Page 114 of Inked Athena

“Like hell it doesn’t. We’re in this together.”

I whirl to face her, letting her see the ruthless killer I’ve kept caged these past months. The one who’s executed men for far less than the destruction Katerina and Ilya just wreaked.

“No, we’re not.” I loathe the sound of my own voice. So hateful, so cold I want to shiver. “This is my world, and you need to stay the hell out of it.”

Devastation crashes across her face. Her hand flies to her stomach—to our child—and something inside me fractures. But I force myself to keep moving, to stuff weapons into my go-bag while she watches in mute horror.

Better she sees the truth now. Better she understands that the man she fell in love with was just a fantasy. A temporary fiction we both allowed ourselves to believe in.

The real Samuil Litvinov deals in blood and bullets, not happily-ever-afters. And it’s time I remembered that.

It’s time she did, too.

I zip the bag closed with brutal finality. When I turn, Nova’s tears shine in the dim light, but she lifts her chin defiantly.

My beautiful, stubborn woman.

I pray she lives long enough to hate me for this.

39

NOVA

“That’s not the man I love.”

I keep saying that to myself again and again. I’m still shaking from Sam’s transformation. One moment, he was my Samuil—the man who held my hand during our ultrasound, who kissed away my morning sickness, who’s learning to let others into his carefully guarded world.

The next? A stranger with glacial eyes barking orders in Russian while his men scattered like roaches.This is my world, and you need to stay the hell out of it.

The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the castle grounds as I trudge down the lane. Rufus and Ruby flank me like bodyguards. My hands rest on my swollen belly, protecting our child from the darkness that’s crept back into our lives.

“What do you think, guys?” I scratch behind Rufus’s ears. “Think Daddy will?—”

My foot catches on something solid and I stumble forward. Ruby’s quick reaction is the only thing that saves me from face-planting.

“Thanks, girl.” I steady myself on her broad back and peer at the obstacle.

The shape sprawled across the path isn’t a fallen branch or wandering sheep.

It’s a man.

A badly injured man. Blood mats his hair and stains his torn jacket.

Rufus’s hackles rise. A low growl rumbles in his chest.

“Hello?” I squeak. “Sir, are you hurt?”

His eyelids flutter. Chapped lips part. “Need… Litvinov.” The words rasp out in an American accent—weird, given that we’re deep in the middle of rural Scotland. “Only… him.”

My heart thumps against my ribs. This is exactly the kind of situation Sam warned me about—strangers who might be friends or foes. The smart thing to do would be turn and run. But I can’t leave an injured man lying here, bleeding into Scottish soil.

I reach for my phone, then remember it’s still in the war room where Sam’s holding court.

Shit.

I glance back down. His face is a mess of cuts and welts, one eye swollen completely shut. Someone worked him over good. The kind of beating meant to send a message.

I scan the perimeter, looking for signs of how he got here. The castle grounds are surrounded by state-of-the-art security. Guards patrol the gates 24/7. Sam’s paranoia means every inch is monitored by cameras.

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