Page 32 of Deadly Knight (The Bratva’s Elite #2)

Katya groans, shifting on the plane’s leather couch.

It’s the most movement I’ve seen from her since we’ve taken off, and given the passing hours, it’s probably time she finally does.

Whatever my father drugged her with was a blessing in disguise, because she stayed asleep the entire time—from the abandoned laundromat, into my car, onto the plane, and now a few hours into the twenty-hour flight.

I’m sitting across from her, elbows on my knees and a glass of bourbon dangling between my fingers. Every once in a while, I swirl it, using the sloshing noises to distract my mind.

She’s safe, and until Ivan is finally eradicated from the earth, she’ll remain so within the specific confines I’m about to give her. Twice now, he’s used her against me. Two mistakes. There won’t be a third.

She groans again, her eyes slowly fluttering open, her head moving side to side. Her limbs shift, likely getting feeling back into them, and her sigh is the final piece of sleep she shakes off.

I recline in my seat, sensing the instance she realizes she’s not in her bed or anywhere familiar. When last night catches up to her, and the realization there are gaps in her memory.

She shoots upright, her head turning towards me.

I imagined this moment a million times over the years, and none of them involved these circumstances.

I’ve pictured one day passing by her on the streets, feigning it’s a coincidence and she’d be pleased—excited even—to see me.

Visualized waiting for her at her work and admitting all the ways I haven’t been able to let her go.

In every fantasy, Katya was receptive. Enthusiastic to see me and eager to tell me all the ways she’s missed me too.

But that’s why fantasies and dreams are what their namesake is: false hope.

Because that isn’t at all what’s happening now.

A million emotions pass over Katya’s expression: shock, confusion, fear, anger, shock again…but never happiness. Never love.

She jolts, pressing herself as far back into the couch as humanly possible, while her shriek is loud enough it could probably be heard by the country we’re flying high above. The pilot was warned to ignore any noises, because I suspected she wouldn’t be pleased when waking.

“Wh—how? Dimi— no. ” Her words are stuttered, unfinished, confused as she shakes her head, wiping her palms over her face. “No,” she repeats, this time with a laugh. “No, no, this is all in my head. Too much wine at dinner. That’s all. ”

I remain silent, letting her work it out for herself that this is reality; harsh and real.

“You…your father— no! ”

Her words turn to mumbles, her voice low and only for herself. She stops looking my way, staring at her hands as they rub over her thighs. Her hand goes to her arm, her nails scraping up and down her skin, covering old self-harm scars that gut me every time.

I give her another moment and sip my drink. And then another before resting my glass on the side table and sliding from the couch, lowering to one knee in front of her. My movement gains her attention, but her eyes go through me, wide and shocked, like she’s seeing a ghost.

Which, maybe she is. Maybe that’s what I’ve become. She killed me when she left me, and I’ve spent years haunting her. There’s no better definition for the man I’ve become.

I ache to touch her so fucking badly. To hold her through this, except I’m the source behind her discomfort.

“Katya.”

Fuck, it feels so good—so right —to say her name to her . Not about her. Not while she’s asleep. But while she’s with me, able to respond.

It seems to snap her awake, and her legs scramble, her body leaning away.

It hurts.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no. No. What—how— why ?”

“You must have a lot of questions.”

“Must?” she all but shrieks before launching to her feet, moving as far from me as the plane allows.

Her back presses to the bathroom door, her hands coming up between us as I slowly get to my feet.

“Dimitri, what is going on? Why are you here ?” Her eyes flick around the plane, landing on the small, oval windows; the distinct design limited to few things in the world, and the blue and white beyond.

“Where. Am. I?” Her teeth grit between each punched-out word, and we’re both aware she knows exactly where we are.

I lower back to my couch again, figuring sitting is the only way to get anywhere with her. “You were in danger, so I’m ensuring you’re not again.”

Her mouth opens with another argument before her brows furrow and her mouth shuts, quietly piecing it together. “Your father attacked me.”

“He drugged you and threatened to kill you to get to me.”

She nods, accepting what I’ve told her like it’s a casual thing, which pisses me off more, and I reach for my drink to grip something. “Okay, but why, after all these years, did he think that’d work? Life is different than back then. We’re different from back then.”

