Chapter Fifteen - Jessa
I beg to go with the backup convoy. At first, Lui refuses, his jaw set, voice flat, insisting it’s too dangerous. “You stay here. If Sharov wants you, he’ll call. It’s not safe, not for you.”
I must look desperate enough, panic pouring off me in waves, because after a long, tense silence, he finally sighs and jerks his chin toward the car. “Get in. And you do what I say, not a word, not a sound. Understood?”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. Guilt presses against my ribs, sharper the closer we get to the city. I wring my hands in my lap the entire drive, mind bouncing between dread and desperate hope.
The only thing I can think about is Markian: how my one stupid phone call might have gotten him killed. I replay it over and over, wishing I could reach back through time and stop myself.
It’s too late. The damage is done.
I watch Lui drive, his hands steady, eyes cold and unreadable in the pale predawn light.
I want to ask him for news, for reassurance, but I bite my tongue.
Every second stretches like an eternity.
My nails dig crescents into my palms, sweat cooling on my skin.
I try to imagine what I’ll say to Markian if I see him again.
If he’s alive. If he’ll even want to see me.
When the call comes, the sharp buzz of Lui’s phone makes my heart stop. He answers, voice clipped and professional.
“Where are you?” Markian’s voice crackles from the speaker, rough, impatient. He replies, “I’m on my way!”
That’s when I hear the first of the gunfire. It’s so close that I duck instinctively, mouth dry, but Lui only laughs.
By the time we reach the block, the sun is just beginning to rise, turning the wet streets to silver and pink. Nothing softens what we find.
Carnage.
The first thing I see is the glass everywhere, glittering in the gutter, crunching under the tires as we roll to a stop. The air stinks of smoke and gunpowder, the kind of smell that never washes out.
Two cars burn near the curb, their frames twisted and blackened. The sidewalk is smeared with blood, puddling in cracks and running in slow rivulets toward the storm drain.
Bratva soldiers are everywhere, some limping, some sprawled on the pavement, others barking orders as they haul the wounded to the curb. A few bodies lie still, faces I don’t recognize. Enemy soldiers, I tell myself.
Then I see Anton—pale and shaking, a medic pressing gauze to his thigh—and my stomach twists. He looks up, meeting my eyes for a split second, then looks away.
I push forward, desperate, barely hearing Lui’s warnings to stay back. I stumble over debris, stepping over shell casings, broken phones, a discarded shoe.
“Markian!” I call, my voice raw and high, drowned by sirens in the distance.
“Miss!” one of the soldiers shouts, but I barely register him. All I can see is the chaos, all I can feel is terror. What if he isn’t here? What if the next body I see is his?
Then, a few yards away, I see Chris. He lies face down in the gutter, his suit shredded, the back of his head matted with blood.
For a moment, the world spins. I think I’m going to be sick.
I press a hand to my mouth, fighting the urge to retch, but I don’t stop.
If Chris is dead, maybe Markian is alive.
Please, God, let him be alive.
I skirt around Chris’s body, stumbling over broken glass, searching every face, every uniform. Shouts echo off the buildings, men barking into radios, someone cursing as he ties a tourniquet around another’s leg. The world has become nothing but sound and color and the sickening smell of death.
I keep moving, my feet numb, my vision blurry. It feels like walking through a nightmare, every step slower than the last. I scan the crowd, searching for the one person I need to see more than anyone else in the world.
And then I see him.
He stands with his back to me, shirt torn, blood smeared down his arm, but upright—alive. He’s talking to Alexei, both men battered and wild-eyed, hands gesturing as they count heads, check on the wounded. Relief hits me so hard I nearly drop to my knees.
“Markian!” I call again, louder this time, voice breaking.
He turns, eyes searching, face grim. For a heartbeat, he just stares at me, as if he can’t believe I’m real. Then he stalks toward me, blood and soot streaked down his face, jaw tight with anger and something else, something like relief.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The noise of the world fades, leaving only the sound of my heartbeat and the ragged edge of his breathing.
He stops a few feet away, eyes raking over me—checking for wounds, for threats. “What are you doing here?” His voice is harsh, barely above a whisper.
I open my mouth, but the words catch. I want to tell him I’m sorry, that I’ll never forgive myself for what I’ve done. Instead, I choke out, “I had to make sure you were alive.”
Something in his expression shifts. Softer, then colder, the mask snapping back into place. “You shouldn’t have come,” he says, voice tight. “This isn’t your world, Jessa.”
Tears prick at my eyes, but I shake my head. “I know, but I had to.”
He stares at me for a long moment, then reaches out, almost against his will, and brushes a strand of hair from my face. His fingers linger at my jaw, warm despite the blood, the violence, the death swirling around us.
“You shouldn’t have come,” he repeats, but this time his voice is softer, laced with something I almost recognize. Longing.
I swallow, trying to steady my voice. “I just needed to know you were safe. Even if you hate me.”
