Chapter 22
ANDREI
Viktor pulls the car through a narrow access road that's barely visible from the main highway, the headlights cutting through dense forest that presses in from both sides.
We've been driving for nearly two hours, putting distance between us and the attack, and anyone who might have followed.
The wounded man in the back stopped making noise about forty minutes ago.
I don't know if he's unconscious or dead, and right now I can't afford to care.
The road opens into a clearing, and the safe house comes into view.
It's smaller than the last one, with bars over the door and windows, and hidden metal shutters that can be deployed down over them as well.
This is the kind of location you use when you're expecting another attack and you're done pretending otherwise.
"Here," Viktor says, pulling the car to a stop near the entrance. "Perimeter is already secured. I sent men ahead as soon as you gave me the directions."
I nod, impressed despite myself. Viktor's been thinking ahead, anticipating my needs before I voice them. That's why he's my second, and why I trust him with things I trust no one else with.
"How many men?" I ask.
"Eight on the perimeter. Four inside. All armed, all on high alert." He glances at me in the rearview mirror. "No one gets through this time, pakhan."
"Good." I look down at Liesl, who's watching the house with wide eyes. "Come on, ptitsa. Let's get you inside."
She nods and lets me help her out of the car.
Her legs are unsteady when her feet hit the ground, and I keep my arm around her waist as we walk toward the entrance.
One of my men opens the door from the inside.
He looks like hell, but he's standing at attention, weapon ready.
"All clear, pakhan. No movement on any approach. We've got eyes on every angle."
"Keep it that way." I guide Liesl through the entrance and into a narrow hallway that opens into a main room.
The interior is less welcoming—old wooden floors, minimal furniture, and a few lamps scattered around.
There's a kitchenette against one wall, and doors lead off to what I assume are bedrooms and a bathroom.
It's not the luxury she's used to. Not even close to the comfortable prison I kept her in before. But it's secure, and right now, that's all that matters.
"This way," I tell her, leading her toward one of the doors. It opens into a small bedroom with a small bed, a dresser, and a window. There's a bathroom attached—I can see the edge of a sink through the open door.
She looks around the room, taking it in, and I can see her processing the change. The downgrade—the reality of what we're facing now.
"I know it's not—" I start, but she cuts me off.
"It's fine." Her voice is quiet. "As long as it's secure."
Something in my chest tightens at that. She's not complaining, not demanding comfort or luxury or any of the things she's used to. She's just accepting the situation, adapting to it and trusting that I know what I'm doing.
I don't deserve that trust. But I'm going to do everything in my power to earn it.
"Wait here," I tell her. "I need to check the perimeter, make sure everything is in place. Then I'll come back."
She nods, and I force myself to leave her there, to walk back out into the main room where Viktor is waiting with two other men. I start issuing orders, positioning men at every vulnerable point and making sure we have multiple escape routes if things go wrong again.
It takes an hour to get everything in place. By the time I'm satisfied with the security arrangements, my mind is buzzing and my body is screaming for rest.
I go back to where Liesl is still sitting on the bed in her small bedroom. She looks dusty and rumpled from the fight earlier, and her hair is tangled, her face pale. She looks up when I come in, and the relief in her eyes nearly undoes me.
"Is everything okay?" she asks.
"As okay as it can be." I close the door behind me and lean against it, suddenly aware of how exhausted I am. How much the last few hours have taken out of me. "We're secure here. No one's getting through."
"Good." She stands, crossing the small space between us. Her hands come up to my chest, fingers spreading over my shirt.
"I should clean up," I say.
"Let me help." She takes my hand and leads me toward the bathroom. It's small and utilitarian like everything else in this place—a shower stall, a sink, a toilet. No luxury. But there's hot water, and right now that's absolutely enough for me.
She turns on the shower and then turns back to me, her hands going to the buttons of my shirt.
I let her undress me, peel away the layers of blood-soaked fabric until I'm standing in front of her nude.
