Chapter 14
Artyom six crooked black slashes stretched over the asphalt.
Yuri had a cigarette hanging off his lip. The tattoo on his neck was their crew's mark—an old Black Sea symbol that had been wiped out ten years ago.
Turns out a few roaches had survived.
"Artyom Sokolov," he called.
I didn't answer. I glanced back at Willow.
She had never seen anything like this. Color drained from her face, her pupils blown wide with fear.
I stepped forward, half a step, and blocked her completely, shoved her into the shadow behind me.
"Yuri, your Russian still sounds like shit."
Then I tilted my head, spoke over my shoulder to Willow. "You go. Now."
Willow looked at me. Her eyes stayed on my face for one second. Then she didn't hesitate. She let go, turned, and ran.
Yuri snorted—sharp, smug.
He flicked ash. The ember arced through the dark and died. "Artyom, your taste still sucks."
He walked up two steps. The streetlight hit his face and made the scar stand out. "You haven't been dumped enough times yet? Your fiancée did the same thing, didn't she?"
"She said what again—she wanted a normal husband, a normal man." Yuri threw his head back, laughing. "You were a cripple then, so she ditched you. This one does it too. You are pathetic."
He meant Lily Blake. My ex-fiancée.
That year my father had feared me—feared I'd take his seat—so he'd set me up. It had looked like a routine deal. It had been a trap built for me, a clean little death sentence.
When they carried me out, both my legs were broken.
I stayed in bed for three months. People peeled off one by one. Then Lily showed up.
The woman who'd sworn she loved me stood there crying, talking about pressure from her family, how it hurt her too, how she "had no choice."
She cried for about three minutes. Then she broke off the engagement like she was doing something reasonable.
Betrayed by the two people closest to me, I went quiet for a long time.
I trusted no one. I didn't want women anywhere near me.
Until I met Willow.
She was different. She didn't sweet-talk. She held out wrinkled bills and asked if I could sleep with her once. Blunt. Awkward. A little reckless in a way that was almost... cute.
She wasn't like the ass-kissers. She wasn't like Lily, calculating every breath. Hell, Willow didn't even think she deserved to be taken seriously.
And my heart had still tilted toward her. No reason. No logic.
I stayed silent. Yuri grinned wider. He strolled up with a small knife in his hand. "But you really do like it nasty. That body looks like it turns your stomach, and you still swallow it down."
I stared at him like he was a clown juggling on a burning stage.
"Yuri, you talk too much."
His face went dark. He whistled across the street behind me. "Boys. Time to get even."
Engines roared—heavy, modded bikes tore through the night. Headlights blasted the street white. Tires screamed. Five big guys jumped off, steel pipes and chains in their hands. They fanned out and closed in, sealing every way out.
Yuri drifted behind them, wearing that cat-with-a-mouse grin. "Artyom, nobody is saving you tonight. You are dead."
I stepped in and swung at the closest face.
Crack.
The sound of bone splitting pleased me.
He didn't even get his pipe up. My straight punch snapped his head back and sent him stumbling.
The other four froze for a beat, then they roared and rushed me.
Metal hissed past my ear. I slipped the sweep and drove a fist into ribs—felt them give.
Then I heard footsteps behind me.
I turned my head.
That little drunk had come back. She had a rusty iron pipe in her hands. She stood three steps behind me, chest heaving. "Artyom, I came back!"
Stupid woman. Yuri wasn't the type to go easy just because someone was female.
"You don't need to. Get the hell out of here!"
This time she shouted back even louder. "No! I am not leaving my friend."
Then she turned and yelled at them, "I already called the cops!"
Their movements stalled for a split second.
Then they laughed even harder.
Yuri narrowed his eyes. His gaze slid over Willow like a snake. "Artyom, your taste isn't just bad—you love picking idiots."
I looked at Willow.
There was still a smear of cream in her hair. She gripped the pipe with both hands, held it up in front of her chest. Her legs trembled, just a little—but she didn't back up an inch.
Yuri was right. She was an idiot. Who the hell ran toward death?
A second of silence.
"Cops?" Yuri clutched his stomach, his whole face folding with laughter. "By the time they get here, you'll be corpses."
Willow tightened her grip and started to surge forward.
I grabbed the back of her collar and yanked her behind me. She stumbled back two steps, almost losing the pipe.
"Hide." I took the pipe from her hands. "These pieces of trash aren't worth you getting your hands dirty."
