Inked Adonis (Litvinov Bratva Book 1)

In another life, this could be a relaxing hike. A nice place to walk the dogs.

Sunlight dapples the damp, packed dirt path along the road, and I can see it all perfectly: Rufus straining at the leash to chase after the dozens of squirrels darting up the trees… Ruby, always a good girl at my side, would sniff at the wildflowers scattered across the ditch and nudge my leg every few minutes for a scratch behind the ears…

Samuil would…

My throat tightens. Tears prick the backs of my eyes at the thought of him gently taking Rufus’s leash from my hand and jogging the hyperactive menace down the road and back a few times to tire him out. Then they’d saunter back to us, panting, Rufus with his tongue lolling out of his mouth. Samuil would smirk at me, one eye squinting against the sunrise like the fact he’s heading my way isn’t a miracle.

But this isn’t another life.

There aren’t any miracles here.

There’s no one else here, either. It’s just me.

The image scatters like sunlight in the mist. Vicious reality is there when it’s gone. The dew clinging to the grass soaks into my bandages and the rubber grip on my crutch slips against the slick ground with every step.

I bite the inside of my lip until I taste blood, trying not to scream. The unlabeled meds Hope dug out of her purse haven’t touched my pain. I’m not sure anything ever will.

Sam hates me.

If I’m lucky—which, historically, I’m not—he’ll let me explain. Maybe he’ll hold off on murder long enough for me to tell him I hand-delivered his property to his enemies as a way to help him. Not to hurt him.

I wanted to help him.

I wanted to save myself from my father and the Andropovs so I could get back to him.

Every decision I made was to try to hold together this broken, beautiful thing we have.

But Sam has no reason to believe me. Not after the way we left things.

I was trying to leave his house, and he forced me to stay. As my heart broke, I watched him leave for Moscow, not sure if he would ever come back.

He has every reason to believe I betrayed him, and even I’m not naive enough to hope otherwise.

Which is why I have to keep moving.

It’s been years since I’ve been to the cabin, but it all looks exactly the same. I can see the top of the A-frame through the leaves and glimmers of the water beyond that.

I take my time approaching, swinging wide so I can come from the side instead of straight on. It’s slow, painful progress through the dense foliage that rings the wide lawn. The grass is waist high now, so who even knows how many snakes and rats are slithering around at my feet. It’s a testament to how bad things have gotten that I can’t even bring myself to care.

I’ve got too many other snakes and rats to worry about.

Once my dad realizes I left the city, he might follow through on his threats to hurt Grams. He might be evicting her from her home right this second, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it that won’t just make things worse.

Hope drove me here, so there’s no telling what kind of fallout that could have later once Samuil is looking for me.

Because he will look for me.

And what will I do? Run? As if that would ever work. And even if it might, I’m just too exhausted from everything that’s happened to even try. My arm hurts. My bones hurt. My heart hurts.

The worst part isn’t that I fucked up. It’s not that I made the wrong choice and put myself in a compromising position.

It’s that, had I known better, things might have worked out.

If I’d rushed into the elevator the day Sam was leaving and thrown my arms around him—if I’d refused to let him go until he understood that I wanted him and this life and every dark, bruised bit of his soul—maybe we’d be together right now.

If I’d told him about Katerina giving me the phone right away or asked him about their relationship or moved past my own fears long enough to tell him exactly how much he meant to me and how much I didn’t want to lose him, maybe he would’ve taken me with him to Moscow.

Maybe we all would have made it.

Tears blur my vision as I step out of the trees and stumble towards the house.

The wooden steps are starting to rot, sinking to one side like the ground is going to swallow them whole. A large part of me wishes it would. Take me with them. Chew me up, put me out of my misery. Just make it quick, please.

I fumble the key out of my pocket and it falls between my fingers, clattering to the porch. For a second, it’s balanced on the edge of one of the planks, as if it’s toying with the idea of slipping between the cracks and being lost forever beneath the porch.

It would be a sign. Turn around. Let him find you. Let this be the end.

But the key doesn’t fall.

I bend down and pick it up. My leg shakes with exhaustion. I slide it into the tarnished knob and swing the door open.

The inside is dark and dust plumes in the air as I drag the duffel Hope packed me through the front door. She said there was a change of clothes inside and face wash, but I don’t care that I’m caked in sweat and dirt and dried blood. I just want to sit down and close my eyes.

For a few hours, I want to give up consciousness and let all of this drift away.

I kick the door closed behind me, tripping over an end table and then an armchair as my eyes adjust to the darkness. Slowly, I can make out the thin shafts of light slicing through holes in the curtains. I can make out the familiar shape of the kitchen island and the dining room table.

Then I turn to the living room and stumble back.

Because there’s a pair of silver eyes glinting at me from the shadows.

Piece by piece, he comes into focus like the best nightmare I’ve ever had. The broad stretch of his shoulders, one leg crossed confidently over the other… His hands grip the armrests, but I see the gun in his lap.

Samuil sits up. His face is iron. His voice is worse.

All he says is, “I’ve been waiting for you, krasavitsa.”