Inked Athena (Litvinov Bratva Book 2)

I crouch in the shadows, eyeing the cabin nestled in the dense Wisconsin woods. It looks harmless enough—all worn wood and moss-covered stone, like something ripped from a children’s storybook. There should be smoke curling from the chimney, the scent of fresh bread drifting through open windows.

Instead, there’s only silence and decay.

I move through the overgrown grass, avoiding the gravel path that would betray my presence. The late afternoon sun catches on the algae-slicked windows, nature slowly reclaiming what man abandoned.

At the back corner of the cabin, I find my entry point—a window partially hidden by decrepit shutters.

One sharp strike shatters the glass.

I pause, listening for any reaction, but there’s only the whisper of wind through the leaves. Methodically, I clear the frame of remaining shards before hauling myself through. The wooden shutters groan as I pull them closed behind me, concealing the evidence of my break-in.

The bedroom I’ve entered reeks of mothballs and rotting wood. My eyes adjust slowly to the gloom as I move through the space, checking corners, analyzing sight lines.

The main room beyond is modest. Kitchen, dining area, living space all flowing together. A loft stretches overhead, but the thick layer of dust coating everything tells me no one’s been here in months.

No one except Hope Levy, who rented a car in Chicago this morning and drove north. And where Hope goes, Nova will follow.

My Nova, who’s been missing for days. Who appeared in that video looking broken and bloody, conspiring with my enemies.

My hands clench as the footage replays in my mind for the thousandth time. I’ve memorized every frame, every bruise on her face, every pained step she took.

None of it makes a bit of fucking sense.

When I left her, she was whole. Safe. Protected.

Someone touched her. Someone dared to harm what’s mine.

I lower myself into an armchair facing the door, laying my gun across my lap. The rage I’ve been containing since I found her bloodied sweatshirt in that abandoned garage threatens to explode. I want to tear apart everyone responsible with my bare hands.

But first, I need answers.

I need her.

Time passes in the growing darkness. I don’t move. I barely breathe. I’ve learned patience in my years leading the Bratva. I’ll wait here forever if that’s what it takes to see her again, to understand why she ran.

The crunch of gravel under careful footsteps breaks the silence. Wood creaks on the porch. A key slides into the lock.

And there she is.

She’s backlit in gold, almost blinding to look at. I’m sure I’ve conjured her with my obsessive thoughts alone. It’s sheer will that has put her in front of me.

Then she pushes the door closed and limps into the living room.

She stumbles into a chair and the couch as she clumsily makes her way through the cabin, and I soak in the sight of her. Even broken and filthy and exhausted, she’s here.

As I watch her move, an ice-cold rage I’ve been shoving down since I walked into the dilapidated car dealership and found her sweatshirt crumpled on the dirty floor rises in me.

Someone hurt her. Touched her. Someone fucking dared.

My hand fists on the arm of the chair, desperate to tear out the throat of every single person responsible.

The only damper to the rage is the guilt.

Because I should’ve been there.

No one would’ve gotten close enough to touch her if I’d been with her, if I hadn’t left things the way I did.

I’m shifting between the twin emotions, growing angrier and angrier with myself and this world, when she turns towards me and gasps.

Her golden-brown eyes are saucers in the dark, locked on me. The bruises along her jaw stand out purple and angry against her pale skin—so much worse than they looked in the video. She’s dirty and shaking and tired and weak.

A longing I’ve never felt before unfurls in my chest. I want to gather her in my arms and piece her back together. I want to solve this puzzle together.

Still, my jaw is clenched as I manage to say, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Nova teeters unsteadily, shifting towards me like she wants to close the gap between us as much as I do.

But she falters. She falls sideways into the couch.

I grab the gun to get it out of my way, to have both hands free to catch her, to hold her face and lower her to the couch so she can rest. She looks so tired.

But she springs backwards.

Her gaze flicks from me to the weapon, and I know what she’s thinking. I see it written there plainly half a second before she turns and flees through the door.

Fuck.

“Nova!”

I curse again, toss the gun in the chair, and tear after her, but she’s fast. Faster than she has any right to be in her condition, and I know she must be hurting herself. It’ll only get worse if I chase her, but as she disappears into the trees, I don’t have a choice.

Some dark part of me thinks I’ll always be chasing after this woman.

The sky is gloomier than it was even a few minutes ago. Heavy rain clouds have rolled in, blotting out the sun. Still, I can follow her path through the trees. There are sliding tracks in the mud and broken branches where she’s weaving and dodging the trees—and me.

Because she thinks I’m going to shoot her. That I’m here to kill her.

I’m not sure what’s worse: knowing she’s hurting herself more with every step or knowing that what she’s running from is me.

“Nova!” I call again. “Stop!”

I need to catch her, make sure she’s okay, and then kill the people responsible. We don’t have time for this.

I follow her path until, finally, in the distance, I see her. She’s clinging to a tree with both arms, panting to catch her breath.

As I close the distance, her eyes snap to mine. Our gazes lock for a moment, and I think she’ll stop. She’ll see the truth in my eyes that I want to hold her and help her and figure out what the fuck is going on.

Instead, she stumbles away from the tree and into the dense foliage hiding a steep ravine.

There isn’t even time to issue a warning before she pushes through the leaves and falls away.

“NOVA!”

I throw myself into a sprint, barely slowing as I reach the edge of the ravine. I angle my body to the side and ski down the steep bank, using my foot to slow my fall.

Stones and branches and gnarled roots rip open my skin, but I don’t care about any of it. All I can focus on is Nova, lying in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the gully.

“No, no, no,” I snarl. “Please, please, please…”

I never beg. Never pray. God and I haven’t been on speaking terms since I was five years old. But I’ll fall to my knees right now and build a thousand churches if it means she’s alive.

I skid to a stop and crawl the rest of the way over to her. “Nova.”

She doesn’t move except for the shallow rise and fall of her chest.

Carefully, I pick her up and cradle her against my body. She smells like damp and dirt, and fuck me, this isn’t how it was supposed to be.

I prop her more securely against my chest, and she lets out a faint, exhausted moan.

I want to tell her it’s going to be okay.

I want to tell her that she’s safe now.

I want to tell her that I’m going to take care of her.

Instead, I hold her close and carry her back to the cabin.

A weak moan escapes her lips as I adjust my grip. “I’ve got you,” I murmur in Russian, the language of my heart. “You’re safe now.”

The trek back is slow and careful. I pick my path methodically, protecting her from every jolt and bounce. Her skin is cold against mine, clothes filthy from the forest floor.

I need to get her warm, check her injuries, find out what happened.

But first, I need to make sure she doesn’t try to run again when she wakes. Because she will wake up. She has to.

I’ve only just found her.

I refuse to lose her again.