Chapter Twenty-Five
Anika —
The command room hummed with low light and endless surveillance feeds. Ghost sprawled near the door like a pale sentinel, his golden eyes tracking every shadow. Nyx and Ares flanked him—silent, watchful, as if they had already accepted him back into the fold.
Anika sat rigid on the bench, blood drying in stiff, rust-colored lines down her arm. Her shoulder burned, every breath sending a fresh lance of pain through torn muscle. She ignored it, gaze fixed on Ghost instead.
Nikolai crouched in front of her, dark brows drawn tight as he peeled the jacket back from her shoulder. The fabric clung stubbornly to clotted blood before tearing free with a wet sound. She hissed, but didn’t flinch.
“You should let me call my doctor,” he muttered, eyes narrowing at the wound’s angry edges.
“No.” The answer was immediate, sharp. “No one else comes here.”
“You’re bleeding out, Anika.”
“I’ve bled worse.” Her jaw locked. “If I have to, I’ll stitch it myself.”
His gaze flicked from the ragged wound to her set mouth. “On the back of your own shoulder?”
“I’ve done harder things.”
He swore low in Russian, pulled a kit from the med drawer, and snapped on gloves with a sharp crack. “Then you’ll tell me how. You don’t move until it’s done.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Then teach me,” he growled. “But don’t you dare tell me to stand by while you bleed.”
For a moment, their stares collided—steel against fire. Then she exhaled and leaned back against the bench. “Fine. I’ll walk you through it.”
He cleaned the torn flesh with antiseptic-soaked gauze, his hands steady but unpracticed. She clenched her jaw, teeth grinding as the sting spread.
“Deeper,” she instructed, voice taut. “You need to flush it, or the dirt stays trapped.”
His glare flicked up. “You could warn me before the lesson.”
“Would you hesitate if it were your own skin?”
“No.”
“Exactly.”
He threaded the needle with thick, sterile suture line, following her quiet, clipped directions. His fingers were too big, his movements clumsy—but his focus never wavered.
“Go through the dermal layer, not just the surface,” she said, breath short. “Angle down—yes, like that. Pull smooth. Not jerky.”
The first stitch tugged the wound closed. She bit the inside of her cheek until the copper tang of blood spread across her tongue.
“You’re pale,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“You lie badly.”
“And you sew badly,” she shot back, though her voice trembled.
He almost smiled, grim and fleeting. “Hold still.”
Three stitches. Four. Five. Each one steadier than the last. By the seventh, his motions had grown more certain, guided by her instructions, hardened by his refusal to fail her.
Finally, he tied the last knot, cut the line, and sat back on his heels. Sweat beaded his temple, though his expression was carved from stone.
“Now gauze, firm pressure, then tape,” she murmured, slumping against the wall.
He obeyed, pressing the pad against her skin, then tearing tape with his teeth before anchoring it down. His hand lingered, palm broad and warm over the fresh bandage, grounding her.
Her eyes drifted back to Ghost, still curled by the door, massive head resting on his paws.
“He was born here,” she whispered. “Seven… maybe eight years ago. A cream pup. Soft eyes. The runt. Wasn’t supposed to make it. But he had the biggest heart.”
Nikolai’s gaze followed hers. His hand remained steady at her shoulder.
“He used to sleep under my bed,” she went on, voice breaking. “Curled against the wall like he belonged in the foundation. I swore I’d never let him go.”
“What changed?” His tone was quiet, dangerous.
Her throat tightened. “My father died. KIA. I was nineteen, drowning in bills. Too much to hold onto. I sold what I couldn’t afford to keep—the horses, equipment… him.” She touched the tattooed outlines of horses inked on her arm, fingers shaking. “Tomasz promised it was temporary. Said I could buy him back when things steadied. I believed him.”
Nikolai’s jaw locked, his fingers curling into the gauze at her shoulder. “You trusted him.”
“I trusted the wrong version of myself,” she whispered. “The girl who still thought people could mean what they say.”
His touch grew rougher, anger bleeding through the care as he secured the bandage. “They broke him. Drugged him. Turned him into a weapon.”
Her eyes burned. “And still… he remembered me. After five years of hell, he knew.” Her voice cracked, tears she refused to let fall making it hoarse. “Do you understand what that means to me?”
He didn’t answer right away. He just pressed his palm flat against the bandage, as if holding her together with force alone. Finally, his voice came, low and ragged: “It means you don’t give up on what’s yours. Not ever.”
She reached up, fingers sliding across his stubbled jaw. “Why are you really here, Nikolai?”
His eyes locked with hers, unreadable but burning. “Because the first time I touched you, the noise in my head went quiet. And I knew I wasn’t walking away.”
Her breath caught. He leaned closer, lips hovering a whisper from hers. Waiting—not commanding—for her choice.
She closed the space herself. Slow. Deliberate. A kiss that tasted of iron and fire. His hand slid to the back of her neck, anchoring her. Hers fisted in his jacket, pulling him closer.
They didn’t go further, the war was still outside. But for that breathless moment, they weren’t soldiers. They were something more dangerous—two people who could break for each other.
Tomasz —
The warehouse reeked of oil and rage. Tomasz’s cigarette shook between his fingers as he paced like a caged animal.
“He should’ve torn her apart,” he snarled. “Instead, he stayed.”
A handler swallowed. “She… she must’ve gotten through to him.”
Tomasz kicked a chair until it folded and slammed against the wall. “That bitch.”
The drone feed showed her estate—dogs everywhere, patrolling, rotating. Ghost absent. But not dead.
“She’s flaunting it,” Tomasz hissed. “Showing me she won. That she can drag loyalty back from the grave.”
He slammed a file onto the table—client names, contracts, footage of her dogs in training. “She’s exposed herself. Emotion. Loyalty. That’s her weakness.”
“You mean… target more dogs?” a handler asked, uneasy.
Tomasz shook his head, slow and cruel. “Not dogs. People. The ones who trust her. The ones who pay for her training, who call her when alarms trip.” He jabbed a finger against the paper. “We bleed her reputation until there’s nothing left. She can’t guard them all.”
He lit another cigarette, smoke curling through a grin sharp as glass. “If I can’t kill her, I’ll kill her legacy. And she’ll watch every second.”