Inked Athena (Litvinov Bratva Book 2)

She trembles against me in the dark, and for the first time in my life, I’m fucking terrified of breaking something precious.

Nova’s pulse flutters beneath my fingers where they rest against her throat. Her skin is silk and heat, so delicate I could snap her in two. But she’s not made of glass—she proved that by surviving Ilya, by escaping, by finding her way back to me even when she had every reason to run.

“Ya ne mogu tebya poteryat,” I whisper into her hair.

I can’t lose you.

The confession slips out in Russian because I’m a goddamn coward. Because saying it in English would make it real. Would make her real. Would make this ache in my chest something I can’t ignore.

She shifts closer, seeking warmth, comfort, protection. All the things I want to give her. All the things I’m not sure I know how to provide without turning them into chains.

“More Russian secrets?” Her voice is drowsy, colored with exhaustion and trust she probably shouldn’t feel.

My thumb traces the curve of her jaw. “Just truth.”

“Mm.” She tilts her head, pressing into my touch. “Sounds dangerous.”

It is. Christ, it is. Every soft sound she makes, every unconscious display of trust, every moment she lets me hold her like this—they’re all fucking landmines in my chest, waiting to detonate.

I should put her to bed. Should give her space to rest and heal. Should maintain some kind of distance before I forget every lesson I’ve learned about letting people get close.

Instead, I hold her tighter and whisper more dangerous truths into the dark.

“Ya budu zashchishchat tebya vechno.”

I will protect you forever.

Her breath catches, though she can’t understand the words. Maybe she hears the weight behind them anyway.

She turns in my arms to stare out the porthole, watching the dark waves that carry us further from everything she’s known.

“Tell me about Chicago.” Her request comes soft and unexpected, like the first drops of rain before a storm. “Tell me what you see when you look at my city.”

I could tell her about the corrupt web of power binding the streets together. About the deals made in penthouses while servants scrub blood from marble floors. About the men who rule from corner offices, their hands clean while their souls drip red.

But that’s my Chicago. Not hers.

“I see your park,” I say instead. “The paths you walked with your dogs. The shelter where you volunteered. The small ways you carved out space for yourself in a place that tried to swallow you whole.”

She stiffens against me. “My father…”

“Owns half the cops on the North Side. I know.” My fingers find a knot of tension in her shoulder, work it loose. “But you built something real there anyway. Something that had nothing to do with his power or his control.”

“And now, it’s gone.” The words crack like ice. “Everything I built. Every bit of freedom I clawed out for myself. He wins again.”

“No.” The denial comes fierce and fast. “He loses. Every breath you take away from his influence, every moment you spend healing and growing stronger—those are victories he can’t touch.”

Her laugh holds no humor. “Is that what this is? Healing? Running away on a yacht that probably has more surveillance than a prison?”

“This isn’t a prison, Nova.” But the guilt twists in my gut anyway. Because she’s not entirely wrong. “This is a fortress. And the difference is that every door opens for you. Every security measure exists to keep threats out, not to keep you in.”

She’s quiet for a long moment, processing. When she speaks again, her voice carries the weight of years spent under her father’s thumb.

“I used to dream about escaping him. About building a life so far removed from his influence that he couldn’t touch me.” Her fingers trace patterns on my chest. “I never imagined escape would look like this. Would feel like this.”

The raw honesty in her voice cracks something open inside me. Makes me want to show her that not every man with power uses it as a weapon.

For years, I’ve built walls of wealth and violence, collecting power like ammunition. Every decision calculated to expand my control, to ensure no one could ever make me weak.

Now, I find myself dismantling those walls, brick by brick, to let this woman breathe.

The yacht’s engines thrum beneath our feet, a steady pulse of raw power. But for the first time, that power feels hollow. Empty. What good is an empire of fear if it can’t give Nova the peace she deserves?

“I made a call today,” I tell her, watching her face in the dim light. “Transferred control of Hope’s Helpers to a shell corporation. Your friend can keep running it, but my name will shield it from your father’s influence. From anyone’s influence.”

Nova goes very still against me. “You didn’t have to⁠—”

“I wanted to.” The truth of it surprises me. “My resources should do more than just destroy things. They should protect what matters.”

She lifts her head, studies me with those amber eyes that see too much. “And what matters to you, Sam?”

Everything I am screams at me to deflect. To maintain distance. To keep my priorities locked behind steel doors where they can’t be used against me.

Instead, I brush my thumb across her cheek and whisper, “You’re changing all my answers to that question.”

The waves slap harder against the hull, making the cabin creak. Nova lifts her head and whispers, “I’m not going back to Chicago, am I?”

I tense, but keep my arms loose around her. The darkness beyond the porthole makes it easier to face this truth. Makes it easier to be the man she needs right now, not the vengeful bastard I’ve trained myself to be.

“Not until I know you’ll be safe there.” My voice comes out rough. Foreign. As if all my carefully maintained control has rusted away in the salt air.

“My father…” She swallows the rest, but I hear it anyway. The weight of his betrayal. The echo of his threats.

I could tell her it doesn’t matter. That distance changes things. But her father’s influence runs deeper than Chicago’s streets. His corruption has seeped into her bones, into the way she flinches at sudden movements and second-guesses her own worth.

