Page 70 of The Enforcer's Vow
"Are we?"
"For now." I look around the empty street. "But we can't stay here."
I know a place. A safehouse the family keeps for situations exactly this. It's not far, maybe twenty minutes on foot. We can rest there, plan our next move.
"Come on," I tell her. "I know somewhere we can go."
We walk through the quiet streets, staying in the shadows. My ribs feel broken, and every step sends pain shooting through my chest. But we're alive, and that's what matters.
The safehouse is a small apartment above a bakery. I have the key, and within minutes, we're inside. The place is sparse but clean—a bed, a table, basic supplies.
"Sit," Zoya tells me, pushing me toward the bed. "Let me look at those ribs."
I sit down carefully, and she lifts my shirt. The bruising is already starting to show, dark purple spreading across my chest.
"They might be broken," she says.
"They're cracked. Not broken."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've had broken ribs before." I catch her hand and bring it to my lips. "I'm fine, Zoya. We're both fine."
She looks at me for a long moment, then nods. "What happens now?"
"Now we disappear for a while. Until it's safe to come back."
"And Damir?"
"He made his choice. He'll have to live with it."
She curls up beside me on the bed, careful not to jostle my injured ribs. I wrap my arm around her, and for the first time in hours, I allow myself to relax.
We're safe. Battered and exhausted, but safe.
For now, that's enough.
29
ZOYA
The safehouse loft sits above the city streets, its windows offering a view of Moscow's sprawling lights. I guide Maksim to the small couch near the window, his arm draped across my shoulders for support. Each step he takes is slow, and I can see the pain etched in the lines around his eyes.
"Sit," I tell him, pushing him gently onto the worn cushions.
He doesn't argue, which tells me how much he's hurting. Blood has soaked through his shirt, and dark bruises bloom across his knuckles and cheekbones.
I find a first aid kit in the bathroom cabinet and return with supplies. My hands shake as I set everything out on the coffee table—gauze, antiseptic, medical tape. The tremor in my fingers won't stop.
Then I turn to him and carefully help him peel off his jacket.
"Let me see your ribs," I say, reaching for the hem of his shirt.
He lifts his arms slowly, allowing me to pull the fabric over his head. Purple bruises spread across his chest in sharp lines from the stairs, and there's a deep gash along his left side that's still bleeding. The line mars his beautiful tattoos so that they'll never be the same again.
"This needs stitches," I murmur, pressing gauze to the wound.
"It'll hold." His voice is rough, tired. "Just clean it and wrap it tight."