Her eyes trace over my chest, cataloging the scars and tattoos, the fresh graze across my ribs that's still bleeding sluggishly.
"You're hurt," she says, her fingers hovering over the wound.
"It's nothing."
"It's not nothing. You could have been killed tonight, Andrei. You could have—"
I cut her off with a kiss. She melts into it, her hands coming up to frame my face, and for a moment the world narrows to just this—her mouth on mine, her body pressed against me, the steady beat of her heart.
When I pull back, she's breathing hard. "Get in the shower," she says.
"I'll find something to clean that wound with. "
I do as she says, stepping under the hot spray and letting it wash away the blood and grime and exhaustion.
The water runs red at my feet, swirling down the drain and carrying away the evidence of tonight's violence.
I close my eyes and let the heat work into my muscles, trying to release some of the tension that's been coiled in my body since Viktor's call.
The shower door opens and Liesl steps in with me. She has a washcloth in her hand and she starts cleaning the wound on my ribs with gentle, careful movements.
"You don't have to do this," I tell her absently, but I hardly notice the pain from her touching the wound. It's hard to think about anything other than how beautiful she looks, even tired, naked with water streaming over her skin.
"I know." She doesn't look up from her work. "I want to."
I watch her as she tends to me, this woman who should hate me, who should be terrified of me, who instead is standing in a shower and washing away the blood on my skin.
The tenderness of it breaks something open in my chest that I've kept locked away for so long I forgot it was there—or maybe I've just never recognized it before at all.
When she's satisfied the wound is clean, she sets the washcloth aside and starts working on the rest of me—washing away the blood from my hands, my arms, my chest. Her touch is gentle but thorough, and there's nothing sexual about it.
It's that same care she showed me that first night, when she helped patch me up, and I have that same feeling again—the feeling that no one has ever done this for me before. That I've never been taken care of.
I want to take care of her, too.
"Your turn," I say when she's done. I reach for her, taking in the pleasure of having her naked in front of me, vulnerable and beautiful and mine.
I wash her the way she washed me, and more.
I work shampoo through her hair, massage her scalp, rinsing away the dust and fear of the night.
I run my hands over her shoulders, her back, her arms, feeling the tension slowly release under my touch.
When I'm done, I just hold her under the spray, her back against my chest, my arms wrapped around her waist.
"Thank you," she whispers.
"For what?" I nudge my nose against her ear, breathing in the smell of her warm skin and soap.
"For keeping me safe. For—" She stops, and I can feel her struggling with the words. "For being here."
I press my face into her wet hair. "Always," I murmur. "I'll always keep you safe, ptitsa."
We stay like that until the water starts to run cold, and then I turn it off and wrap her in a towel.
We dry off in silence, both of us too exhausted for words, and then I lead her back to the bedroom.
I help her into an oversized t-shirt and she climbs into the bed, pulling the blanket up to her chin.
I should leave. Go back to the main room and continue planning, preparing for whatever comes next. But I can't make myself walk away from her. Not tonight. Not after how close I came to losing her.
I climb into the bed beside her and pull her against me.
She curls into my chest, her head tucked under my chin, her hand resting over my heart.
The bed is small and the room is cold and everything about this situation is wrong, but having her in my arms feels more right than anything else in my life.
"Andrei," she says after a long moment of silence.
"Yes?"
"The meeting with my father. You promised we'd try."
There it is. The thing I've been dreading since I agreed to it in the car. The promise I made when I was high on adrenaline and desperate to keep her—the promise I'm not sure I can keep without getting us both killed.
"I remember," I say carefully.
She pulls back slightly to look at me. "Do you still mean it? Or were you just saying what I needed to hear?"
The question stings. I have a history of telling her what she wants to hear and then doing what I think is best. She has every reason not to trust my word, but that doesn't mean I have to like it.
"I meant it," I tell her firmly. "We'll arrange the meeting. You'll have your chance to talk to him."
"But?" She can hear the hesitation in my voice.