Page 47 of Bratva’s Vow (Bratva’s Undoing #2)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

MAXIM

W ren drove like he did everything in life—carefully.

I watched him from the passenger seat, the way his hands rested easily on the wheel, how his eyes flicked between the road and the mirrors with calm focus.

I used to hate that I couldn’t drive anymore. After the seizures started, I’d placed my license in the drawer of my desk at home. Too much risk. Too much pride swallowed. I’d learned to live with it, but I’d never stopped resenting it.

Yet sitting next to him, with his playlist humming softly through the speakers and the golden afternoon sun casting warm stripes across his face, I felt something close to contentment.

Sergei followed us in one of the black sedans, never far, but I hardly noticed. It didn’t feel like surveillance today. It felt like a drive with the person I loved.

I looked over at him. “Who taught you to drive?”

“My dad,” Wren said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “He was pretty cool about it. Had me on his lap, steering the car before I could even reach the gas.”

His voice was lighter than it had been in days. Laced with a quiet fondness, a warmth that had been missing before when he spoke of his father.

I studied the side of his face, the slope of his nose, the ends of his hair that danced in the wind from the open window.

Maybe finally knowing the truth, all of it, had given him something to stand on.

Closure.

Somehow he seemed happier. More at ease with himself and life.

God, I’d needed this. To see him with his guard down. To feel like I hadn’t ruined everything by telling him the last piece of truth I’d hidden from him..

At a red light, he stopped and glanced at me. “Why are you staring?”

“I’m not,” I said, deadpan. “Just surprised you haven’t crashed yet. You usually have nervous energy.”

“Please. I drive better than you.”

“I don’t drive.”

“Exactly.” He winked.

I shook my head, biting back a grin, but something in my chest expanded.

Ten minutes later, Wren turned off into a lot I didn’t recognize. A sign flashed past.

Shooting Range.

I frowned. “What are we doing here?”

Wren only smirked as he parked. “What do you think?”

He slid out of the car without waiting for me. I got out slower, cautious, not entirely sure what I was walking into. Sergei pulled up and joined us, raising a brow.

“What’s happening right now?” he asked .

I placed my hands akimbo. “Wren?”

Wren looked between us, then squared his shoulders. “I wanted to show you that I’ve been learning. That I’m not just going to stand back and let you fight everything alone.”

Sergei nodded slowly, approval glinting in his eyes. “You want to learn how to shoot?”

“I have been learning. Nik takes me and Jess after my classes end for the day.”

My hand twitched at my side, instinct warring with pride. “Whose idea was this? I don’t recall Nik running this by me.”

Wren grabbed my hand. “Because it was my idea, and I asked him not to tell you. I wanted it to be a secret in case I embarrassed myself and stank at it. But I’m not! I’m getting pretty good, actually.”

Frowning, I reversed his hold on me so now my fingers were wrapped around his. “But why? This isn’t who you are.”

“But it’s who I choose to be.”

The words landed in my chest like a small explosion. “Wren?—”

“No, listen to me, Maxim. I’m not the same guy you met in that coffee shop.

I chose you, Maxim. So this is my life now.

I don’t want you worrying every time I step outside.

I want to learn how to protect myself. How to protect you if I have to.

You’re willing to bleed for me. Why can’t I do the same for you? ”

“Dammit, Wren. Have you forgotten you’ve bled for me once already?” I tightened my grip on him. “I didn’t like it then, and I won’t ever want you facing off with someone who had a gun for me.”

“I’m sorry, Maxim, but you don’t get to control this. At least see what I can do before you get all stubborn.”

“He’s absolutely right, Maxim. Wouldn’t you want to know he can take care of himself if he has to?”

Fuck. I hated how much sense they made .

I looked back at Wren, really looked. He didn’t flinch. His stance was steady, voice calm. This wasn’t stubbornness. It wasn’t recklessness. It was resolve.

And still, fear prickled under my skin.

I was supposed to protect him. That was my job. My vow. If he was learning to fight, was it because he thought I wasn’t enough? That I’d failed him somehow?

But beneath that fear, something else stirred. A fierce, reluctant pride.

Because even if it twisted my gut to imagine him holding a weapon, there was no denying it. He looked strong. Grounded. Ready.

The tectonic plates of our relationship shifted in that moment, subtle but seismic. And I knew we were no longer just me shielding him from the world. We were partners.

I met his gaze, those maddeningly calm hazel eyes, and gave a sharp exhale.

“Fine,” I said quietly. “Show me.”

The shooting range was tucked into the basement of an old industrial building, the kind of place you wouldn’t notice unless someone pointed it out or unless you needed somewhere discreet to learn how to kill someone legally.

The exterior was unremarkable: faded brick, a flickering security light, and a nondescript black door with a keypad entry.

Inside, it was all hard edges and LED panels.

Concrete floors, steel beams, thick glass observation windows overlooking the lanes.

The air was stale with gunpowder and oil, and something colder underneath—discipline, maybe.

Or danger. Every sound echoed. The sharp cracks of firing rounds, the distant hum of the ventilation system, the occasional bark of a range officer correcting someone’s stance.

