Page 3 of Inked Athena

I pause, listening for any reaction, but there’s only the whisper of wind through the leaves. Methodically, I clear the frame of remaining shards before hauling myself through. The woodenshutters groan as I pull them closed behind me, concealing the evidence of my break-in.

The bedroom I’ve entered reeks of mothballs and rotting wood. My eyes adjust slowly to the gloom as I move through the space, checking corners, analyzing sight lines.

The main room beyond is modest. Kitchen, dining area, living space all flowing together. A loft stretches overhead, but the thick layer of dust coating everything tells me no one’s been here in months.

No one except Hope Levy, who rented a car in Chicago this morning and drove north. And where Hope goes, Nova will follow.

My Nova, who’s been missing for days. Who appeared in that video looking broken and bloody, conspiring with my enemies.

My hands clench as the footage replays in my mind for the thousandth time. I’ve memorized every frame, every bruise on her face, every pained step she took.

None of it makes a bit of fucking sense.

When I left her, she was whole. Safe. Protected.

Someone touched her. Someone dared to harm what’s mine.

I lower myself into an armchair facing the door, laying my gun across my lap. The rage I’ve been containing since I found her bloodied sweatshirt in that abandoned garage threatens to explode. I want to tear apart everyone responsible with my bare hands.

But first, I need answers.

I needher.

Time passes in the growing darkness. I don’t move. I barely breathe. I’ve learned patience in my years leading the Bratva. I’ll wait here forever if that’s what it takes to see her again, to understand why she ran.

The crunch of gravel under careful footsteps breaks the silence. Wood creaks on the porch. A key slides into the lock.

And there she is.

She’s backlit in gold, almost blinding to look at. I’m sure I’ve conjured her with my obsessive thoughts alone. It’s sheer will that has put her in front of me.

Then she pushes the door closed and limps into the living room.

She stumbles into a chair and the couch as she clumsily makes her way through the cabin, and I soak in the sight of her. Even broken and filthy and exhausted,she’s here.

As I watch her move, an ice-cold rage I’ve been shoving down since I walked into the dilapidated car dealership and found her sweatshirt crumpled on the dirty floor rises in me.

Someone hurt her. Touched her. Someone fuckingdared.

My hand fists on the arm of the chair, desperate to tear out the throat of every single person responsible.

The only damper to the rage is the guilt.

Because I should’ve been there.

No one would’ve gotten close enough to touch her if I’d been with her, if I hadn’t left things the way I did.

I’m shifting between the twin emotions, growing angrier and angrier with myself and this world, when she turns towards me and gasps.

Her golden-brown eyes are saucers in the dark, locked on me. The bruises along her jaw stand out purple and angry against her pale skin—so much worse than they looked in the video. She’s dirty and shaking and tired and weak.

A longing I’ve never felt before unfurls in my chest. I want to gather her in my arms and piece her back together. I want to solve this puzzle together.

Still, my jaw is clenched as I manage to say, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Nova teeters unsteadily, shifting towards me like she wants to close the gap between us as much as I do.

But she falters. She falls sideways into the couch.

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