Chapter 18 - Tikhon #2
He gasps, spits blood, and laughs. “Too late. She’s marked. I’ll have her screaming before—”
That’s it. Rage blanks everything out. Katya’s everything—my wife, my hope. I slam my fist into his jaw—feel the bone give.
Again—nose breaks, blood splatters my face.
He thrashes, elbows my ribs, and pain shoots down my side, but I don’t stop.
Fist to his eye, socket swelling right away.
“Think you can threaten her?” I growl, smashing his head against the curb.
Blood pools, thick and dark. “She’s mine.
You touch her, I’ll make your nightmares look like fairy tales. ”
Viktor grabs me, hauls me off. “Boss! That’s enough. We’ve got him.”
Fadir’s a wreck—face swollen, breath coming in harsh bursts, but he’s still grinning. “You’ll see... It’s just beginning.” Her brothers drag him out—cuffed, hood pulled over his head.
The shop’s trashed. Bullet holes everywhere, pastries smashed and mixed with blood and flour, bits of glass grinding under my boots.
But Katya’s okay. I spot her crouched behind the counter, wide-eyed yet holding it together, gripping a rolling pin like she’s ready to swing. I rush over and wrap her in my arms. She’s shaking, but I hold her close. “It’s over.”
She just hangs on, face pressed into my neck. “Thank you,” she whispers.
Later, we pick through the mess—her brothers sweeping up, Agafon giving my shoulder a half-hearted pat. “Good trap. Clean work.” I just nod.
All I can think about is Katya—the way she stood her ground, the look in her eyes when it was finally done. Something’s changed between us. Feels like nothing can break us now.
She’s not just my partner.
She’s everything.
***
The elevator doors slide open straight into the penthouse—no hallway, no neighbors, just me and the city glittering through glass, a thousand lights like stars scattered across the world. I step out, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the black marble.
My coat’s ruined, soaked through; blood and rain streak down the front, the left sleeve ripped wide. The cut on my arm still leaks, stubborn and slow, even though I wrapped it up in the car. Every breath pulls at my ribs, sharp and hot, but I just don’t care.
I strip everything off right there in the foyer—coat, jacket, shirt, all of it in a dripping heap. Cold air slaps my skin, goosebumps rising over bruises that are already turning ugly colors.
Barefoot, I cross the living room. I pass the leather sectional and the untouched bar cart, head straight for the master suite.
Bathroom lights flicker on, soft and low, not too bright. I leave them on. I crank the shower as hot as it’ll go and step in before it’s ready. Water scorches my skin. I hiss, but I don’t move. I let it burn, let it strip away the filth, the blood—mine, his, everyone’s.
I can still taste metal from where I bit the inside of my cheek. Steam fills the room, glass fogging up fast. I press a hand to the slate wall, drop my head, and let the heat batter my shoulders, my neck, the fresh gash on my ribs.
Then Fadir’s voice slides in, oily and cold. “She’s already marked.” Four words. Just four, but they keep looping in my head, over and over, since he spat them at me.
In our world, “marked” isn’t a tattoo or a warning. It means target. It means leverage. It means she’s the one who’ll pay when I screw up, when I love anything more than power.
My hand slams into the wall. Pain rips up my arm, knuckles splitting open again. I let it drown out the rest for a second.
She’s marked. Because of me. Because I married her. Because I let myself want her, love her.
Katya’s probably asleep on the other side of the place right now—curled up, her hair spread across her pillow, breathing softly and steadily.
Safe. For now.
But Fadir’s words aren’t a threat; they’re a promise. He’ll come for her. He’ll hurt her just to get to me. And she’ll pay for everything I’ve done, every choice I made when I picked family over her.
I shut off the water. Step out. The mirror’s fogged up, so I wipe a line clear with my arm. I stare at myself—bruised, bloodied, hollow-eyed. I look like a man who’s already lost.
But I won’t lose her.
I drag a towel over my skin, ignoring the sting of cuts and scrapes. I walk naked to the bedroom. City lights slice through the blinds, painting lines across the bed, the dresser, the floor.
I open the closet—black suits, white shirts, tactical gear. I grab dark jeans, a black thermal, and a hoodie. Nothing special. Clothes to disappear in.
As I dress, my mind circles back to her. Katya.
I keep seeing the way she looked when she opened the door tonight—eyes wide, scared, then relief flooding her face when she saw me.
The way she ran straight to me, through the mess, through the glass and blood, wrapped her arms around my neck like I was the only thing left holding her up.
The way she fussed over me—cleaning, bandaging, scolding—her hands shaking so bad she could barely tie the gauze.
She was terrified. For me. Not herself. Not her shop. Me.
I pull the hoodie on; the sleeve snags on the bandage at my shoulder. I tug harder.
She loves me.
She said it—soft, sure, no fear.
I love you, Tikhon.
Simple. Real.
And I love her back—more than I thought I could, more than this life should even make possible. More than I deserve.
That’s why Fadir’s words hit so hard.
Because if he takes her—if he hurts her, breaks her, kills her—it won’t just be my loss. It’ll prove that everything I am is poison. That loving her was my worst mistake. That I should’ve let her go, back when I still had the chance.
I sit on the edge of the bed, head in my hands. No, I can’t let this happen. Not a chance.
I’m going to find him. I’ll end him myself if I have to. I’ll tear apart every scrap of his world—his family, his crew, his hideouts—until there’s nothing left. I don’t care how messy it gets. I don’t care if I have to do it alone.
She’s marked now. The only way out is to wipe out the bastard who did it.
I stand up, reach for my phone on the dresser. No new messages. That’s good—she’s sleeping, she’s safe. Maybe she’s even dreaming of a normal life somewhere far from nights like this.
I want her to keep dreaming. I’ll make damn sure she does.
Phone in my pocket. Keys in hand. I head for the door.
I glance back at the bed. It’s empty, but her shape is still there in the sheets.
I’ll be back before she wakes up. I promise.
I’ll come home to her. And this time, I’m not leaving.