Page 11 of Tattooed Heart

All I know is that these walls won’t hold me forever. That Aleksandr won’t rest until I’m free. Sandy is out there waiting and fighting in her own way. And that has to be enough.

I press my palm against the cold cement wall, feeling the rough texture against my skin. Prison changes a man, yes. But it doesn't have to break him. Not if he has something worth fighting for.

Whatever comes next, whatever Morozov has planned, and whatever cards Aleksandr has yet to play, I will face it standing. Because that's what men like me do.

We stand. We fight. We survive. And then, when the moment is right, we strike.

4

SANDY

I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I feel Dimitri’s hands again tracing over my skin like a memory I can’t shake, searing and intimate, haunting me with every breath.

He pumps his cock slowly at first, and I dig my nails into his chest as the sweet friction sends me into a sexual frenzy.

“More,” I whimper, grinding my pussy on his cock. “Faster…please…” I want him to fill me up until I can’t think of anything else but his cock inside me. I’m writhing on top of him, trying to force him to pick up the pace. But instead, he pulls out completely, leaving me shocked and empty.

“Who does this pussy belong to?” he hisses, fire and desire burning in his eyes. “Tell me…”

“You,” I purr, leaning forward and pressing my lips to his. “My pussy belongs to you.”

“That’s right,” he rasps, sliding his tongue around my earlobe. “And don’t ever forget it.”

He lifts me up and slams me down onto his cock. I grit my teeth as my body spasms from the fullness. Sliding his arm around my waist, he pins me in place and fucks me hard, slamming his hips up so violently that the sound echoes in the cabin.

My eyes roll back inside my head from the pleasure, and I cry out, “Yes! Oh God…Dimitri…”

He fucks me even harder, wringing an orgasm from me so strong that my body goes limp on top of him. Rolling me over, he slides his cock between my breasts, squeezing them together as he fucks them rapidly. With a low grunt, he pumps his cock one last time before covering my breasts with ribbons of his hot sticky cum.

My eyes snap open, fixed on the ceiling above. I exhale slowly, trying to steady my breathing, but my thoughts won’t quiet. They begin to pace in circles like a bloodhound chasing its own tail. Benjamin Petrov, the files, and the unshakable truth that somewhere inside that pristine office, hidden behind glass doors and polished marble, lies the key to freeing Dimitri.

By morning, Marina had texted me a single word:Tonight.

When the mansion finally goes still and sleep claims everyone else, I slip into all black. Nothing flashy or cinematic, just fitted leggings, a hoodie, and worn sneakers soft enough not to echo against polished marble floors. I leave my hair in a tight braid, tuck my phone into my sports bra, and try not to flinch every time I pass a mirror.

I look like a girl about to commit a felony. Because I am.

Dimitri will kill me for this. I take a deep breath and release it slowly.Let him try.

Marina meets me two blocks from Petrov’s office building. She doesn’t say hello. She just hands me a laminated ID and a pair of latex gloves. “You’ve got twenty minutes. No more.”

Her voice is low and clipped, her accent barely noticeable beneath years of practice. But her eyes, icy and sharp, speak volumes.

We slip inside through a side entrance used by staff, past a loading dock where empty boxes sit. Marina leads me through the service corridor, past a mechanical room, and then opens a nondescript door into the back of the lobby.

Petrov’s office is on the twentieth floor. The elevator ride is silent except for the thrum of my pulse in my ears.

At the top, Marina hands me a keycard and a small silver key. “Once you're inside, Jorge will keep the cameras looped. But I can’t protect you if someone walks in.”

“Understood.”

“Don’t touch anything you don’t have to,” she warns.

“I’m not here to steal,” I say.

She gives me a look that could crack glass. “Then you’re dumber than you look.”

Petrov’s office is as ostentatious as I expected. It has floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city, polished mahogany floors, and a painting of some Russian czar glaring down from above the fireplace.

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