Page 95 of Hunter

The website loads slowly, agonizingly so. When the video finally appears, my heart stops.

On the screen is a man tied to a chair. His head is covered with a black sack, his shirt ripped open, blood streaking his torso from deep, oozing gashes. My stomach twists violently, bile rising in my throat.

“Who is that?” I whisper to no one in particular, my voice cracking.

My eyes narrow, studying the details of his body—until they fall on the tattoo etched into his chest, just above his heart.

My name.

“No,” I gasp, the air sucked from my lungs. My tears come faster, blurring my vision as the memory crashes over me. The night Maxim got that tattoo plays vividly in my mind—the way he smiled at me, the way he told me it was for forever.

It’s him. Oh my God, it’s him.

My phone slips from my hands, clattering to the floor as a sob rips through me.

THIRTY-EIGHT

MEMORY

“Krasavitsa?” Maxim’s soft voice pulls me out of sleep. I blink a few times, groggy and disoriented. “Did you enjoy your nap?”

“Yes,” I say through a stretch, the lingering haze of sleep clinging to me. I glance around, realizing we’re no longer moving. The car is parked, and Maxim is pulling on the door handle to step out.

“Where are we going?” I ask, curious.

“It’s a surprise.”

That boyish smirk—the one that always drives me wild—spreads across his face. The dimple in his cheek, a rare sight, appears as he stretches his hand toward me. “Trust me?”

I slip my hand into his. “Blindly.”

His eyes burn with a mix of love and happiness, so intense it makes my heart stumble in its rhythm. As we step out of the car, he keeps our fingers intertwined, guiding me down the street. The architecture around us is breathtaking, stealing my attention. I’m so absorbed in the beauty of the buildings, I don’t even notice when we stop.

When I finally look up, we’re standing in front of a sleek black building. The only indicator of its purpose is a flashing red sign with the word Tattoo glowing against the dark façade.

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “What are we doing here?”

Maxim gives me a playful look that saysyou’ll seeand pulls me inside. The warm hum of tattoo machines fills the air as he greets the employees like old friends, introducing me as he guides me through the shop. He seems so at ease, like he belongs here, his carefree demeanor infectious.

While he chats with a tall, tattooed man covered in piercings, I take in the space. The walls are painted black and adorned with red-framed artwork of all sizes. In one corner, there’s a plush red couch paired with a black coffee table. Four tattoo rooms line the back of the shop, each uniquely decorated to match the personality of its artist.

The rooms themselves are simple yet functional—shelves lined with bottles of ink in every imaginable color, tattoo chairs, and well-used tools neatly arranged. I admire the thoughtfulness in the details, how each space feels like a reflection of its owner.

“Sophia, come back here,” Maxim calls out, his voice drawing me to the last room.

When I enter, he’s seated in the chair, studying a piece of paper in his hand.

“What tattoo are you getting?” I ask, craning my neck to see the design, but he quickly moves it out of sight.

“Where’s the fun in telling you?” he teases.

I narrow my eyes. “If you’re not going to tell me, why did you call me back here?”

Grinning, he grabs my hand, his expression suddenly mock-serious. “Do you need me to hold your hand while the big scary man pokes your flesh with a needle?”

Maxim glances at the tattoo artist—a towering, heavily inked man—and leans closer to me, whispering, “That man is terrifying.”

I burst out laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”

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