Page 24 of Betrayal and Vows (Bratva Vows #2)

Lena

I wake to the feeling of being carried, my body cradled against Anton's chest.

It’s cold.

Or maybe I’m cold.

My arm throbs with each step he takes, but I don't care. I'm alive. We're alive.

It's dark—so dark I can barely make out the towering shapes of pine trees stretching endlessly in every direction.

Anton's steady breathing grounds me.

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's babushka ," 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.

Dmitri chuckles. “Temper, temper.”

Anton glares at his friend.

I’m far from naked, but Anton is a very possessive, protective man.

And that’s why I love him.

Luda is mumbling under her breath as she peels away the layers of the dress.

When I’m down to my panties, Anton tucks the blanket around me, leaving my arm exposed.

“Can I turn around now?” Dmitri asks.

“Yes,” Luda says.

Dmitri kneels next to the couch and holds up the towels.

“Get my kit,” Luda orders.

Dmitri jumps up again.

She pokes at my arm, causing me to wince.

“I’ll need to sew this up,” she says.

“Do you want a drink?” Anton asks me.

“I’m okay.”

Dmitri brings a box. Luda opens it and flips through supplies.

I get the feeling she’s very familiar with patching up injuries.

After she cleans the area and inspects it once again, I watch her thread a needle.

“Vodka, Dmitri.”

“I’m fine.”

“This is going to hurt,” Luda says softly.

“Take the drink, solnyshko. ” Anton’s voice is gentle as he rubs my knee over the blanket.

Dmitri hands me a glass of clear liquid. I take it, slam it down and wince as the liquid fire burns all the way down.

And then she starts sewing.

She's right. It does hurt. The needle piercing my skin feels like fire, but I grit my teeth and focus on Anton's face. He's standing close enough to touch, his jaw clenched as he watches every stitch.

Luda bandages my arm and offers a smile. “You’re a tough girl.”

“Will you please help, Anton?” I ask.

"I'm fine."

"You're bleeding from your head and you can barely stand upright." I say and sit up.

I ignore the way the movement pulls at my stitches. "Sit."

He opens his mouth to argue, but Lyudmila smacks his shoulder with surprising force. "Listen to your woman. Sit."

Your woman.

Yes. That's exactly what I am.

“Dmitri, get her some fucking clothes,” Anton growls.

“Will you stop?” I hiss. “I’m covered.”

He looks at me and then tugs the blanket up higher.

I roll my eyes but do as he asks.

Anton reluctantly sits beside me. I can see just how badly they hurt him. The cut above his eye is deep and has dried blood crusted over it. His knuckles are split and swollen. Dark bruises bloom across his ribs where his torn shirt hangs open.

"They did this because of me," I whisper.

Luda gently cleans the blood from his temple with a damp cloth.

“This isn't your fault, Lena."

"Does it hurt?" I ask.

“No.”

I smile. “Liar.”

"You two are disgustingly sweet," Dmitri calls from where he's collapsed in an armchair by the fire.

"Let them be," Luda scolds, but there's fondness in her voice. "They've earned a moment of peace."

Peace. The word feels foreign after everything we've been through.

She finishes cleaning Anton and then turns her attention to Dmitri. He tries to fight it, but there’s no arguing with the woman.

Once she’s satisfied we have all been properly treated, she dishes up bowls of borscht, instructs us to sleep and disappears.

Dmitri finishes his meal and looks at each of us. “You know this isn’t over.”

“I know,” I whisper.

“Don’t,” Anton warns.

Dmitri looks at me again. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Thank you, Dmitri. For everything. I know the risk you took. I know the danger you are in. Thank you.”

He flashes a grin. “I was ready for a little fun in my life.”

Then it’s just Anton and me.

“Sleep,” Anton says.

“I can’t.”

“I’ll keep watch.”

“You think they’ll find us here?”

“No, but I will keep watch over you. You’re safe. Sleep.”

I should sleep.

“Hold me.”

He gently tucks my body against his. “I will always hold you.”

“We’re in pretty big trouble,” I say.

He chuckles. “Yeah, we are.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

“If you never saw me. Never met me. You—” I can’t finish.

“I was always going to go after Vadim,” he says. “Always. He was always going to try and kill me. Maybe he will, but he doesn’t get to kill you. I won’t let him touch you.”

He’s so calm as he discusses his father trying to kill him.

A second time.

We sit in silence for several minutes.

I’m trying to process everything.

Did I just sign my parents’ death warrants?

Are they even alive?

Did he kill them?

“Your mom left something in my room,” Anton says.

“What?”

He disentangles his body from mine and goes to a backpack Dmitri had brought in.

“Your mother brought me this box this morning.” He pulls it out and brings it back to the couch. “I assume it’s going to be more pictures. I didn’t look at it. Didn’t have time.”

I put my hand on top of the box. “Don’t.”

I don’t want to know. I’m afraid to know what my mother would have given him.

“I don’t think it’s bad,” he says. “I recognize this box.”

“From?”

He traces his finger over a design carved into the wooden box. It looks like it’s an old cigar box.

Really old.

“I think…it was my mother’s. I remember this.”

My heart clenches. I hear the grief in his voice. It’s the first time I’ve heard even a hint of vulnerability. When he told me about her, he’d been detached.

“Open it,” I tell him.

My hand covers his that is resting on the box. “Or you can wait.”

He takes a deep breath, visibly steeling himself for what might be inside.

“I’m here,” I whisper. “I’m right here.”

He lifts the lid. I hear him suck in a breath.

Inside, there are letters tied with a single ribbon, photographs and a small crocheted angel missing one wing. There’s a broken music box shaped like a swan, a lock of baby hair sealed in glass, and an envelope.

It’s addressed in neat, looping Russian script: To Elena’s Daughter.

Anton sucks in a breath beside me.

“Me?” I whisper the question aloud.

I don’t understand.

Anton looks just as confused as I am.

He lifts it and turns it over a couple of times. “Your mother. She did this.”

Was my mother playing games?

No.

She loved me. I know she does.

“Can I?” I ask.

He gives it to me.

My fingers tremble as I open it.

If you’re reading this, then Alexei found you. As I always knew he would. Our children were bonded before they were born. Love my boy. He will always love you.

Irina.

“I don’t understand,” I say. I look at Anton. “How old are you?”

Did he lie to me? How could this woman know about me? She would have died long before I was born.

“Thirty-five,” he answers.

“I don’t understand.” It’s the only thing I can say.

Anton reaches for another letter. It’s addressed to him. I recognize the handwriting.

“My mother,” I say. “She wrote that.”

He shakes his head and hands it to me. “I can’t.”

I understand. He’s staring at a photo of his mother. She’s young. Beautiful. Anton is sitting on her lap, his little pudgy hand on her face. The two of them are staring at each other in a way that only mothers and sons do.

It’s every little boy’s first love.

My heart breaks for that little boy that didn’t grow up with his mother’s love wrapped around him. Protecting him from the life he was forced into.

I clear my throat, tamping down the emotion bubbling up. I want nothing more than to wrap this man in my arms, hold him close and never let him go.

Dearest Anton,

Your mother and I were closer than sisters. Blood never mattered to us. She saved me more times than I can count.

I promised her I would protect her children. I failed her. We always knew our children would be close. She never got to meet my Lena, but she would want you to take care of each other. I’m sorry I failed you, Alexei. You deserved so much more.

Take care of her. Love her. She will love you.

Elena.

My throat closes.