He is silent, searching my face, the war between rage and relief written in the lines around his mouth. For a second, it looks like he might say something more, but then Alexei calls his name, voice sharp with urgency. Markian’s hand drops away.
“Go with Lui,” he says, voice firm. “Stay out of the way.”
He turns back to the chaos, shoulders squared, already retreating into the role of leader, soldier, Bratva heir. I watch him go, my heart aching, knowing that for a moment at least, he is alive—and that is enough.
I move back toward the cars, Lui appearing at my side, face grim. He doesn’t speak, just steers me away from the worst of the carnage. I let him. I’ve gotten what I need: Markian is alive. Even if I can never undo what I’ve done, even if he never forgives me, at least I haven’t lost him.
That has to be enough.
I wait by the car, barely breathing, my arms wrapped tight around myself as the city slowly comes to life around us.
Sirens echo in the distance, police lights stutter in the periphery, and everywhere there’s the crackle of radios, the sharp bark of orders, the metallic tang of blood in the air.
Lui leans against the fender, arms crossed, his gaze never leaving me. He’s silent, watchful—a guard and a judge all in one.
I don’t try to speak to him. What would I say? I just keep my eyes down, listening to the chaos around us, trying not to replay the sound of Markian’s voice when he told me to stay out of the way.
Every so often I look up, searching for Markian in the sea of men.
When I see him finally striding toward us, there’s a knot in my stomach so tight I think I might be sick. He moves through the survivors and the wounded with the unmistakable confidence of someone who belongs to this world, bloodied and bruised but still unbroken.
He doesn’t slow as he approaches. He just stops in front of me, his shadow falling long over the asphalt. His face is streaked with soot, jaw set, eyes unreadable. The men behind him keep their distance; everyone knows better than to interrupt now.
Markian’s gaze lands on me and lingers. The world narrows. My heart hammers so hard I can barely hear anything else.
He speaks quietly, voice cold and clear. “I know you called Chris.”
For a second I can’t breathe. The street spins around me. I open my mouth, close it again, and then the words just tumble out, voice breaking, small and desperate.
“I’m sorry.” Tears sting my eyes, hot and humiliating. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t know, I didn’t understand. I just wanted to warn him. I thought…”
The words fail. The weight of it all—my mistake, the blood on the street, the dead and the dying—crushes me from the inside. I step closer, unable to keep from reaching for him, and bury my face against his chest, against the bloodied ruin of his suit.
He stands there for a moment, unmoving. I feel every heartbeat, the rise and fall of his breath. Then, slowly, his arms close around me: hard, possessive, inescapable. He holds me tightly, his mouth brushing the shell of my ear.
“You need to be punished,” he murmurs, voice low, soft, and dark with something that makes my whole body shiver. There’s mockery in it, a rough edge, the promise of something I can’t name.
I know I should pull away. I should hate him, hate myself, hate the violence, the control, the way he always seems to own me no matter what I do.
As his arms tighten, as his words curl hot and dangerous against my skin, my knees go weak. The world falls away, leaving only the terrifying, magnetic man holding me like I’m already his again.
His grip isn’t gentle. It’s the kind that promises I’ll never outrun him, never escape the gravity that binds us. I cling to him, shaking, silent tears soaking into the ruined fabric. For a moment, neither of us says anything more.
There’s only the hush of the morning after violence, the knowledge of what’s been lost, what can never be undone.
He lifts my chin, forcing me to look at him. His thumb wipes away a tear, his eyes searching mine. “You don’t get to run,” he says, voice quieter but no less absolute. “Not after this.”
I can only nod, breathless, overwhelmed. I don’t know what I want anymore. Freedom, forgiveness, or just for him to never let go.
He leans in, his lips brushing my temple. “I should hate you,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “But I can’t.” The confession hangs between us, raw and aching. It’s a warning as much as a promise.
Lui glances away, pretending not to watch, but his jaw is tight. I wonder what he thinks—if he pities me, or envies me, or if he just doesn’t care as long as Markian comes back alive.
Markian lets his hand slide down to my waist, fingers digging in just enough to remind me how easily he could hurt me, how much power he holds.
“Go wait in the car,” he says, tone brisk. “We’re going home. I’ll deal with you there.”
The words send a fresh rush of fear through me. But there’s something else too—something shameful and electric, pulsing low and hot in my belly. I obey, walking to the car on shaking legs, every step feeling like a sentence, or maybe a promise.
As I slide into the backseat, I see Markian linger, issuing orders, reclaiming control. He looks back just once, his eyes locking on mine, and for a moment I see it all—anger, desire, regret, and something perilously close to love. Then he turns away, and the world goes on.
Then he slips into the car and says, “We should leave, before the police get here. Hear those sirens? You don’t want them catching us.”
I press my forehead to the cool window, trying to catch my breath, to sort through the chaos inside me. I’m not sure I ever will.
One thing is clear: I’m his. I always have been. After today, there’s no going back.