“Tell me.” I brush my lips against her temple. Not a kiss—a shield.

The story spills out of her in broken pieces. How he’d force her to sit silently at family dinners while his cop buddies talked about “cleaning up” the streets, one broken femur at a time. How he made examples of people who crossed him. The way he’d hold her grandmother’s care over her head whenever she tried to break free.

“I thought I’d escaped.” Nova’s fingers twist deeper into my shirt. “But I was just pretending. Playing at having a real life while he watched and waited.”

That hits too close to home. My own father’s games. His tests and manipulations. The constant balance of power and punishment.

But this isn’t about my damage. This is about Nova.

I slide my palm along her spine, counting vertebrae, measuring the tremors that race beneath her skin. “Your father cannot touch you here.”

She exhales against my throat. “Because you’re more powerful than him?”

The question hangs between us, heavy with implications. Once, I would have answered with a smirk and a demonstration of exactly how much influence I wield. But Nova deserves better than another man’s power games.

“Because I’ll never use that power against you.”

Her head snaps up, amber eyes searching mine in the dim cabin light. “Those are pretty words, Sam. But you’ve already made decisions about my life without consulting me. Taking me from Chicago. Bringing me here.”

She has a point. Every protective instinct in me wants to argue, to explain how those choices kept her alive. Instead, I force myself to really hear her.

“You’re right.” The admission costs me nothing but pride, and her startled expression makes it worth it. “I’m used to giving orders and expecting them to be followed. It’s how I’ve survived. How I’ve kept others alive.”

“And now?”

“Now, I need to learn a different way.” I brush a strand of hair from her face, letting my fingers linger against her cheek. “With you.”

Nova doesn’t pull away from my touch, but she doesn’t lean into it, either. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“It means we make decisions together.” The words feel strange on my tongue. Not wrong, just new. “It means I tell you what I know, and you tell me what you need. We find solutions that work for both of us.”

“Even if I disagree with you?”

“Especially then.” I trail my hand down her arm, feeling goosebumps rise in my wake. “Your perspective… it challenges me. Makes me think beyond force and fear.”

She shivers, but her voice stays steady. “And what if I need space? Time to process things on my own?”

The question stabs at my deepest fears—of abandonment, of betrayal, of loss. But I make myself nod. “Then we find a way.”

Nova’s shoulders relax slightly, as if she’s testing the truth of my words. Testing me. “You’re asking me to put my life in your hands,” she says quietly. “I need the same from you.”

The old me would have laughed at the idea of giving anyone that kind of power. The old me would have kissed her silent and changed the subject. But her steady gaze holds more strength than all my father’s threats ever did.

“Tell me what that looks like.” I keep my voice neutral, open. This is her moment to define terms.

“No more unilateral decisions about my safety. No more hiding information to ‘protect’ me.” She straightens in my arms, chin lifting. “And no more assumptions about what I can or can’t handle.”

My jaw clenches. “Some things in my world⁠—”

“Are brutal. Ugly. Dangerous.” She presses her palm against my chest, right over my heart. “I know what you are, Samuil. I’ve seen it. But I’m not asking you to change that. I’m asking you to trust me enough to let me choose how I deal with it.”

The request burrows under my skin. In my world, trust is a weapon. A weakness to exploit. But Nova isn’t asking for my secrets or my power. She’s asking for partnership.

“Okay.” I cover her hand with mine, pressing it harder against my chest. “But I need something from you, too.”

She tenses slightly. “What?”

“When things get dark—when you’re scared or overwhelmed—don’t shut me out.” I thread our fingers together. “Let me be your strength until you find your own again.”

Nova’s breath catches. For a moment, I think I’ve pushed too far. Then she rises on her toes and brushes her lips against mine. “Deal.”

The kiss deepens, soft and slow, nothing like our desperate couplings in Chicago. Nova’s hands slide up my chest to my shoulders, and I lift her easily, compensating for her injured ankle. Her legs wrap around my waist as I carry her to the bed.

“Your ribs,” I murmur against her throat. “We should wait⁠—”

“I’m tired of waiting.” She tugs at my shirt. “Tired of being careful. Of being afraid.”

Still, I lower her to the silk sheets with deliberate gentleness. Her tank top has ridden up, exposing the purple-black bruises scattered across her sides. My brother’s handiwork. I trace the unmarked skin between them, watching her shiver.

“Sam.” Her voice holds a warning. “Don’t treat me like I’ll break.”

“Never.” I press my lips to her collarbone. “I’ll take you to the edge. But I’ll never, ever hurt you, Nova Pierce.”

She arches beneath me as I map her body with careful touches, learning which movements make her gasp and which make her wince. When I finally slide into her, we both freeze, adjusting to this new intimacy.

“Look at me,” she whispers, and I do.

In her eyes, I see everything we’ve been dancing around. Trust. Fear. Need. Power. All the complicated threads binding us together, stronger than duty or revenge or protection.

We move together in the darkness, finding a rhythm that belongs only to us. Each touch is a promise. Each kiss, a confession. When she comes apart beneath me, crying out my name, I follow her over the edge.

After, she curls against my side, her breathing steady and deep. For the first time since Chicago, her body is truly relaxed.

I know this peace is temporary. Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new negotiations of power and trust.

But for now, I hold her close and let myself believe in something bigger than survival.