Page 136 of Inked Athena

He manages a shadow of his usual smirk. “I had a hand in things here and there.”

The paramedics start to guide Samuil’s stretcher down the hall. But as we emerge into the belly of the church, an anguished bellow stops us. We all turn in unison.

Ilya bucks against his zip-ties and cuffs as agents march him toward an armored vehicle. His suit is torn and bloody, his once-perfect hair wild.

But it’s his eyes that make my skin crawl. They burn with the kind of hatred that could set the world on fire.

“Brattan,” he spits in Russian, zeroing in on Sam. “Always the chess master. Always three moves ahead, eh?”

Sam’s fingers interlace with mine. His wound is bleeding through the pressure bandage, but his face remains impassive. Like his brother’s venom simply can’t touch him anymore.

Behind Ilya, Katerina stumbles as agents drag her toward a rear exit. Her black-and-red-stained face crumples when she catches Ilya’s eye. Some strange, almost tangible kind of ripple passes between them—a current of betrayal and broken dreams that makes my chest ache despite everything.

I can’t help pitying them. They’re violent, yes, and broken, most definitely.

But no dog is unredeemable.

Give them time. Maybe they’ll find a way back to the light.

Then Ilya’s gaze finds mine. His lips curl into a sneer. “Shlyukha,” he hisses.

On second thought, maybe not.

I open my mouth to say something, but Sam catches me with one hand looped around the back of my neck. “He’s not worth the breath of telling him to go to hell,” he rasps to me. “Let him go.”

I look at him. Not at Ilya, not at Katerina, but athim.

He’s right.

The only people left who matter are us.

The paramedics rush Sam through the church doors, but his hand never leaves mine. Even with blood soaking his shirt and pain etching lines around his eyes, he refuses to let go.

Outside, a sea of flashing lights bathes everything in red and blue. FBI agents herd handcuffed mercenaries into armoredvehicles. Katerina’s sobs fade into the distance. Ilya’s curses turn to echoes, then to nothing.

But all I can focus on is the steady beep of Sam’s heart monitor as the EMTs hook him up. The way his chest rises and falls. The warmth of his fingers threaded through mine.

“Your blood pressure’s dropping, sir,” one paramedic warns. “We need to move.”

Sam’s eyes find mine through the chaos. “Come with me?”

As if he needs to ask. As if I’d be anywhere else.

They help me into the ambulance beside him. The doors slam shut, muffling the circus outside. In this metal cocoon, it’s just us and the rhythm of his heart on the monitor.

His hand slides from mine to rest on my belly. Our child kicks against his palm—strong and alive andreal. Despite everything, a smile tugs at his lips.

“Worth it,” he mumbles, fighting to keep his eyes open as the morphine takes hold. “All of it. For this.”

I lean down to press my forehead against his. “Rest now. We’ll be here when you wake up.”

His other hand finds my cheek, thumb brushing away tears I didn’t know I’d shed. Even half-conscious, his touch is gentle. Reverent.

The last thing I hear before the sirens start is his whispered “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

I love you.

And for the first time since this nightmare began, I know we’re going to be okay.

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