The mission had been straightforward—at least, that’s what they told her.

Escort the diplomat to a secure facility. Monitor the negotiations. Keep up appearances while Valentina’s real game played out behind the scenes. Yelena had been on enough missions to recognize a distraction when she saw one. But she hadn’t expected you to be part of it.

The second she heard your name come through the comms, static-laced and panicked—“Asset compromised, location unknown”—something inside her snapped.

Valentina had issued the order not two minutes later: Do not pursue. We’ll handle it.

“I’m not leaving without them.”

Yelena’s voice sliced through the command center like a knife, flat and final. Valentina had barely turned around when she said it.

“They’re already gone, Yelena. We don’t have eyes on the convoy, and they crossed into non-sanctioned territory. We move on.”

“No.”

It wasn’t a shout. It wasn’t even forceful. Just cold, carved from something deeper than rage. Deeper than duty.

Valentina’s lips tightened. “You go off-mission, Belova, you’re on your own. You hear me?”

Yelena was already gone.

The trail was weak. A flicker of heat signatures on an old satellite ping. A rusted military truck spotted just past the demilitarized zone. But she followed it. Over two days with no sleep, riding the edge of fury and panic. By the time she reached the old bunker nestled deep in the wooded valley, her hands were already bloody from the last two guards who’d tried to slow her down.

She didn’t knock.

Three shots to the door lock. Smoke. Screams. She moved through the compound like a storm: efficient, silent, merciless.

Then she saw you.

You were tied to a chair, head lolling to one side, blood crusted at your temple. Clothes torn. Barely conscious. But alive.

Yelena dropped her gun and crossed the room in seconds. She didn’t say your name. Not yet. Not until she could touch you, make sure you were really there. Her fingers brushed your cheek.

“Hey,” she whispered, crouching in front of you. “Look at me.”

Your eyes cracked open, pupils sluggish. “Yelena?”

“Shh. It’s me. I’ve got you.”

You tried to move, but your body flinched violently. She saw it—the bruises, the swollen lip, the blood drying down your arm from where a cable tie had cut deep.

Something cracked inside her. It felt like a rib snapping. She didn’t let it show.

“Can you walk?”

You nodded. A lie.

She helped you up, one arm around your waist, half-carrying you out. Gunfire barked in the halls as backup arrived—hers or theirs, she didn’t care. All that mattered was the feeling of your weight against her side. The way your hand clutched at her jacket like you were still afraid she’d vanish.

She didn’t take you to a safe house. She took you to her apartment.

Yelena knelt on the bathroom floor with you between her legs, her fingers smeared with dried blood as she dabbed antiseptic over a cut on your brow. She didn’t speak. Didn’t trust herself to.

You watched her through glassy eyes, flinching now and then as the sting bit through your haze. “You’re not following protocol,” you mumbled.

She let out a harsh breath—something like a laugh, but bitter. “I never do when it comes to you.”

When she finished tending to the worst of the wounds, she cradled your jaw, tilting your face up to hers. Her thumbs brushed your cheeks. She said nothing, just stared—like she was trying to memorize your features, to prove to herself you were still breathing.