Chapter 11 #2
“I’m not sure if you mean the weapons or the cryptic story about Russian ghosts,” I said, folding my arms.
He grinned. “Both.”
“I think you’re either insane,” I said, “or something worse.”
His smile widened like I’d given him a compliment. “The worse ones always last longer.”
I should’ve been unsettled. Maybe I was. But I didn’t look away. “Why did you show me this? Why me?”
Yuri shrugged, the movement easy but deliberate. “Because I think you understand. Most people don’t. They scream when they see blood. Flinch when they hear the word kill. You didn’t even blink when I opened that cabinet.”
My voice was quieter when I asked, “And what did you see?”
He tilted his head, studying me like he was dissecting something alive. “I saw a girl who used to dream about flowers and ended up burying bodies. A girl with a blade hidden under her smile.”
A cold silence settled between us. “I’m not a soldier,” I said.
“No,” he agreed. “You’re a survivor. Those are much more dangerous.”
I didn’t want to be flattered by it, but something in me—something hollow and angry—liked the way he said it. Like he wasn’t trying to fix me. Like he didn’t think I was broken at all. Just… sharpened.
“You think you know what I am,” I said.
Yuri stepped closer, not too close, but enough for me to hear the shift in his voice. “No,” he murmured. “But I’m very good at guessing.”
We stood there for a moment, the tension between us taut but not sexual. Something colder. Something older. Like he was giving me something sacred. Not desire. Not pity. Respect.
“I never told anyone about Katya,” he added softly, his gaze drifting to the cabinet of weapons. “Not even Rafael.”
That pulled something in me tight. “Why me?”
He grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Because I want to see what you become.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. So I didn’t say anything.
Yuri took another sip of the rum and leaned forward, lowering his voice like he was telling a secret. “The first time I ever killed someone, I cried after. Not during. After. I think that’s when I lost her. Katya.”
I didn’t move.
“I stopped crying a long time ago,” he said.
I looked at the red thread again. “And this? What happens if I cut it out?”
He smirked. “Then you were never one of us.”
I let that sit. Let the silence stretch between us. And finally, I whispered, “I never wanted to be one of you.”
Yuri’s smile was sad this time. “No one ever does, Belladonna. That’s the irony.”
The room felt smaller now. Too much history. Too many ghosts. But I didn’t leave. I sat down instead, my legs crossing slowly as I rested my arms on my knees. “Tell me more,” I said quietly. “About Russia. About her.”
And Yuri, with something raw in his eyes, sat across from me on the concrete floor, the bottle between us.
And talked.
We stayed like that for a while—two people who didn’t trust anyone, talking like they trusted each other. Enemies of the world. And maybe, just for now, allies in the dark.
The room was quiet again, lit only by the golden glow of the low sconces and the dull reflection of steel gleaming from every corner. I could still feel the weight of Yuri’s words, the red thread woven into my hair brushing against my shoulder as I turned slightly to glance at him.
He sat back on one of the wooden crates, sipping from the bottle of rum he’d brought with us, elbow propped on his knee. His expression was calm—too calm for someone with that much history stitched into his bones.
My gaze flicked to his arms, finally taking a proper look at the ink carved into his skin. Black, jagged, purposeful. Not flashy, not decorative. Every tattoo looked like it meant something, each one whispering a story too brutal to be spoken aloud.
“You have a lot of them,” I murmured, nodding toward his arms.
He glanced down at them like he’d forgotten they were there. “Yeah. Comes with the territory.”
My eyes lingered on one by his wrist, a bleeding rose tangled in barbed wire. “What’s that one mean?”
He shrugged, smiling faintly. “That I once thought love could hurt more than bullets. I was right. But at least bullets don’t lie.”
I huffed out a breath. “That’s poetic. In a serial killer kind of way.”
He laughed at that. “You should see the ones on my back. They’re worse.”
I leaned back against the crate behind me, dragging a hand down my thigh. “You do them yourself?”
He smirked. “Some. Others were done by a friend. But yeah, I know how.”
I raised a brow. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
His eyes gleamed like he’d just had an idea. “You want one?”
I blinked. “A tattoo?”
“No, Isabella. A houseplant.” He grinned, holding up the rum in a mock toast. “Of course a tattoo.”
I hesitated. “Depends.”
“On?”
