“I know.” His mouth brushed my temple. “But you’re here.”
And I was. God help me, I was.
Seven Days Later.
Misha drove us to a safehouse without a word. When we arrived, he turned to me, jaw tight. “I need to look through Stepan’s things. I think you’re connected to this. I need to know how.”
I should’ve told him to go to hell. But his pain mirrored mine too closely.
Inside, dust floated like ash. He opened a box with reverent hands, tracing old watches, worn gloves, photos curled at the edges like ghosts.
I helped, our arms brushing, then tangling when we reached for the same letter. His hand settled over mine. Heavy. Hot.
My breath caught.
I opened the letter.
“Misha, I’m in Colombia. The deal with Rojas went south. Luis betrayed us, Vargas has us. If I don’t make it out, watch your back. I love you.”
Luis, My father.
The paper dropped from my fingers like it burned.
“My father... he helped kill your brother.”
Misha froze. Then his eyes found mine, full of something dangerous, something breaking.
“You didn’t know,” he said, brushing a tear off my cheek with the back of his hand. “You were just a girl.”
I let him hold me. Let the guilt crush me against his chest.
“We shouldn’t stay long,” Misha muttered, his voice low and urgent. “Too many ghosts know these roads.”
And then, just as I thought the world might stop, the windows shattered.
Gunfire. Glass exploded.
Misha threw me down, shielding me with his body as bullets tore through the room.
“Vargas cartel,” he growled, pulling a gun from his waistband, his eyes scanning the room as shadows moved outside, men shouting in Spanish, their voices a chilling echo of Yuri’s funeral.
Fear clawed at my throat, but Misha’s presence grounded me, his hand finding mine, squeezing it as he whispered, “Stay with me, Luna.”
We crawled behind a crate, the gunfire deafening, and I grabbed a rusted pipe from the floor, my hands shaking but my resolve steel as I met his gaze, a silent agreement passing between us.
We fought together, Misha’s shots precise, deadly, while I swung the pipe at a man who got too close, the crack of metal against bone a sickening sound that made my stomach lurch.
Misha tackled another, his knife flashing as he protected me, and I pulled him back from a stray bullet, my hands on his shoulders, our breaths ragged, our bodies pressed close as the last of the attackers fell.
It was over in seconds.
Outside, snow soaked red. Misha stood over the bodies like a god of war, eyes blazing. Then he turned to me, hands trembling as they framed my face.
He looked at me like he didn’t know whether to thank me or tear the world apart for dragging me into this.
“You’re alive,” he breathed. “You’re safe.”
His lips brushed mine. Not a kiss. A tremor.
