The War Ends, The Battle Begins

The hatch of the lead tank creaked open, and the battalion commander emerged, his crisp uniform standing in stark contrast to the battlefield's ruin. His voice rang out, sharp and commanding, but not with orders to attack.

"Legt die Waffen nieder und haltet ein!" he barked in German.

Then, to their disbelief, he raised a white flag.

Ivan and Jake exchanged quick, confused glances. The sun was going round the moon—or so it seemed.

Every instinct in Ivan's body screamed trap. His fingers curled tighter around his weapon as he stepped into the clearing, each movement deliberate, calculated. The Panzer loomed before him like a mechanical beast, its long turret shadowing him as he climbed up, boots scraping metal. He kept his rifle aimed at the commander, though he knew, deep down, this was a fragile bluff.

Jake followed closely, heart hammering. His instincts told him to keep Ivan covered, even if his gun was useless. What could two men do against a battalion? He wasn't sure. But he'd rather die at Ivan's side than leave him alone.

The commander didn't flinch. Instead, he turned, eyes meeting Ivan's with something akin to amusement. "We know your guns are empty. Drop the act."

Ivan felt his stomach tighten—a rare moment of hesitation. So they knew.

"The war is over," the commander continued, his voice oddly solemn. "The guns fell silent at noon. You won. We have orders to surrender to the first set of Allied soldiers we encounter… and that's you."

Silence stretched, thick and unyielding.

Jake's breath caught. The war was over. Just like that? No more running, no more killing, no more watching their backs every second of the day? The weight of it pressed down on him, almost suffocating. He turned to Ivan, expecting relief in his expression.

But Ivan's face was unreadable, his jaw set, his eyes cold.

Something was wrong.

Because for Ivan, this wasn't the end of a war.

It was the beginning of another.

Ivan

Ivan let out a slow exhale, but it did nothing to loosen the coil of tension in his chest. He had spent years preparing to die, certain that the battlefield would be his grave. And yet, here he was—alive. But freedom was never meant for men like him.

Jake didn't know the truth. He didn't know that the war had been a convenient escape from the life Ivan was born into, a life he thought he'd never return to.

The Russian Bratva.

Jake didn't know that Ivan's hands were already stained long before the battlefield. That his family had expected him to die out here, or at least emerge a monster that would carry on the bloody legacy waiting for him back home.

And now that the war was over?

There was nowhere left to run.

He stole a glance at Jake, watching as the younger man took in the news, hope flickering in his storm-blue eyes. Beautiful. Brave. Unaware.

Jake thought they could be happy now. Thought they could leave all this behind.

Fool.

Jake

Jake let himself believe it—just for a moment.

The war was over. They could finally be together.

He turned to Ivan, expecting his usual smirk, maybe even some kind of cocky remark. Instead, he found something else entirely—

A quiet kind of dread.

Jake's stomach twisted. Why wasn't Ivan happy?

For as long as they'd been together, Ivan had always been an enigma. A man who took what he wanted, fought for what he desired—but never let Jake too close. And yet, Jake had stayed. He'd fallen, hard and fast, even when he knew it was dangerous.

Because Ivan wasn't just another alpha.

He was Jake's. Fierce, untamed, and entirely his.

Or so he thought.

Jake had his own secrets. His own ghosts.

He had spent years pretending he wasn't running, pretending that the past wouldn't catch up to him.

But soon, it would.

And when it did, he wasn't sure if he and Ivan would still be on the same side.

Because love was a battlefield all its own.

And some wars never truly ended.