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“No problem, Miss,” he says with a tip of his baseball cap.
With one last smile, I turn back to Mishka, wrapping my arms around his neck to make my silent communication more definitive. Sighing, he gives in and carries me to the back of the truck. I pop the tailgate and hoist myself up into the bed with his help.
He follows me up quickly and helps me further into the bed before closing the tailgate behind us. Then he pounds the hood to signal the driver that we’re ready.
“So, where’d you learn all your survival skills?” I ask over the wind and the noisy truck as we hunker down.
“My father was KGB—and one of those hardcore survivalists. When he wasn’t on a bender and beating on me and my brother for one thing or another, he took us out into the woods to teach us hunting and survival.” Mishka’s brooding gaze finds mine, that same near-haunted look in his eyes. “He left us out in the wilderness on several occasions to see if we would make it back home.”
“And did you?” I breathe, both stunned and horrified by his report.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” he points out.
Does that mean his father never would have come back for him if he couldn’t find his way? The possibility wrings my heart. I’m also starting to get a better grasp on why Mishka can be so intimidating and brooding. He’s lived a hard life, one in which he’s only had himself—and maybe his brother—to rely on. That would make a person hard real fast.
Considering everything he’s endured, I’m rather impressed that he can prove so gentle and caring at all. Snuggling close to him, I rest my head on his shoulder, and he wraps an arm around me, warming me with the heat of his body.
The ride doesn’t get more comfortable as time goes along and the twisting, turning road eventually feeds into I-90. My butt’s numb from the constant vibration of the truck bed, and though Mishka gives me his suit coat once more, I’m still covered in goosebumps when we finally reach my parents’ house on Commonwealth Avenue in Back Bay.
I understand now why Mishka wanted me to ride in the cab, but I much preferred sitting with him—even if it was another forty-five minutes or so of discomfort.
He helps me out of the truck bed and carries me to the passenger window once more so we can thank the man who drove us.
“Can I pay you for the inconvenience?” I ask the bearded driver after my lengthy expression of gratitude.
“Not at all, Miss. I’m just happy I could help you get home safe.” He gives another tip of the hat, then rolls away as Mishka steps back onto the curb.
Only after our ride disappears around the corner does Mishka ease me onto my feet. He keeps an arm around my waist until he’s sure I’m steady, then we both turn toward the historic Brownstone I call home.
The front door bursts open two seconds later, my mother’s composure vanishing as she beats our security detail across the threshold. “Alina!” she cries, her expression of deep sadness morphing into joy.
“Mamma,” I breathe, striding forward without regard for my throbbing feet.
She leans back into the house to scream, “Alina’s alive! She’s home!” Then she turns to face me. Opening her arms as I reach the top step, she pulls me into her embrace.
Mishka shadows me, keeping his distance but staying close enough that I can still feel his presence.
“Oh, my baby girl,” my mother breathes, cupping my face. “Let’s get you inside.”
Her eyes skate over Mishka behind me, barely registering his presence as she wraps her arm around my shoulders. Guiding me forward like I might keel over at any moment, she holds me fiercely to her side. I look back at Mishka to silently plead for him to stay. He does, following us into the house without a sound.
“Alina,” my father gasps, entering the grand entryway at the same time we do. His eyes glisten with unshed tears, and he enfolds me in a hug that makes me feel so overwhelmingly safe and loved.
Our family isn’t typically one for displays of affection, but today doesn’t count. Even Viktor lifts me off my feet as we recognize the blessing that miraculously, all four of us have survived. Tears stream down my cheeks in my own gratitude to see my family safe and sound.
“I was so worried,” I breathe when they finally calm down enough to let me speak.
“You were worried?” My mother huffs. “We watched your car tumble down a mountain and blow up. We’ve spent the last twelve hours thinking you were dead.”
“I would be if not for Mishka,” I say, reaching behind me now to drag him forward. “He pulled me out of the car while I was still unconscious. He patched me up and found our way to get back to the road.” Peering up at him with deep gratitude, I can finally release the breath I feel like I’ve been holding since our SUV went airborne. “He saved me,” I breathe, my heart swelling in my chest.
For the first time, my family’s eyes shift to the tattooed man behind me. And it’s like they see him for the first time. Covered in scrapes and bruises, his clothes dirty from spending the night outside, Mishka looks rugged, wild, and as dangerous as ever.
But his coat still wraps me in his warmth, and my heart pounds to think of how gently he touches me, how tenderly he’s kept me safe.
He saved my life countless times in the last twelve hours, and nothing I do will ever be enough to repay him.
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