Chapter 22 Luka #2
My fingers brush a strand of hair from her cheek with a gentleness I did not know I was still capable of. “You should not have run,” I murmur, the sound barely leaving my throat. The words scrape out rough and broken.
She does not move. I lean back in the chair, the plastic creaking under my movements.
“You make me forget the rules I built my life on,” I whisper into the quiet room, knowing she cannot hear but needing to say the words anyway.
“You make me want what I swore I would never reach for. The belief that something good could survive in my world without being corrupted or destroyed.”
For a moment, the world narrows to just this room, to the soft breath escaping her lips, and the sound of her heartbeat mingling with mine until I can't tell them apart.
My thumb slides over her palm, following the delicate lines etched there, tracing the lifeline that the fortune tellers claim predicts longevity.
I need that line to be right. I need her to survive what I have brought into her life.
“You will wake up soon,” I tell her quietly. “And when you do, Hope will be safe. I will make sure of it. I will burn every bridge, call in every favor, and sacrifice whatever needs to be sacrificed to bring your sister home.”
My voice drops lower, shifting into Russian because some truths are easier to speak in the language of my childhood. The words come from somewhere deep, from the part of me that still remembers what it felt like to be human before the Bratva shaped me into a weapon.
“Ya najdu yeye, klyanus' tebe krovyu.” I will find her, I swear it in blood.
The vow burns as it leaves my mouth, the syllables carrying the full cost of what I'm promising.
In my family, promises are currency more valuable than gold or territory.
They demand payment, usually in blood and sacrifice, and the universe has a way of collecting debts made in moments of desperation.
Tonight, I've signed my life over to this oath and bound myself to it with chains stronger than steel.
A knock breaks the quiet, three taps that cut through the hush around Sage’s bed. I rise slowly, my shoulders tight from hours of tension, every movement protesting. My hand lifts toward the gun at my hip before I force it back, reminding myself where I am and who I am with.
Anya slips inside first, her coat buttoned and her hair neatly pinned. She moves with the same composed certainty she always had when our mother put her in charge of untidy family things. Her presence tempers the room in a way the machines never could.
Nikolay follows a step behind. He gives me a nod that’s both greeting and assessment, his gaze sweeping over Sage before returning to me. There’s no aggression in him tonight, only focus.
“Brat,” he says quietly. “How bad?”
“She is stable. The doctors think she will wake by morning.” My voice comes out steadier than it feels.
He exhales, his shoulders easing slightly. “Good. Then we work. Misha sent the last coordinates but there is a gap east of the ridge line. I can have our people in Cheyenne start combing through footage and gas station cameras. Someone had to fuel the Sokolov’s vehicles.”
“Do it,” I tell him. “And get word to our contacts in the border towns. If Hope is being moved, she is either headed north or underground. Either way, we will need eyes on both routes.”
Anya moves to the side of the bed, her face softening for only a moment as she looks at Sage. Then she turns to me, her composure intact. “Do we know if Hope is hurt?”
“Not yet,” I answer. “But she is fragile. She has seizures. The doctors at the rehab center were regulating her meds before Ray took her. If they are withholding them, or even delaying a dose…” My jaw tightens, the words grinding out between my teeth. “We do not have much time.”
Anya’s eyes darken, the calculation behind them immediate. “So, we assume her condition is worsening by the hour.”
“Yes,” I say. “Which means when we find her, we will need medical transport ready.”
Nikolay’s expression hardens into focus. “Then we hit it fast. I will put people on standby in case we need an emergency handoff to one of our clinics.”
“Good,” I reply. “If she is moved again, she might not make it far. Ray does not understand the risk he has taken.”
Anya crosses her arms, her tone calm but firm. “You will bring her back, Luka. But remember, this is about more than vengeance. She is a patient, not a pawn. Treat her like one.”
“I will,” I tell her, and mean it.
Nikolay remains standing, posture taut with purpose.
“You will need to hit the storage yards first,” he states.
“The Sokolovs keep holding sites near the freight line. If they are moving through standard routes, we can intercept. I will coordinate from here and feed Misha updates every thirty minutes.”
“Good,” I tell him. “Get Kolya’s on standby. I want half his team watching the interstate exits and the rest sweeping warehouses along the southern route. If they find even a trace of Hope, they do not move until I arrive.”
Anya folds her arms tighter. “Ray will use her as leverage.”
“He will try,” I answer. “He knows Sage matters to me. He will think Hope buys him time.”
“Then he does not know you,” she says, her tone quiet but certain.
I almost smile at that, but the expression does not hold.
She glances at Sage again, the faint rise and fall of her chest reflected in her eyes. “She is strong,” Anya murmurs. “Do not forget that. She will fight for her sister as hard as you will.”
“I know,” I tell her. “But she is not the one Ray needs to fear.”
For a moment, none of us speak. The machines fill the silence with their steady rhythm. Anya turns back toward me, trying to reach what’s left of the brother she remembers.
“Whatever happens next,” she says quietly, “do not shut us out again.”
I hold her eyes for a long moment. “You are here now. That is what matters.”
Nikolay glances between us, his usual restlessness fading. “We are with you,” he adds. “All the way through this.”
I clasp his shoulder, a brief, solid gesture that says everything words cannot. “I know,” I tell him. “And when this ends, we walk out of it together.”
He gives a small nod, his expression resolute. “Then we finish it for the family, as a family.”
Anya steps closer and touches my arm. The gesture is gentle but grounded, more soldier than sister. “Bring Hope home,” she says. “Whatever else happens, do that.”
“I will.”
When they leave, the silence folds back around me. The lights dim on their own, bathing the room in a soft glow. I lower myself into the chair beside Sage’s bed and watch the monitor pulse in calm green intervals. The hum of the machines fills the space between us.
Sage stirs faintly, a soft sound escaping her lips. I lean closer, every nerve wired to the motion.
“Hope…” she murmurs, the name no louder than a breath.
My throat tightens. I curl my fingers around hers and press my thumbs into her pulse until the rhythm steadies me the way nothing else ever has. “You will have her back,” I tell her, my voice tight with promise. “We are going after Ray to find Hope. I will not rest until she is home.”