Page 18 of Inked Athena

The night wind carries the bite of salt and diesel, but I keep stalking the perimeter, scanning the horizon. She’s just belowmy feet, yet the distance between us stretches wider than this fucking ocean.

I’m doing what needs to be done. That should be enough.

It isn’t.

For the first time in my life, I need someone to understand my choices. To trust them. To trust me.

When the cold starts to sink into my bones, I abandon my post and head below.

Nova stands at the porthole in wrinkled sweats and a thin tank top that does nothing to hide the goosebumps on her arms. Her dark hair falls in tangles down her back, wild and unkempt. She looks like a stray who’s wandered into a palace—all this gleaming mahogany and brass surrounding her only emphasizes how far we are from her world.

She doesn’t acknowledge me until the door clicks shut. Then she whirls, stumbling, one hand flying out to catch herself against the wall. The movement draws a hiss of pain from her lips.

“It’s just me.” I drag a hand over my neck, fighting the urge to go to her. To steady her. To wrap her in my arms until that haunted look leaves her eyes.

Instead, I keep my distance.

“I’ve never...” Her voice catches. “I’ve never been outside Chicago before. Not really. Just...Wisconsin once, for a school trip. And then again, for… other reasons.” A bitter laugh escapes her. “And now here I am, in the middle of the ocean, running from the Russian mafia.”

The confession hits me in the chest. While I’ve been thinking of this yacht as a fortress, a sanctuary, she sees only the vast unknown stretching in every direction. No familiar streets. No safe spaces. No home to return to.

She presses her forehead against the cool glass. “I don’t even know where we are. What country we’re near. Nothing seems real anymore.”

“We’re off the coast of Sardinia.” I take one step closer, then another when she doesn’t flinch away. “In the Mediterranean Sea.”

“Sardinia,” she repeats softly, like she’s tasting the word. Testing its reality. “I used to walk dogs in Lincoln Park and dream about traveling someday. Not like this, though. Never like this.”

The yacht pitches gently, and Nova’s hand flies out to steady herself again. Without thinking, I close the distance between us, my body moving on pure instinct to catch her if she falls.

“The rocking gets easier,” I tell her softly. “Your body adjusts to the motion after a day or two.”

She nods but doesn’t relax. Her fingers grip the window frame so tight her knuckles turn white. “Everything I own, everything I am, fits in that little duffel bag.” She gestures to the corner where her hastily packed bag sits. “My whole life in Chicago… it’s just gone.”

The words carry the weight of everything she’s lost. Her business. Her independence. The simple life she’d built for herself, far from her father’s corruption. Everything taken from her because she got tangled in my war.

“Your grandmother is safe,” I remind her. “Hope, too. And the dogs. I have men watching them all around the clock.”

“I know.” She closes her eyes, a tear sliding down her cheek. “But I can’t even call them. Can’t let them know I’m okay. They probably think…” Her voice breaks.

I step closer, close enough to feel the heat from her body, to catch the faint scent of her skin beneath the antiseptic smell of bandages. “What do they think, Nova?”

“That I’m dead.” The words come out as a whisper. “Or worse.”

My hands find her shoulders, gentle, giving her every chance to pull away. When she doesn’t, I turn her to face me. More tears track down her cheeks, and something in my chest constricts at the sight.

“Look at me.” I wait until those amber eyes meet mine. “You’re alive. You’re whole. And I swear to you, on everything I am, that I will keep you that way.”

Nova sways forward, her forehead coming to rest against my chest. Her hands stay wrapped around herself, but she lets me take her weight, lets me shelter her from the vast darkness beyond the window.

“I used to rescue animals,” she whispers into my shirt. “Strays. Abandoned pets. The ones nobody wanted. And now, I’m the one who needs rescuing.”

My arms slide around her, one hand cradling the back of her head. Her hair is silk against my palm. “You rescued yourself. I just provided the getaway vehicle.”

A sound catches in her throat—not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. “Some getaway vehicle you picked.”

“Only the best for you.” The words come out rougher than intended, weighted with everything I’m not saying. Everything I can’t say.

The yacht rolls with a larger wave, and Nova’s fingers finally uncurl from around herself to grip my shirt instead. I hold her steadier, stronger, becoming her anchor in the shifting dark.

---