We’re not, but I stare at her, unwilling to say the words she’s smart enough to figure out herself.

Her eyes drop to my right wrist, spotting the symbol. Understanding its meaning, she whispers in a dead voice, “You were supposed to let me go. To forget about me.”

Easier said than done.

“It’s what I asked you to do. What we both needed.”

What you needed. Not me.

She crosses the plane to stand in front of me, her brows pinched together like she’s pleading for me to give the responses that’ll make all this better in her head. “How did he know where to find me?”

I force a sip, hiding the way my hand shakes with her nearness. “He’s smart and has means. If you’re blaming me for leading him to you, don’t bother.”

Even though if I wasn’t still obsessed with her, he wouldn’t use her against me, so I am completely at fault here.

Katya’s citrus scent makes it impossible to focus on anything else, including this conversation. She has to accept what I’m saying soon so the landing and transfer to a vehicle goes smoother.

“Okay, but how did you know where to go when he caught me?”

“He called me.”

“And you came, just like that, all the way from Russia?”

Once again, I stare, letting her figure it out without saying the words.

“Un-fucking-believable.” She crosses her arms, the simple act of defence breaking me.

She stares, her jawline taut and back rigid, and with every passing second, her anger seems to cool slightly.

My hope is a seed, planted and waiting for her nurturing touch.

Her arms slowly separate as one hand moves up to lightly brush her throat, over the red marks faded but present.

“Thank you for saving me,” she whispers, watering that seed a bit more.

“You’re welcome.”

Something flickers in her eyes, and she stiffens before stomping on the plant. “Nothing’s changed from ten years ago. I’m sorry, but you shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here. Take me home.” Her voice is low, pained, her words pushed from every emotion rolling through her. “Please.”

“Katya—”

“No, Dimi—” My name cuts off, like she can’t physically bring herself to say it, and I find myself clinging to those syllables more than what’s healthy. “No,” she repeats with a firm jerk of her head. “No, you—he— no . Nothing will rationalize any of this.”

That I agree with.

“We’re thirty thousand feet in the air, Katya. Taking you home isn’t possible.”

“Turn the plane around.”

“Also not possible.” I reach for my drink, holding it up to her. “Want one? Might help calm you.”

“ Calm me? How else should I be reacting?” She paces, her hands scratching at her arms, nails leaving angry red lines. She’s harming herself from stress, and that I will not stand for.

I lift to my feet, pulling at her wrists to remove her hands. My touch activates something else in her, and she shoves away, back landing against the bathroom door.

“Don’t! Don’t touch me. Just…don’t. If you touch me, then I won’t be able to prete—” She abruptly cuts herself off with a confused look, like she nearly said more than she wanted to.

“Don’t hurt yourself over this.” My eyes drop to her arms, to where her hand hovers out of instinct.

“I won’t.” She glances over my shoulder. “You know what? I’ll speak with the pilot myself.”

I reach for her, looping an arm around her waist before she takes another step. I haul her back against me, and she screeches, wriggling in my hold, legs kicking.

“Katya, stop.”

“I asked you not to touch me. Put me down!”

She keeps kicking like a madman. Like a woman scorned. A woman trying to protect herself.

The plane dips, reminding me in a few hours we’ll arrive in Russia. The moment the doors open, she’ll bolt, and I don’t have it in me to chase her, not that she has anywhere to go. Still, I bring my hand up to her face, ending her complaints while going against her request to not touch her.

My fingers lightly pinch her nose, my palm covering her mouth. With her rapid breaths and attempted fight, she’s halfway exhausted anyway, so after a few seconds, she passes out, her body slumping against mine.

Though I should lay her on her couch, I rest her on my lap, knowing very well that this might be my final time getting to hold her.

She remains passed out for the remainder of the trip and the entire drive to the Bratva mansion. With the plane’s landing, Vanessa was made aware I’m home and is standing in the foyer when I enter, Anastasia and Lev each flanking her.

With Katya in my arms bridal-style and probably about to wake soon, I head for the staircase.

“Dimitri!” my cousin hollers after me. “Is that?—”

“Yes.”

Her footsteps pause three steps below mine. “What have you done?”

“I’ve kept her safe. I’ve failed in the past, but not again.”