Page 130 of Betrayal and Vows

I look around.

We aren’t in Moscow anymore.

I don’t even know if we’re in Russia.

Yes, we are. It smells like Russia.

"Where are we?" I whisper, my voice hoarse.

"Shh," he breathes against my hair. "We're going to be okay."

I'm not sure I believe that, but I want to. His arms are around me and his heart is beating steady and strong beneath my cheek.

That’s enough.

I see the warm glow of a light ahead.

A small wooden cabin is straight ahead.

It looks like something from a fairy tale, tucked away in the middle of nowhere.

"Dmitri'sbabushka," Anton explains quietly as we approach the door. "The only woman brave enough to shelter fugitives."

The door opens before we reach it, revealing a tiny woman with dark hair streaked with gray.

She can't be more than five feet tall, but there's something formidable about her that makes me think she could take down men twice her size without breaking a sweat.

"About time," she says in accented English, stepping aside to let us in. "I was beginning to think you'd gotten yourselves killed."

"Not for lack of trying," Dmitri says. He looks exhausted but relieved.

“Come in, come in.”

The cabin is small but warm. I can smell something… borscht. It’s been a long time since I’ve had borscht. Quilts cover every surface, and dried plants hang from the ceiling beams. It feels like stepping into another world.

"Put her on the couch. Let me see what we're working with."

Anton sets me down gently, his hands lingering on my waist. I immediately miss his warmth.

The woman clucks her tongue and shakes her head.

“Dmitri, get me towels,” she orders. “Anton, bring that blanket. I need to get this dress off her.”

"It's just my arm," I tell her, but she's already pulling at my ruined dress.

"Just your arm," she mutters, shaking her head. "As if arms don't matter. As if you don't need it to live." She looks up at me with sharp brown eyes. "What's your name, child?"

"Lena."

"Well, Lena, this is going to hurt. But you look like you can handle pain."

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Luda,” she replies.

Anton brings a quilt to cover me with just as Dmitri returns with the towels.

“Turn around,” Anton growls.