Page 13 of Tracking Shadows

I’m trying to focus on the task at hand, but the steady, rhythmic beat of Alexei’s breathing is distracting. He’s sitting in front of me, shirtless, the muscles of his back tense and glistening with sweat under the dim light of the safe house. The bullet had only grazed him, but it was deep enough to cause serious pain, and the wound needs cleaning.

“Hold still,” I mutter, dipping a cloth in antiseptic.

He doesn’t respond; he just gives a slight nod, his body stiffening as I press the cloth against the wound. He hisses through clenched teeth, and I feel a twinge of guilt. I’m not trying to hurt him, but there’s no gentle way to do this. He’s tough—he can handle it.

He’s trying to put on a brave face, but I can see the pain etched into the lines around his mouth, the way his muscles twitch involuntarily with every touch.

“Come on, Romanov,” I say, rolling my eyes as I press the cloth a little harder than necessary. “Suck it up like a man.”

He winces, his body jerking slightly against my hand, but there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes. “If this is your idea of bedside manner, I’d hate to see you on a bad day.”

“Thisisa bad day,” I reply, smirking as I reach for the bandages. “You’re just lucky I’m in a generous mood.”

He chuckles, the sound low and warm. “Maybe I should get injured more often. I’m enjoying all this attention.”

“Don’t push your luck,” I warn, though I can’t help the small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “I might just let you bleed out next time.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t do that… You’re too soft-hearted.”

I snort. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with, do you?”

He turns his head slightly to look at me, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’m starting to get a pretty good idea. And I’ve got to say, I like what I see.”

“Focus,” I say sharply. “You’re the one with a bullet hole in your side.”

“And you’re the one who keeps poking it,” he retorts, though there’s no real bite in his words.

He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes searching mine, as if trying to figure out what’s going on in my head. Then, out of nowhere, he says, “Do you want to hear my story?”

I don’t answer. I don’t want to hear his story. I don’t want to know anything about him. The less I know, the easier it’ll be to keep my distance. But Alexei, being who he is, doesn’t seem to care about what I want. He just starts talking.

“It was a normal day,” he begins as if he’s speaking to himself rather than to me. “I was sixteen, coming home from school. Just a regular, boring day.”

He winces again as I press the antiseptic deeper into the wound, and I find myself softening my touch slightly. I don’tknow why—maybe because of the way he’s talking, so openly, so . . . vulnerably.

“I didn’t see them coming.” His words are sharp and bitter. “They grabbed me, threw me into a van before I could even scream. I was scared out of my mind, didn’t know what was happening.”

I swallow, forcing myself to remain focused on the wound. I shouldn’t care about his story, but the words are getting under my skin.

“They kept me in a basement, tied up, scared out of my mind,” he continues. “I didn’t know why they’d taken me, who they were, or what they wanted.”

My hands still for a moment, hovering over his shoulder. I can’t imagine what that must’ve been like—being so young, so helpless.

“But they weren’t after me,” he says, his tone flat. “They were after my parents. Turns out, they were drug traffickers. They’d been planning to get out, start a new life. But the men who took me weren’t going to let that happen.”

I glance up at him, but he’s staring straight ahead, his expression distant, as if he’s somewhere else entirely. I know that look—I’ve seen it in the mirror more times than I can count.

“My parents came to save me,” he continues quieter now. “They tried to negotiate, but the men weren’t interested in talking. They wanted to send a message to the others who were thinking of leaving as well. So they killed them, right in front of me. Just like that. Two bullets, and they were gone.”

I tighten the bandage around his wound.

I should stop him from talking, tell him it’s over, but I can’t. There’s something in his voice that keeps me from shutting him down.

“They were trying to protect me,” he says. “But in the end, all they did was show me the truth. They were criminals, and they paid the price for it.”

For a moment, the room is silent except for the sound of my hands working and the soft rustling of the bandages. I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t this. Not from him.

“Do you ever wonder,” he says suddenly, breaking the silence, “if things could’ve been different? If they’d made different choices? If you had?”

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