Inked Athena (Litvinov Bratva Book 2)

The storm wakes me up.

I should be used to it by now—it’s been storming every day here for weeks. It’s like clockwork: night falls and storms break. I ought to be snoozing right through them.

It’s not like I was sleeping very deeply, anyway.

Finbarr and the rest of the puppies are huddled together in the nest of blankets I made for them in the corner, yapping with terror at every rumble of thunder. Samuil’s side of the bed is still empty.

I fell asleep waiting for him to show up. I was sure he’d find his way to bed when it suited him. Very few things have kept him from it so far. Even when we fight, he doesn’t stay away.

But it’s late and there’s no sign Samuil ever made it up.

Surely, he’s not still in his office. What kind of work could he be getting done when it sounds like the castle is being ripped apart stone by stone? The only reason I’m not shaking in a heap with the puppies is because I keep telling myself this castle has stood here for hundreds of years—it’ll last one more night.

Or maybe he gave up work and found some unfinished part of the castle to sit by himself and feel like an ass for how he treated Myles.

I’m hoping for the latter, but a part of me is still not sure he’s capable of anything as human as regret.

Sighing, I slide out of bed and walk over to the window.

Rain falls against the window in pitch-black sheets. I’m not sure I’d be able to see my hand in front of my face.

Then lightning strikes overhead. A jagged flash of white heat searing over the loch. And for a single second, I see my boat, bobbing in the middle of the loch.

Then full dark descends again.

Frowning, I squint, trying and failing to make out its shape in the night. My boat should be anchored to the shore. It’s not supposed to be in the middle of the lake. Maybe the wind untied my knot, but I doubt it. What I lack in gardening skills, I make up for with my knots. Mr. Morris said I was a quick study.

Another flash of lightning. Whiter. Hotter. I press my face to the window, flattening my nose against the glass. There’s the boat—and, even more bizarre…

… Someone is in it.

Who would be stupid enough to go out on the water in this storm?

In answer, another bolt of lightning zags across the sky, illuminating things long enough for me to see the broad, stubborn shoulders and dark hair I know so well.

“Samuil!” I scream out, like there’s any chance at all he can hear me.

Then, without a second thought, I sprint out of my room and down the staircase.

Even in the heart of the castle, it feels like the walls are quaking. Does Samuil have a death wish? Is that why he took my boat out in this storm? Is he a fucking madman?

Each peal of thunder sends my heart crashing in response against my chest, desperate to get out. To be with the man it loves, despite it all. The man who thinks he can fight Mother Nature herself and win.

I have just enough presence of mind to throw on some rain boots and a coat before dashing out onto into the rain.

Although “rain” feels like a woefully inadequate word for what I walk into. Even with my jacket, I’m soaked through in seconds. The cold bites at my fingers and my face. Every drop of rain is another tiny dagger slicing into my exposed skin.

I really must love that stupid brute. Nothing short of love would induce me to brave this kind of weather in my condition.

The wind tries to knock me off-course, hurtling this way and that over the mossy hills. I stumble through the thick grass and brambles. Thunder booms, shaking the ground beneath my feet, and I drop to my knees.

“This is insane,” I mutter furiously as I push myself up and keep moving towards the lake. “The moment we’re both dry, I’m going to kill him. With my bare hands.”

If this storm doesn’t kill us both first, that is.

I cling to my anger and frustration. I cling to the hope that we are both going to get out of this and that there is a future where I can rail against Samuil for scaring me this much, for putting me through this.

Because the alternative is unthinkable.

I finally make it to the loch’s edge. My boots squelch in the boggy grass, heather whipping against my bare knees. The familiar scent of peat and pine mingles with the metallic tang of lightning in the air. Through it all, I’m close enough now to confirm what I already know: Samuil is sitting in my boat.

“SAMUIL!” I scream.

He twists around, scanning back and forth until his gaze falls on me. It’s dark and he’s far and the rain is heavier than ever, but I still see the panic that crosses his face.

