Inked Athena (Litvinov Bratva Book 2)

Samuil.

A shadow against shadows in this moonlit room, but I’d know him anywhere. My Samuil. The man who showed me what safety felt like, right before he took it away.

My heart thunders against my ribs as I grip the chair at my side, steadying myself. The windows of Hope’s family cabin frame the angry pewter sky beyond, a perfect backdrop for the man who’s waiting for me with death in his hands.

Every desperate, yearning pulse pushes me to run to him.

He’s strong and sure and powerful. He’ll protect you. He would never, ever let anything hurt you.

It doesn’t take much to prove that wrong.

One small step forward is all it takes for reality to shatter the desperate fantasy that he’s here to save me. Pain shoots through my ravaged leg, and I stumble. In the same moment, his fingers curl around the handle of the gun in his lap.

The sight steals my breath. Not because I’m afraid of the weapon—God knows I’ve had enough of those pointed at me lately—but because it’s Samuil holding it. The same hands that cradled my face like I was precious. The same fingers that traced poetry on my skin in the dark.

He rises from the armchair in one fluid movement, all coiled power and lethal grace. His silver eyes lock onto mine, arctic cold in the shadows. Those eyes used to warm when they found me. Used to crinkle at the corners when I made him laugh.

Now, they’re empty.

Or maybe they’re full of conviction about what needs to be done with a traitor.

My pulse races as his eyebrows draw together, studying me like I’m a stranger. Like the past months meant nothing.

I should explain. Should tell him why I was at the Andropov building. Should make him understand that everything I did was to protect him, to protect us.

But the words stay trapped in my throat, held hostage by the certainty that he won’t believe me. That he’ll pull the trigger before I can make him understand.

When he takes a step toward me, my body makes the choice my mind can’t. I stumble backward, my injured leg threatening to buckle. The crutch I’ve been leaning on clatters to the floor, the sound explosive in the silence.

His hand shoots out—to steady me or grab me, I’ll never know. Because I’m already moving, already running. The cabin door bangs against the wall as I burst through it into the gathering storm.

The wind knifes through my thin layers, carrying the bite of approaching rain. Tears blur my vision—from the cold or from leaving him, I’m not sure. There’s no time to figure it out. No time for anything but survival.

Heavy clouds swallow the last traces of sun as I force my battered body forward. The pain in my leg is a constant scream, but I’ve gotten good at ignoring screams. Growing up in my father’s house taught me that much.

“Nova!”

His voice booms through the trees, echoing from every direction. My heart twists—even now, even running from him, my body yearns to go to him when he calls. But I can’t trust that instinct anymore. Can’t trust anything but the need to survive.

I weave between the tree trunks, each step a gamble between speed and stealth. The forest floor is treacherous with fallen leaves and hidden roots, slick from yesterday’s rain. One wrong step could end this.

But stopping isn’t an option.

The trees press closer, branches reaching for me like grasping fingers. I dodge and pivot, making my path as unpredictable as possible. The rational part of my brain knows I’m leaving an obvious trail—broken twigs, disturbed leaves, probably blood from where my stitches have torn. But rationality took a vacation the moment I saw that gun in his hands.

A branch snaps somewhere behind me. Close. Too close.

“Nova!” His voice is different now. Rougher. More desperate.

My lungs are on fire. Each breath feels like inhaling glass. But I push harder, veering left where the undergrowth is thickest. If I can’t outrun him, maybe I can outlast him. Find somewhere to hide until⁠—

Until what? Until he gives up? Until help arrives? Until I wake up from this nightmare?

The duffel bag I left behind haunts me. Everything I need to escape is in that bag—money, documents, the burner phone Hope gave me. I might as well have gift-wrapped my own trap.

Another crack of branches. Closer still.

I risk a glance over my shoulder and my foot catches on something—a root, a rock, it doesn’t matter. I stumble, overcorrect, and crash into a tree trunk. The impact drives the air from my lungs.

For a moment, I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can only press my forehead against the rough bark and try to remember how my body works.

That’s when I hear it. The steady crunch of leaves under deliberate footsteps.

He’s done running.

He’s hunting now.

Fear floods my system with fresh adrenaline. I push off from the tree, ignoring how my vision swims. The dense growth to my left looks like salvation—thick enough to hide in, dark enough to disappear.

My bad leg drags as I force my way through the undergrowth. Branches snag my clothes, scratch my face, but I keep going. The ground beneath my feet feels different. Softer. Less stable.

“I know you’re there, zaychik.” His voice is closer now, almost gentle. Like he’s trying to coax a frightened animal. “Stop running.”

The word slices through me. He taught me what it meant, late one night beneath a canopy of white bedsheets, his breath mingling with mine, skin on skin, heart on heart, closer than any two people have a right to be.

Zaychik. Rabbit. His little rabbit.

But rabbits get hunted. Rabbits get caught.

I push deeper into the thicket, where the branches are so tight they form a natural fortress. Just a few more steps. Just a little further. Just⁠—

The ground disappears.

For one suspended moment, I’m weightless. My stomach lurches as the world tilts. My hands grasp at empty air, at trailing vines that snap under my fingers.

Then gravity remembers me.

The fall is both endless and instant. My body pinwheels through space, through darkness. Branches whip past me. My shoulder slams into something solid. Pain explodes through my already battered body.

I think I scream. I must scream, because I hear Samuil shout my name. Not in anger this time.

In terror.

The sound follows me down into the ravine, chasing me all the way to the bottom where the darkness swallows everything whole.

My last thought before unconsciousness claims me is that maybe this is better. Maybe this way, he won’t have to live with pulling the trigger.

The black takes me before I can find out if I’m right.