26. The Rescue
The Rescue
The farmhouse erupted in chaos.
I heard the gunfire before I saw the men—sharp cracks that split the silence, followed by shouts and the sound of breaking glass. I was still standing in the yard, my wrists raw, my body shaking, when the door burst open and Nathan appeared.
He was covered in blood. His suit was ruined, his face splattered with red, his eyes wild and searching. He saw me and crossed the distance in three strides, his hands grabbing my shoulders.
"Are you hurt?"
"No. I'm—I'm fine."
"You're lying." His fingers dug into my arms, his grip almost painful. "You're shaking."
"I'm fine, Nathan."
He pulled me into his arms. It was not a gentle embrace—it was fierce, desperate, the embrace of a man who had been terrified he would never see me again. I felt his heart pounding against my chest, his breath hot against my ear.
"I thought I'd lost you," he said. "I thought—"
"I'm here. I'm okay."
He pulled back, his eyes searching my face. There was something in them I'd never seen before—something raw and unguarded. "You're not okay. But you will be."
He took my hand and led me back toward the house. The scene inside was carnage—bodies everywhere, the walls splattered with blood, the air thick with the smell of cordite and death. Pavel was standing in the corner, his gun still drawn, his face a mask of calm professionalism.
"The old man?" Nathan asked.
"Inside. He's got Volkov."
Nathan nodded. "Get Monika to the car."
Pavel stepped forward, his hand on my elbow, but I pulled away. "I want to see him."
"Monika—"
"I need to see him."
Nathan stared at me for a long moment. Then he nodded, his jaw tight. "Fine. But stay behind me."
We found Aleksander in the main room.
He was standing over Volkov's body, his chest heaving, his hands stained with blood. The knife was still in his hand, the blade slick and red. He looked up when I entered, and I saw something in his eyes—relief, maybe, or guilt.
"Monika."
"I'm here."
He dropped the knife. It clattered on the floor, the sound loud in the sudden silence. He walked toward me, his steps unsteady, and I saw the blood on his shirt, the gash on his arm that was still bleeding.
"Let me see," I said.
"It's nothing."
"You're bleeding."
"It's not mine."
He pulled me into his arms. His body was shaking, I realized—this man who had never shown weakness, who had always been so controlled, was shaking like a leaf.
"I thought I'd lost you," he said. "I thought—"
"I'm here." I held him, my hands on his back, my face pressed to his chest. "I'm here. I'm okay."
We left the farmhouse behind.
The car was waiting at the gate, the engine running, the headlights cutting through the dark. Nathan helped me into the backseat, and Aleksander climbed in beside me. Pavel took the driver's seat, his eyes on the road, his face unreadable.
The city slid past the windows. The streets were empty, the buildings dark, the world sleeping through the violence that had just ended.
I was still shaking. I couldn't stop. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a hollow ache that wouldn't go away.
Aleksander reached for me, pulling me onto his lap. I went willingly, curling into his chest, letting him hold me. His arms wrapped around me, strong and steady, and I felt something loosen in my chest.
"I need to feel something other than afraid," I said.
He looked at me. The grey of his eyes was dark, almost black, and I saw the hunger there—the same hunger I'd seen that first night, in the diner, when I'd pulled a bullet from his side.
"Monika—"
"Please."
He kissed me. It was not a gentle kiss. It was desperate, frantic, the kiss of a man who had almost lost everything. I kissed him back with the same desperation, my hands tangling in his hair, my body pressing against his.
He pushed my dress up around my waist. I heard the sound of his zipper, the rustle of fabric, and then he was inside me. I gasped, my head falling back, my nails digging into his shoulders.
"Quiet," he said. "Pavel—"
"I don't care." I rode him, my hips moving against his, the friction sending sparks through my body. "I don't care who sees. I don't care about anything."
The car swayed as it turned a corner. I felt the rhythm of his thrusts, the steady stroke of him inside me. I was close. So close. The feeling was building, coiling at the base of my spine, and I couldn't stop it.
"Look at me," he said. "Look at me, Monika."
I looked at him. His face was beautiful in the dark—the silver at his temples, the lines around his eyes, the intensity of his gaze.
"Come for me," he said. "I'm right here. I've got you."
I came apart. The orgasm ripped through me, wave after wave, and I screamed his name—Aleksander, Aleksander, Aleksander—as the world dissolved around me.
He followed a moment later, his body shuddering against mine, his face buried in my neck. I felt him pulse inside me, hot and deep, and I held him tight.
When it was over, I collapsed against his chest. The car was quiet, the only sound the hum of the engine and our breathing.
I looked up. Nathan was in the front seat, his eyes on the rearview mirror. He'd been watching. He'd seen everything.
I met his gaze in the glass. His eyes were dark, unreadable, and he didn't look away.
Neither did I.