He roars something I can’t decipher and waves back toward the castle. It doesn’t take a genius to interpret, though.

This idiot is in the middle of a lake in a freaking lightning storm, and he wants me to go inside?

“I’ll go inside when you do!” I scream back. But my voice is lost to another crack of thunder.

Samuil stands up, waving his arms at me until the boat starts to wobble. “Samuil! Stop it! You’re gonna make the stupid boat top⁠—”

Before I can finish my warning, the boat spills over.

And Samuil disappears into the water.

I run forward far enough for my feet to dunk into the frigid water. Even if I wanted to go after him, I can’t. Not with our baby. God only knows what the loch would do to life that fragile.

It doesn’t care about who lives or dies. It just churns and waits for people stupid enough to wander into its maw.

People like me.

People like Sam.

I cry his name again and again. “Samuil! Samuil!”

He’ll come back up. He’ll be fine. He’ll swim to the shore. He can swim, can’t he? I saw him swim laps around our yacht when we were out to sea. He’s strong. He’s capable.

So why the hell hasn’t he come up for air yet?

I squint through the choppy waves as panic threatens to pull me down.

What if the boat struck Samuil in the head when he fell? What if he’s unconscious, sinking to the bottom of the lake right this second?

What if I don’t do something and I lose him forever?

I shuck my coat off, ready to risk absolutely everything to get him back—what is all of it without him, anyway?—when a hand grips my arm. One hand on each arm, actually.

Myles pulls me back out of the way as Mr. Morris appears over the other shoulder, a spool of rope looped on his forearm.

I don’t even know what Myles is still doing here. He should’ve left hours ago. But I’m too terrified to question it.

“Myles, it’s Samuil,” I gasp. “He fell out of the boat and he hasn’t come up for⁠—”

“I know. I saw it happen.” Myles takes the rope from Mr. Morris and ties it around his waist. “Don’t worry—I’ll get him.”

Without another word or look back, Myles begins to wade into the lake, aiming in the rough direction of the rocking boat. But it’s like the storm is working against us. The rain comes down harder and seeing farther than the water’s edge is near impossible. Myles is reduced to a blur, a shadow on shadows.

“B-be c-c-careful!” I stammer, my teeth chattering from the cold.

How much worse must it be for Samuil?

“Dinna fash, lass,” Mr. Morris croons, feeding Myles more of the rope’s slack. “He’ll be alright. He’s a brawny man, yer Samuil.”

Normally, I’d say the same thing. Except we’re in the throes of the most violent Highlands storm I’ve seen yet and I’m finding it hard to cling to hope.

Especially because Samuil still hasn’t come up for air.

“Bring him back to me, Myles,” I croak just as Myles dives into the depths of the lake.

I can only stand frozen, eyes fixed on the spot where I think Myles disappeared. Where I think Samuil disappeared.

This can’t be the end. Samuil Litvinov is too stubborn to die.

Still, my heart aches with the possibility that we might not have another conversation. That he might never wrap his arms around me and surround me with his solid warmth.

That he might never meet his child.

I think I’m crying, but I can’t tell because of the rain. My entire world is submerged in water, and there’s nothing I can do but let it rinse me clean.

Then there’s a disruption. A wave that moves in the wrong direction. Ripples. More sharp, angular shadows breaking the surface, ducking below. Rising up. Falling down.

The only reason I don’t dive in is because Mr. Morris grabs my arm.

“Whoa there, lass. Myles may be able to drag in one body, but let’s not give him another one.”

Body. The word is an ice pick to my heart. Samuil is more than a body. He’s alive. He has to be.

“Myles!” I scream. “Do you have him?”

The rope pings, taut and moaning. Mr. Morris starts to heave, but he’s huffing from the effort. Desperate for something to do, I grip the rough-hewn rope and pull with all my might.

Then: more motion. Myles’s white face bobs just above the surface of the water. I can’t make out much more than that. I just close my eyes and tug as hard as I possibly can.

