then, I go back through the corridors, avoiding the main pathways. My heart pounds in my ears, but my hands are steady.

I slip back into my cellblock unseen. The night guard at the desk, a heavyset man named Donovan, who's usually half-asleep, is nowhere to be seen.

Another of Morozov's men? Or just luck?

I don’t stick around to see how long it takes for someone to find them. Instead, I slip back into my cell, easing the door shut like nothing happened. And then I wait for the alarms, the shouting, the inevitable fallout. But for now, I’ve bought myself time. Another day. Another chance. And if anyone tries to take that from me, I’ll bring this place down with my bare hands.

I am Dimitri Popov. And I’m going home.

2

SANDY

I didn't know a heart could break twice in the same day, but watching Dimitri behind bars, locked up like an animal, did something to me I didn't know was possible. It tore open a part of me I thought had been hardened by years of surviving. The chains around his wrists. The bruises that darkened his skin. He met my eyes but didn't flinch, even when he saw what I was trying to hide. My fear. My fury. My need.

Back at the Avilov estate, I stand at the guest bedroom window I've been occupying since this nightmare with Morozov began. The moon hangs low and heavy over the manicured gardens, dragging long shadows across the lawn. In the distance, I can make out the silhouettes of Aleksandr's security team patrolling the perimeter. It is a constant reminder that danger is never far away.

My fingers trace the glass of the window as I replay my prison visit for the hundredth time. That sterile room, the cold steel of the cell bars, the clock on the wall ticking away our precious minutes together. The memory of it burns like acid.

I’d never set foot in a prison before today. The one holding Dimitri was buried deep in the forests of upstate New York, where time forgets you, and hope goes to die. Aleksandr pulled strings through his contacts to get me in. It was technically against protocol since I wasn’t considered family. Still, nothing about Dimitri’s arrest had followed the rules. Aleksandr refused to let me go without an escort. Yuri and Viktor came with me, silent shadows who didn’t leave my side.

The guard who met us looked bored, as if this was just another errand in a long shift of forgotten men and locked doors. His keys jingled with every step as he led us down a maze of concrete corridors, the sound echoing off the walls like a warning. It was cold, and the air felt stale, heavy with the scent of sweat and bleach. At the end of the hall, he stopped and unlocked a steel door.

“Fifteen minutes,” he said flatly before jerking his chin toward the room.

Yuri and Viktor stayed behind. I stepped inside. The room was small, windowless, and suffocating. Just a table and two chairs with no pretense of comfort. I stood frozen, my throat tight and my emotions climbing too fast. But I couldn’t fall apart. Not now. Not when Dimitri needed me steady.

And then he walked in.

Dimitri.

He didn’t speak, and neither did I. For a long second, we just looked at each other. I drank him in, my eyes tracing every bruise, every cut, every mark left by men who thought they could break him. The stitched gash along his cheekbone. Theswelling beneath his eye. They told a story I didn’t want to hear but couldn’t ignore.

He was still standing. But I could see it in his eyes. He was running on willpower alone. And it gutted me.

“Are you okay?” I asked quietly, my heart pounding in my ears.

“Yes,” he said. Just that one word. Flat and controlled.

Now, alone in the darkness of the guest room, I press my forehead against the cool window pane, trying to ease the headache that has been building since I left the prison. What could I have said to him? That I’m terrified? That every night I wake up reaching for him, only to find his side of the bed empty? That I’m carrying his child in a world that seems determined to take everything from us?

I blink hard, forcing the tears back. They have no place here. Dimitri doesn’t need my grief. He needs my strength.

“Aleksandr will fix this,” I said, injecting every ounce of conviction I could muster into my voice, even if it felt paper-thin.

He didn’t answer. Not with words. Instead, he pulled me into a deep, desperate, and grounding kiss.

“I love you,” I whispered against his lips. Three simple words, but they carried everything—hope, defiance, the promise of life waiting beyond these prison walls.

“I love you too,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.

Then the guard cleared his throat from the doorway, and just like that, our time was up.

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