Page 104 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

“Goodbye,” I whisper again. “And good fucking riddance.”

We drive for a while, then ditch the car somewhere downtown. I’m moving on pure autopilot. Dima has to touch me and guide me down the sidewalk. Neither of us says much.

He leads me to an old brick building with cracks running diagonally from every window and a rusty fire escape barely hanging onto the side. The buzzers at the front door don’t seem to work and a rock is wedged in the door to keep it propped permanently open.

“This is where I’ve been staying. It’s not quite the Romanoff Mansion,” Dima explains, ushering me inside. “But you’ll be safe here.”

I’m not sure I know what “safe” means anymore. I thought I wassafein New York City. I thought I wassafewith Brigitte and my job and my little apartment. I thought I was insulated from the life I’d escaped with Jorik, from the mistakes I’d made in my past.

I had no idea danger was lurking under my nose the entire time. No idea I was surrounded by enemies at every turn.

And I certainly had no idea that the only person I could really trust would turn out to be the stranger who broke into the clinic and fucked me like our lives depended on it.

The universe has a cruel sense of humor.

The elevator is broken, so we climb four flights of stairs to Dima’s makeshift safehouse. By the time we get there, the cut on my leg is bleeding again.

“Come,” he instructs. “I’ll clean you up.”

Dima looks up and down the hall before he unlocks his door. Once we’re in, he locks the door again, slides a bolt into place, and shoves a chair in front of it.

Then he turns to face me.

He looks massive in the tiny apartment. The ceilings are low and sagging with water damage and the entryway is barely wider than his shoulders. Like he’s standing in a dilapidated dollhouse.

I reach out and touch his arm softly with a fingertip. Just to confirm he’s here. He’s real. This is all real.

He said he was when he first burst in to save me from Taras. I’m just having a hard time believing it.

He looks me over, blue eyes assessing. “Come on,” he says again, in a voice softer than anything I’ve ever heard from him before.

He spins me around gently and pushes me by the shoulders down the hallway and into his bathroom.

“Sit.” He gestures to the closed toilet.

I do as he says. Still numb. I’m not quite thinking, but I’m not quite not-thinking, either. I’m just lost. In body. In mind. In spirit.

Nothing makes sense anymore. Nothing but this—Dima’s touch. His smell. His eyes, bright and piercing and assured despite everything that’s happened to us and because of us.

He kneels down in front of me and washes my cuts with a warm cloth. Rivulets of blood drip down my calf.

“How did this happen?” he asks as he works.

“It’s a long story…” I begin.

He smiles at me. It’s soft and sad and tight and makes me want to cry all over again. “I’m listening.”

So, with a shudder, I start from the beginning. I tell him about my escape plan, how Rose and I were going to run into the night together. How we were going to find our families and start over.

“…We were going to—”

But the thought of it brings the pain of her sudden death to the forefront, and I drop my head into my hands and let my words die on my lips.

“It was a good plan,” Dima murmurs, rubbing my back. His voice is deep and steady. “There’s too much blood. Take off your dress.” He must feel me stiffen, because he adds, “I’ll give you some privacy.”

He starts to stand. To leave.

But as he does, I realize something suddenly: I never want to be alone again.

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