It isn’t until he’s closer that I realize Samuil is draped lifelessly across Myles’s back.

“No!” I cry, tearing forward.

But Myles holds up his hand. “He’s alive,” he pants. “I feel him breathing.”

He drags Samuil onto the sloshy grass and rolls him onto his side. Immediately, water bursts out of Sam’s mouth as he coughs and retches.

It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

He’s alive.

I drop to my knees in front of him. “Samuil.”

He rolls to one side, breathing hard.

But Myles doesn’t give him any time to recover.

“‘Alright?’” he roars. “I hope he’s not alright! It would serve him right for— What the fuck were you thinking, you jackass?! Drunk boating? In a storm? At fucking pitch black midnight? Who the hell do you think you are, fucking Poseidon? You could have died!”

Samuil raises his head an inch. His eyes meet mine. He’s drunk. I see it in the red of his eyes. I can also see that nearly dying is sobering him up fast.

He groans, clutching his side. I lean in and place my palm over his. “Are you hurt?”

“Tired.” He coughs up more water. “Sore.”

“Good.” I pinch his hand hard enough that he yanks it away.

“Blyat’, woman. Have some mercy.”

“You’re lucky I don’t leave you here after what you just did!”

Around us, the rain has begun to slow. The wind sighs and eases, too. Sam forces himself up to a seat. His wet shirt clings to every muscle on his body. What does it say about me that, even under the circumstances, I’m not above noticing?

“You didn’t have to come in after me,” Samuil remarks to his best friend stiffly. “I had the situation under control.”

Myles scowls. “You did, did you? What were you planning on doing? Soaking up the lake like you did that bottle of scotch?”

“I didn’t need your help with either task.”

Myles’s eyes gleam like the last of the lightning rattling over our heads. Not that anyone seems to be paying attention to the storm anymore. We might as well be standing in front of a roaring fireplace for all the concern the men give our current surroundings.

“Maybe I’ll push you back in then,” Myles snaps.

“And waste all your effort? You worked hard to get me out.”

“I didn’t do it for you, you self-important bastard,” Myles spits. “I did it for Nova and the child she’s carrying. Because, despite what you might believe, I care about them.”

“I know that.”

“You have a funny fucking way of showing it.”

My gaze bounces between the two men as I try to decide if I should jump between them or let them brawl it out.

Samuil rises, then sways on his feet, tottering a step closer to Myles. His hand darts out for balance on Myles’s shoulder, but it’s not in anger. Then he sighs and squeezes. “Don’t leave.”

Raindrops pelt Myles’s face, but he doesn’t so much as blink. His jaw is working overtime, but whether to hold back emotion or anger, I can’t say.

Then Myles clasps a matching hand on Samuil’s shoulder. “As if you could get rid of me that fucking easily.”

All at once, the tension dissolves.

Samuil pulls Myles into a hug, and Myles slaps him hard on the back. I’m glad it’s still raining gently, because it hides the tears running down my cheeks.

I shake my head at the both of them. “Boys. The most incomprehensible species on this planet.”

Samuil smirks, offering me his hand. The moment I slip my fingers through his, he pulls me into the hug, too.

We’re all soaking wet and chilled to the bone, but I feel warm all the same.

We stand there in a tangled embrace, the three of us, while the storm whimpers and recedes. Through my palm pressed against his chest, I feel Samuil’s heart beating—strong and steady now, like it never stopped. Like it never could stop, not while he has people to come back to. People who won’t let him drift away.

“Next time you feel like testing the loch’s patience,” I murmur against his wet shirt, “remember this moment. Remember what you almost lost.”

Samuil’s arm tightens around me. “I remember,” he says roughly. Then, so quietly I almost miss it: “I’m sorry.”

Above us, Myles snorts. “You can prove it by giving me a raise.”

“Technically, I haven’t rehired you yet.”

“Technically, you still owe me a new suit. This one’s ruined.”

I feel Samuil’s laugh rumble through his chest—rusty, like he’s forgotten how to do it, but real.