Willow's eyes went huge, but she moved fast. She ducked behind a rusted fire hydrant.
Yuri was still laughing.
I rolled the pipe in my grip, shrugged. I was used to a gun. This chunk of iron felt awkward in my hands.
Didn't matter. A weapon was a weapon.
I didn't waste much time finishing the rest. When it was over, I caught Yuri by the collar and slammed him into the wall. His face was swollen, purple, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.
"You..."
Fear finally hit his eyes.
"What?" I let out a cold laugh and pressed the pipe to his Adam's apple, shoved down hard. Whatever he'd been about to say choked off into a gagging whine.
Then I drove my knee up into his gut.
The thud echoed down the tight alley. He folded like a shrimp, crumpling to the ground, clutching his stomach and dry-heaving.
"Get lost."
I dropped the blood-smeared pipe and walked back to Willow.
She was still by the hydrant, mouth open, staring like she couldn't believe it. "You... you actually beat them."
I lifted a brow. "Easy."
She blinked, still trying to process what she'd just seen.
Then she ran to me and started checking me over, hands moving fast, eyes scanning for injuries.
Watching her—so serious, so focused—I pulled her into me and bent to her ear. "You can't see shit out here. Come home with me. You can check properly."
She still looked stunned, but her ears went red as hell. She pinched my waist hard.
I chuckled low and tightened my arms, pulled her in until she was tucked against my chest.
The rage that had churned in me a minute ago—the ugly, violent heat—vanished the second I touched her soft body.
She really was a damn good sedative.
She tipped her face up at me. "You were incredible. Could you teach me?"
I looked down. Her ice-blue eyes shone, filled with awe and curiosity—like some little animal that had just learned how to hunt.
"Sure," I said lazily and pinched her still-warm earlobe. "I can teach you something better."
Willow blinked, confused. "What?"
"Bedroom skills."
?????
Willow
Artyom's "skills" sure got used on me.
They worked, too—because he had already fallen asleep beside me.
His breathing was deep, steady. The air coming from his chest carried warmth and brushed the hollow of my neck, soft and hot.
I turned my head. My nose almost touched his jawline.
It was quiet. No snoring.
When I was a kid, I lived at my stepfather's place. They had set up a little army cot for me at the end of the hallway. The mattress was thin, and the springs squeaked when I turned over. At night I often heard the heavy, dirty breathing of a grown man through a door.
I didn't really understand what it meant. I just knew once that sound got into your ear, it didn't let go.
For a while I was terrified. I didn't know who to tell.
Later I learned one thing—when I got scared, I went looking for food. Bread. Crackers. Leftovers. Anything. If I could shove it in my mouth and swallow, the crunching would cover up the sound.
Now he lay next to me, his arm draped along my waist.
Warm.
Like this spot belonged to me.
I inched closer, half an inch, moving slow so I wouldn't wake him.
He didn't move. His breathing stayed the same. I watched him for a few seconds, made sure he was really out, then let myself look longer.
Moonlight slipped through a gap in the curtains, a narrow stripe that landed right on his cheekbone. His brow sat high, throwing a small shadow that made his eyes look deeper. His lashes weren't long, but they were thick, sharp in the dim—like frost laid along the edge of his lids.
I stared for a long time.
From his brows, down.
The bridge of his nose. His mouth. The line of his jaw.
In twenty-six years, this was the first time I had ever lain beside a man and simply watched him sleep.
Was this... love?
Were we... dating?
The thought hit, and I went still.
It floated up like a leaf on water, bobbing—ready to flip and sink at any second.
He had never said, I like you. He had never said, you're my girlfriend. He had called me his fiancée, but that had been to get me out of a corner.
I lay there, watching the moonlight slide down along his collarbone.
Artyom... what am I to you? Do you feel it too?
I tucked my face into the pillow a little, my nose brushing his shoulder and neck. His cedar scent—warmed by skin—was softer than it had been in the daytime, like wood left in the sun.
And suddenly I thought... even if I only got this one night, it was enough.
If I could remember this moment—his lashes in moonlight, the rhythm of his breathing, the heat of his hand at my waist—that was enough.
I didn't need an answer from him.
Tonight's sweetness shouldn't turn into pressure he had to respond to. I didn't want to make it heavy for him.
I looked away.
Moonlight fell across the back of my hand, pale and gentle.
I closed my eyes and curled into him.
I thought I could sleep well tonight.
At twenty-six, it was the first time I'd ever felt like maybe tomorrow was something I could actually look forward to.