Page 89 of Tattooed Vow
I fold the note slowly, methodically, the paper crisp between my fingers. Each fold is precise and controlled, allowing me to crush it and tear it to shreds whenever I want to. I slide it intothe pocket of my prison-issue shirt and lean back on the metal bench, forcing my breathing to remain steady despite the rage coursing through me.
The guard who delivered it watches me with wary eyes, backing away like he’s afraid proximity alone might mark him for death. He isn’t wrong.
The hours that follow are the longest yet. My mind races with possibilities, scenarios, and plans. I pace the small cell, seven steps each way, like a caged animal sensing a shift in the air before a storm. Something is coming. I can feel it in my bones, in the electric tension that hums beneath my skin.
Later that night, when the cell block has settled into its uneasy quiet, a guard appears outside my cell. Without a word, he unlocks the door and jerks his chin for me to follow. There is no explanation, no warning. That alone sets every instinct on edge. This isn’t protocol. This is something else.
“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice rough from disuse.
The guard just shakes his head. “Orders,” he mutters. Nothing more.
The guard leads me down a dim corridor, the flickering fluorescent lights overhead stuttering like they can’t decide whether to hold on or die out. My footsteps echo against the concrete, each one sending a jolt of anticipation through my body. Is this Morozov's endgame? A quiet disposal in some forgotten corner of the facility? My muscles tense, ready for whatever comes.
When we reach a small, windowless room and the door creaks open, I step inside and stop cold.
Sandy.
She stands there, arms hugging herself, her hair pulled back into a messy braid like she hasn't slept in days. The sight of her knocks the air from my lungs. She looks smaller somehow, more fragile, the dark circles under her eyes telling stories of sleepless nights and endless worry.
For a moment, we just stare at each other across the room, the distance between us laden with everything we can’t say aloud. The camera in the corner blinks its red eye, a reminder that even this moment isn’t ours.
“Are you okay?” she asks, her voice hushed, laced with worry.
“Yes,” I assure her, keeping it simple, though the truth is more complicated. I’m not hurt, not broken, but “okay” is a luxury I'd left behind the moment they slapped those cuffs on me. “You? The baby?”
She gives a small nod, but her voice cracks when she answers. “Yes.” A single syllable that carries the sting of a thousand unspoken fears. I catch the slight tremble in her hand as she brushes a strand of hair from her face. A gesture so achingly familiar it stirs something deep and painful inside me.
She steps closer, and the scent of her shampoo hits me—clean, soft, and familiar. It wrecks me more than anything else has in days. The smell of home and everything I stand to lose. I fight the sudden burning behind my eyes, refusing to give the watching eyes the satisfaction of seeing me crumble.
She locks eyes with me, then throws herself into my arms like she’s been drowning, and I’m the only thing keeping her above water. I hold her like letting go will tear something vital out of me. And maybe it will. I press my face into her hair, breathingher in hard, desperate to burn the feeling into memory before the world turns cold again.
Her body trembles against mine, and I feel the dampness of tears on my shirt. My hands move across her back in gentle circles, feeling the knots of tension there. I want to promise her that everything will be okay, that I'll fix this, that we'll go home together.
Her lips graze my ear, her voice barely holding together. “Aleksandr will fix this. He has to. And you—” her breath hitches, catching on a sob she refuses to release—“you better come back to me. You hear me?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. I just hold her tighter, grounding myself in the warmth of her body, the only thing in this place that still feels real. Her heart beats against my chest, strong and steady despite everything, reminding me what I’m fighting for.
Because in this cage, promises are just noise. Empty words that evaporate in the harsh fluorescent light. I won’t insult her with hollow reassurances. She deserves better. She deserves truth, even when the truth is ugly and sharp-edged.
But vengeance? That I can promise. Not aloud, not here with unseen ears listening. But she knows. I feel it in the way her fingers dig into my shoulders, in the fierce determination that straightens her spine as she pulls back to look at me.
Vengeance spills blood. And I know exactly where to cut.
She steps back reluctantly, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “I love you,” she whispers, the words simple but laden with meaning. A declaration, a plea, a reminder of what waits on the other side of these walls.
I kiss her deeply, pouring everything I can’t say into this one desperate contact. The taste of her tears mingled with the lingering bitterness of prison coffee on my tongue. “I love you too,” I whisper against her lips, the words inadequate but necessary.
Time seems to slow as the guard clears his throat from the doorway. Our moment is up. It’s too short. I let my hand linger on her cheek, memorizing the feel of her skin under my palm. She leans into the touch, eyes closed, grabbing these final seconds with both hands.
I watch her walk away, the ache in my chest deepening with every step she takes toward the door. Her shoulders square with a strength that humbles me, even as I notice the slight unevenness in her gait. Exhaustion is taking its toll. I hate this place. The cold, the chains, the accusations hanging over me. But the look on her face as she turns back one last time? That haunts me most. Love and fear and fierce determination that promises she'll tear the world apart if that's what it takes to bring me home.
When the door clicks shut behind her, I turn to the wall, draw a slow breath, and let the quiet settle like ash. The ghost of her touch lingers on my skin, already fading. I press my palms flat against the concrete, its coolness a jarring shift from the warmth of her I’d just held.
This isn’t over. Not while I still draw breath.
In the silence of that room, I make a vow. Not aloud, but in the chambers of my heart where no one can reach. Morozov thinks he can bury me. Thinks he can break me and walk away untouched. Thinks he can take everything that matters and leave me with nothing but memories and regret.
But all he did was give me time. Time to plan. Time to sharpen the blade. Time to nurture the cold fury that will sustain me through whatever comes next.
And when I get out—notif, butwhen—I'm not bringing justice. No, I'm bringing revenge. Pure and terrible. The kind that leaves no survivors, no loose ends. The kind that becomes legend whispered about in fearful tones for generations to come.
And I'll make sure he chokes on it. Slowly and painfully. With the full understanding of exactly who brought him to his knees.
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