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103. Worth It.
Last Updated:
2025-11-27 22:09:46
Latest chapter
Retribution 114. Clever Little Victory.
Vladislav MorozI came awake slowly, the way a man surfaces from deep water—lungs burning, limbs heavy, every heartbeat sluggish and uncertain.The first thing I felt was pain. Not the sharp, screaming kind from the cellar; this was duller, deeper, a constant throb that lived under every bandage and in every broken rib. It told me I was still alive. I hated it for a second, then decided I could live with it.The second thing I felt was warmth.Valencia was curled against my right side, careful even in sleep, her head on my shoulder, one hand resting so lightly over the gauze on my chest that I could barely feel the weight. Her breathing was slow, steady. Her lashes were still damp. She had cried herself out beside me.I couldn’t move much. My arms were lead, my back a furnace, my ribs a cage of knives. But I turned my head—just enough—and looked at her.God, she was beautiful.Even with tear tracks cutting through the blood on her cheeks. Even with her hair tangled and wild. Even ex
Retribution 113. Battlefield Casualty
Valencia NightingaleThe drive home was silent except for the soft rasp of Vladislav’s breathing against my neck and the occasional click of the indicator when Anatoly changed lanes. I didn’t let go of him once. I couldn’t. My arms were locked around his shoulders, one hand cradling the back of his head, fingers threaded through his blood-crusted hair like I could physically hold the pieces of him together.He hadn’t spoken since that single cracked whisper of my name. He didn’t need to. Every tremor that ran through him said enough.When the Mercedes finally rolled into the underground garage of the Mayfair penthouse, the automatic lights flickered on, harsh and white. Anatoly killed the engine but didn’t move to get out. He just looked at us in the rear-view mirror for a long second, something ancient and exhausted in his eyes, then nodded once and climbed out to open Vladislav’s door.I helped him out. He tried to stand on his own and almost went down. His legs simply refused. Betw
Retribution 112. Always.
Valencia NightingaleEvery head in the hall, including mine, snapped toward the sound. Cameras clicked like light switches. For one suspended heartbeat the only noise was the low hum of the air-conditioning.My breath caught in my throat, as I wondered who exactly that was. My shoulders sagged the moment I set my eyes on Anatoly's towering figure. His face is dead straight and serious as he walks forward.His cheek was bruised, probably from the scuffle at the airport and I wondered just how fast he must have been to get to the Parliament to grant bail for Vladislav and come back to still catch up with me.Or was he not able to get him granted bailIn his left hand was a single sheet of heavy cream paper bearing the gold-embossed crest of the United Kingdom.The crowd parted before him the way water parts for a shark.I stood frozen at the bacj row, lungs still burning from the sprint, Malcolm's smug smile faltered for the first time. He half-rose from his seat, paddle still clutc
Retribution 111. A Wild Goose Chase
Valencia NightingaleThe wheels touched down on the runway with a shuddering thump, the kind that always made my stomach dip even though I’d been on dozens of flights in my life. The plane tilted, slowed, rattled, then finally steadied as it rolled toward the terminal. I pressed my forehead lightly to the window. London was grey, iron-cold, washed in that particular shade of winter light that made the whole city look like a steel engraving. Sleek airport buildings glowed with glassy reflections. Wet asphalt shone like black ice.We were home and we were already running out of time.Passengers around us unbuckled, stood up, stretched stiff limbs. Anatoly and I stayed seated for a few seconds longer, both of us scanning the aisle, the windows, the attendants. Habit. Instinct. Survival. Nothing looked wrong, but after Russia, after Malcolm’s stunt at the police station, after the perfect ease of retrieving files that should have taken weeks, it was impossible to trust quiet.Anatoly rose
Retribution 110. The Wrong Rabbit
Valencia NightingaleMy fingers trembled from a cold so sharp it was enough to freeze anything just by holding it out for too long. Snow crunched under our boots as Anatoly and I stood at the rusted iron gates of the district police station. The building looked like it was going to collapse at any given time.I had the wig on again, the same mousy-brown one I’d worn around since I got here. It itched like sin, but it turned me into Anya Volkov, respectable married woman, instead of Valencia Nightingale, whom everyone could probably recognise from her midnight hair. Anatoly—Dmitry right then—stood half a step behind me, shoulders rounded, hands in the pockets of a cheap puffer jacket that made him look twenty kilos heavier and ten years older. No masks, no weapons. We had stripped ourselves bare before we left the safehouse: the Glock, the knife—all of it locked in the false bottom of the trunk of the car we had rented. Walking into a Russian police station armed was a shortcut to a ce
Retribution 109. Pristine Silence
Valencia Nightingale.We ate in pristine silence.The small kitchen in the house was lit by one bare bulb that swung gently whenever the wind rattled the windows. The table was scarred pine, the chairs mismatched, and the air smelled of boiled potatoes, fried onions, and the faint metallic tang of gun oil from where Anatoly had gone to get the ammunition, I suppose.He had cooked before I came back, something simple, hearty—potatoes with sauce, and a pot of strong black tea that steamed in chipped mugs. My stomach had been a clenched fist for days, but the moment the smell hit me I realised I was starving.We sat opposite each other.Anatoly still hadn't gone back to wearing his mask. He had been bare-faced since we arrived in Russia and I don't even think he brought the mask at all. Airport security would have been appalled to see a mask made of human skin in someone's luggage. I kept the wig off—my scalp itched and I was too tired to pretend to be someone else inside these four wall
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