“What kind of tattoo you’re thinking.”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stood, the bottle of rum forgotten on the crate. He walked over to the wall, opened a drawer I hadn’t noticed earlier, and pulled out a small black case. Then another. And another.
Inside were tools—neatly arranged needles, gloves, antiseptics, ink bottles, a compact machine that looked more medical than artistic. My brows lifted as he laid them out on the counter with the ease of muscle memory.
“You came prepared,” I muttered.
“I don’t do things halfway,” he said, glancing at me. “And I did almost all of Rafael’s.”
I paused, straightening slightly. “You did his?”
He nodded, casually flipping open a bottle of ink. “Most of them, yeah. Even the one he never talks about. That one on his ribs? He nearly passed out when I did it. Wouldn’t admit it, though. Said it was the vodka.”
A smile pulled at my lips before I could stop it. “Why does that not surprise me?”
Yuri’s voice softened just a little. “He trusts very few people. Letting me tattoo him meant something.”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I looked at the tools again. The ink. The machine. And I said, “Alright. Do it.” Only my voice was quieter this time. More serious.
He turned to me, brow lifting slightly. “Yeah?”
I nodded once, my chest rising and falling.
I didn’t know exactly why I said yes—maybe because the red thread in my hair still itched like a warning.
Maybe because part of me wanted to feel the sting of something permanent again.
Or maybe because if I let him mark me, it would be my choice. My blood. My control.
Whatever the reason, I wasn’t backing out.
“Where?” he asked, already slipping on gloves.
I reached for the neckline of my sheer dress and parted it slowly, just enough to reveal the skin between my breasts. “Here,” I said.
Yuri didn’t say a word. But the grin that curved his lips told me he approved. He nodded once. And then he reached for the ink.
The chair was cold beneath me, leather firm and smooth as I settled back against it.
Yuri stood in front of me, his shirt open and sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing ink that mapped his skin in stories I hadn’t read yet.
He adjusted the lamp above us, shadows flickering across his face as he moved with a quiet kind of precision.
I watched him open the drawer and take out everything he needed. Bottled ink, needles still sealed in sterile plastic, gloves, antiseptic wipes, paper towels, a small machine with a long black cord. Everything was clean, arranged with care. Methodical. Like a ritual.
He looked at me, then at the center of my chest where the fabric of my dress clung to the curves of my breasts. “You should lie down,” he said, voice softer now, like we were about to share a secret.
My pulse flicked.
I stood and moved to the long padded table he gestured to, covered in black leather. I laid down slowly, heart rattling behind my ribs. He leaned over, brushing the hair away from my face, tying it up again to keep it from falling.
Then his gaze dropped to my chest. “You’ll have to remove the dress. Tie the bikini differently, so I can get to where you want it,” he said. There was no flirtation in his tone. Just focus. Just the job.
Still, the room felt hotter.
I nodded and sat up, slipping the sheer cover over my head and letting it fall. I retied the bikini, shifting the straps so the skin between my breasts was bare. I wasn’t shy. Not with him. Not with anyone.
He met my eyes. “What do you want?”
“A red thread,” I said. “Coiled around a dagger. Here.” I touched the place between my breasts. “Delicate, but sharp.”
A grin tugged at his mouth. “I like it. It suits you.”
He pulled on his gloves and opened the antiseptic, wiping my skin gently.
The scent of alcohol rose between us, sharp and clean.
Then came the stencil, the whisper of contact as he pressed it against me, and when he pulled back, the outline of the dagger and thread sat against my skin like a promise.
“I did most of Rafael’s ink as I told you already,” he said, checking the stencil, fingers brushing lightly along the edges of the design. “He’s a masochist. Never flinched once.”
I didn’t answer. My eyes were on the needle as it buzzed to life.
He lowered the machine to my skin. Pain bloomed, bright and sudden. Not unbearable. Not unwelcome. Like being carved into. Like being claimed by something.
And Yuri was quiet as he worked, except for when he murmured, “You want to know someone? Watch them bleed.”
I didn’t flinch.
The room was silent except for the gentle buzz of the tattoo gun, the faint scent of antiseptic and Yuri’s rum mingling in the air.
I lay still beneath him, my back resting against the reclined leather chair he’d pulled over.
The see-through dress was discarded on a nearby stool, my bikini top tied in a way that gave him full access to the space between my breasts.