22
ANDREI
Viktor pulls the car through a narrow access road that's barely visible from the main highway, the headlights cutting through dense forest that presses in from both sides. We've been driving for nearly two hours, putting distance between us and the attack, and anyone who might have followed. The wounded man in the back stopped making noise about forty minutes ago. I don't know if he's unconscious or dead, and right now I can't afford to care.
The road opens into a clearing, and the safe house comes into view. It's smaller than the last one, with bars over the door and windows, and hidden metal shutters that can be deployed down over them as well. This is the kind of location you use when you're expecting another attack and you're done pretending otherwise.
"Here," Viktor says, pulling the car to a stop near the entrance. "Perimeter is already secured. I sent men ahead as soon as you gave me the directions."
I nod, impressed despite myself. Viktor's been thinking ahead, anticipating my needs before I voice them. That's whyhe's my second, and why I trust him with things I trust no one else with.
"How many men?" I ask.
"Eight on the perimeter. Four inside. All armed, all on high alert." He glances at me in the rearview mirror. "No one gets through this time,pakhan."
"Good." I look down at Liesl, who's watching the house with wide eyes. "Come on,ptitsa. Let's get you inside."
She nods and lets me help her out of the car. Her legs are unsteady when her feet hit the ground, and I keep my arm around her waist as we walk toward the entrance. One of my men opens the door from the inside. He looks like hell, but he's standing at attention, weapon ready. "All clear,pakhan. No movement on any approach. We've got eyes on every angle."
"Keep it that way." I guide Liesl through the entrance and into a narrow hallway that opens into a main room. The interior is less welcoming—old wooden floors, minimal furniture, and a few lamps scattered around. There's a kitchenette against one wall, and doors lead off to what I assume are bedrooms and a bathroom.
It's not the luxury she's used to. Not even close to the comfortable prison I kept her in before. But it's secure, and right now, that's all that matters.
"This way," I tell her, leading her toward one of the doors. It opens into a small bedroom with a small bed, a dresser, and a window. There's a bathroom attached—I can see the edge of a sink through the open door.
She looks around the room, taking it in, and I can see her processing the change. The downgrade—the reality of what we're facing now.
"I know it's not—" I start, but she cuts me off.
"It's fine." Her voice is quiet. "As long as it's secure."
Something in my chest tightens at that. She's not complaining, not demanding comfort or luxury or any of the things she's used to. She's just accepting the situation, adapting to it and trusting that I know what I'm doing.
I don't deserve that trust. But I'm going to do everything in my power to earn it.
"Wait here," I tell her. "I need to check the perimeter, make sure everything is in place. Then I'll come back."
She nods, and I force myself to leave her there, to walk back out into the main room where Viktor is waiting with two other men. I start issuing orders, positioning men at every vulnerable point and making sure we have multiple escape routes if things go wrong again.
It takes an hour to get everything in place. By the time I'm satisfied with the security arrangements, my mind is buzzing and my body is screaming for rest.
I go back to where Liesl is still sitting on the bed in her small bedroom. She looks dusty and rumpled from the fight earlier, and her hair is tangled, her face pale. She looks up when I come in, and the relief in her eyes nearly undoes me.
"Is everything okay?" she asks.
"As okay as it can be." I close the door behind me and lean against it, suddenly aware of how exhausted I am. How much the last few hours have taken out of me. "We're secure here. No one's getting through."
"Good." She stands, crossing the small space between us. Her hands come up to my chest, fingers spreading over my shirt.
"I should clean up," I say.
"Let me help." She takes my hand and leads me toward the bathroom. It's small and utilitarian like everything else in this place—a shower stall, a sink, a toilet. No luxury. But there's hot water, and right now that's absolutely enough for me.
She turns on the shower and then turns back to me, her hands going to the buttons of my shirt. I let her undress me, peel away the layers of blood-soaked fabric until I'm standing in front of her nude. Her eyes trace over my chest, cataloging the scars and tattoos, the fresh graze across my ribs that's still bleeding sluggishly.
"You're hurt," she says, her fingers hovering over the wound.
"It's nothing."