A few other shooters were scattered across the range, most of them men.

One had the thick forearms and military buzz cut of someone who didn’t need training.

Another was clearly a newbie, probably early twenties, flinching every time his pistol discharged, his coach shaking his head beside him.

At the far end, a woman in sleek tactical gear was emptying a mag into a target with such speed and precision it felt surgical.

I noted Sergei nodding once in appreciation before returning his attention to Wren.

Wren didn’t hesitate. He didn’t need guidance or reassurance. He moved like he belonged there. Confidence in the way he laid out his gear on the steel bench. Respect in the way he checked the weapon’s chamber and aligned his stance like Nik must’ve taught him.

Sergei leaned on the plexiglass behind him, arms crossed. “You sure you want to watch this?” he asked me, voice low.

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. I was too focused on the man in front of me. My man.

Wren adjusted his grip. The Sig Sauer looked too large in his hands, but then he lifted it, lined up his sight, and squeezed the trigger.

The shot cracked through the air like a whip.

Missed—just off-center.

He cursed under his breath, reset his stance. I saw it then: the flush in his cheeks, the flicker of frustration that passed through his jaw. But he didn’t let it rattle him. Instead, he inhaled through his nose, exhaled slowly, and fired again.

This time, he hit.

And then he hit again. And again.

Maybe it was the way his shoulders rolled, loose and sure. Maybe it was the sweat on his throat, glinting beneath the range lights. Or maybe it was just the sheer audacity of this soft-mouthed boy I loved, standing firm, wielding steel like it belonged in his hands.

Whatever it was, I wanted him.

Not soft. Not sweet.

Fierce. Determined. Reckless .

“Let me.” I warned him of my presence and moved behind him to help him line up for his next shot. My chest brushed his back. My hips met the curve of his ass, and I made no effort to hide how hard I was.

He stiffened—just for a second—then hummed low in his throat, like he felt it too.

“Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” He chuckled, wriggling his ass.

“Focus.” I tapped his thigh for him to fix his stance.

I guided his hands, adjusting them on the gun grip, reintroducing myself to those familiar contours and creases. His fingers were strong, steady, and I covered his hands with mine, his pulse beat slow but forceful.

“You expect me to focus when I can feel you against me?” he murmured. “Babe, I think what’s in your pants is more dangerous than the gun in my hands.”

I chuckled low in his ear. “Come on, stay focused, or I’ll forbid Nik from bringing you back here. It’s easy to shoot when the target is still and the conditions are right. But you also need to learn how to shoot against all distractions. Even me.”

I dropped my hands to minimize the distraction but didn’t step back. Not even an inch. Let him feel what he did to me. Let him feel the consequences of being this bold, this brave, this fucking irresistible.

He pulled the trigger.

Bull's-eye.

I groaned low under my breath. “That’s good, kroshka.”

From behind me, Sergei cleared his throat. “You two need a reminder you’re in public?”

Wren glanced around, his cheek turning a bright pink. Curious glances met us from other shooters. An instructor frowned like he was on the verge of kicking us out .

I meant to laugh, to make some smug comment, but the world tilted.

Not enough to knock me down. Just enough to send my stomach pitching, my vision contracting to a tight, pulsing tunnel.

Shit.

I gripped the bench to steady myself, but my fingers didn’t land right. They scraped uselessly against the steel.

Wren noticed instantly. “Maxim?”

I gritted my teeth, nodding once. “It’s fine. Just?—”

But it wasn’t. That strange, familiar flicker started at the base of my skull. That too-bright static crackling at the edge of my thoughts, rushing toward the center.

No time.

I dropped my hand to my chest and fumbled for the small, circular magnet hanging from the chain around my neck, fingers clumsy with urgency. I yanked it free and dragged it hard across the implant beneath my collarbone. The third swipe felt like lighting a fuse.

The VNS kicked in.

It was subtle, a soft pulse like a hummingbird’s wings fluttering in my throat. Not painful, just strange. Like being touched from the inside. My breathing hitched, not from panic but from sheer effort to stay upright while the device did its job.

Wren had carefully put down the gun and was at my side, his hands hovering like he didn’t know where to touch. “Maxim, what’s happening?”

“It’s a seizure.” Sergei shielded me with his body from the onlookers. “Looks like it’s controlled. Just give him a moment to snap completely out of it.”

I braced myself against the bench, eyes closed, waiting out the worst of it.

The buzz of the stimulator helped break the circuit, dulling the lightning storm behind my eyes.

The seizure backed down like a tide retreating, still powerful but losing grip.

Thank fuck. Most of the time, it worked like a charm. At other times… it was a hit or miss.

Wren’s hand found my back, warm and grounding.

“You okay?” he asked, voice raw and too quiet.

I nodded again, slower this time. “Yeah. Caught it early.”

And because he still looked too serious, too worried, I said, “Good thing you can shoot now. Someone’s got to protect me when I need to reboot.”

He didn’t laugh.

He curled his hand tighter around my arm. “I’ve got you.”

And he did.

More than he even knew.