7. Sabina
7
Sabina
Snow stings my cheeks, and the wind cuts through my coat as if it’s tissue paper. I wrap my arms tighter around myself, shivering uncontrollably. My legs, encased only in sheer stockings beneath my skirt, are already numb, and every step in these heels feels like a fight against the earth itself.
And we haven’t even started walking to the cabin yet.
“Nikolai,” I manage through chattering teeth. “Great plan…a casual stroll through the Arctic Circle.”
His sharp gaze rakes over me, taking in my shaking limbs, the too-thin coat, the useless heels. For a moment, he just stares, his expression unreadable, but there’s a hint of something there…displeasure, maybe even guilt. But Nikolai doesn’t do guilt, does he?
“You’re not dressed for the weather,” he says finally.
“No shit. I wasn’t planning on a wilderness expedition tonight,” I snap. “I live in Vegas, Nikolai. Vegas . This is not my natural habitat.”
His lips curve in a faint smile. “Glad to see your sense of humor survived the crash, goddess. I was starting to worry I’d have to carry your sharp tongue along with the rest of you.”
A startled laugh escapes me. Then I admit, “I can’t feel my toes.”
He nods and strides over to the nearest body. The shudder that moves through me has nothing to do with the cold.
My brothers are used to this side of the business, but I’m not. My world is glittering galas, charity auctions, and the occasional scandalous headline—not shootouts in the middle of nowhere.
Nikolai crouches beside one of the dead men. He pockets his gun, then goes through his pockets, taking anything he thinks might be of value. His movements are quick, methodical, unfeeling. Like he’s done this a thousand times. Like lives are just transactions.
“You’re not taking his phone?” I ask.
“Phones can be tracked. I have no intention of announcing our location to the enemy.”
He moves to the next body, takes the gun, yanks off the heavy, blood-streaked coat. He rises and shakes the snow from the coat with quick, efficient movements.
I take a step back, shaking my head.
“Oh, no. No way.”
“You’re freezing, Sabina,” he says. “Put this on.”
“There’s…blood,” I protest, hugging myself tighter. “And it’s—”
“Warm.” His voice cuts through mine, sharp and unyielding. He steps closer, holding the coat open. “Arms in. Now.”
I blink up at him, startled by the force of his tone. For a second, I wonder if I could refuse him, if I could hold on to that shred of defiance I know he both despises and admires. But another gust of wind rips through me, stealing what little fight I have left. With a glare, I slide my arms into the sleeves of the oversized coat. It’s bulky and smells of sweat and gunpowder, but it’s warm.
“It smells,” I mutter, hating how small my voice sounds.
“Better than frostbite. Or hypothermia,” he replies curtly, zipping up the coat with quick, efficient motions. His knuckles graze my jaw as he adjusts the collar. It’s a small touch, fleeting, but it ignites something warm and unwelcome in my chest. I force myself to look away.
Then he crouches again, this time pulling at the sleeves of another dead man’s coat. I watch as he slices through the fabric with his knife, cutting the sleeves free in clean, precise motions.
“What are you doing now?” I ask, confused.
“Improvising,” he mutters. “That’s what you do when you’re unprepared.”
“Is that your subtle way of admitting this is all your fault?” I shoot back, trying to inject some venom into my tone, but it comes out weaker than I intend.
“You can’t walk in those shoes,” he says, without even glancing at me.
“I’m fine,” I insist, though my feet have been frozen blocks for the past ten minutes.
“You’re not.” He rises, holding up the sleeves, then kneels in front of me. Before I can protest, he grips my ankle, pulling off one of my heels. His hands are firm, his touch steady, and I’m too cold to fight him. He slides the down-stuffed sleeve over my foot, securing it with strips of cloth he cut from the coat’s lining.
He stands, towering over me again. “Better?”
I glance down at the makeshift boots, then at the oversized coat swallowing me whole. I look like a character from some post-apocalyptic nightmare, but the warmth is undeniable. I hate that he was right.
“Yeah,” I mutter grudgingly. “Better.”
“Good,” he says simply, then tips his head toward the dark stretch of forest ahead. “Let’s go.”
I nod, pulling the coat tighter around me. Then I bend down and retrieve my purse from where it sits, discarded in the snow. Nikolai strides ahead, his pace brisk and unyielding, as though he’s carved from the same unforgiving cold that surrounds us. I follow, my makeshift boots feeling awkward, clumsy, but at least my feet aren’t numb anymore.
The forest looms ahead, dark and sprawling. Snow clings to the towering pines, their branches sagging under the weight. Shadows dance between the trunks, and the wind whistles through the gaps, carrying with it an eerie sense of isolation.
I stumble after him. My breaths come in sharp bursts, clouds of white puffing out in front of me. My fingers are stiff, curled into fists inside the oversized coat sleeves.
“Do you even know where we’re going?” I ask, my voice trembling from the cold and the effort of keeping up.
“Yes,” he says without hesitation, not bothering to look back.
“How?” I press, my frustration bubbling up despite my exhaustion. No phone. No GPS. “Following breadcrumbs?”
“I’ve been here before,” he says simply.
“Of course you have,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. Then realization dawns, the pieces clicking together. “Oh, let me guess…this cozy little murder shack is part of your grand master plan? What’s next, Nikolai? A nice, romantic kidnapping itinerary with matching monogrammed handcuffs?”
He glances at me over his shoulder. “Handcuffs, goddess? I didn’t think you’d be so eager. But if you insist, I’ll make sure they’re silk-lined, for your comfort.”
“Fuck off.” Now there’s a masterful comeback.
He laughs, low and rich, the sound curling around me like smoke. “You’re welcome to turn around and head back to the burning car. Let me know how that works out for you.”
“Touché,” I grumble, quickening my pace to keep up.
Despite the sharp edge of our banter, a quiet certainty settles in my chest: Nikolai is my best chance for survival, and he intends to make certain I survive. The way he moves, the way his sharp gaze scans the terrain, it’s all calculated, protective even. But there’s something possessive in it, too, something that makes my skin prickle. Like I’m not just his responsibility. I’m his .
The forest closes in around us, the snow falling heavier now, thick flakes clinging to my lashes and hair. The way is uneven and treacherous. My legs ache, every step a battle against the cold and the terrain, even as I try to step where Nikolai has stepped, his footsteps creating a path for me to follow. As I take my next step, I realize he’s shortened his stride to make this easier for me. No way could I step in his footsteps otherwise.
“Watch your footing,” Nikolai says, his voice low but commanding. “The ground’s uneven here.”
“Thanks for the tip, Captain Obvious,” I snap, my sarcasm sharper than intended. “Should I also avoid stepping on sharp objects? Maybe not walk into trees?”
He stops abruptly, turning to face me. His eyes, glinting like ice, lock onto mine.
“Sabina, if I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of saving you. So, unless you’d like me to carry you the rest of the way, keep walking.”
For a moment, I don’t answer, caught off guard by the heat behind his words. There’s something simmering under his icy exterior, something dangerous and relentless, and it’s aimed squarely at me.
My cheeks flush. I tell myself it’s from the cold, but a secret part of me recognizes it’s from the way his gaze burns through me.
“Fine,” I mutter, brushing past him. “But if I die of frostbite, I’m haunting you.”
He lets out a low chuckle, more of a rumble than a laugh. “Looking forward to it.” He pauses. “You’re going the wrong way.”
With a huff, I fall in behind him once more.
The banter is a distraction, albeit a small one, from the biting cold and the ache in my limbs. But as the minutes stretch into what feels like hours, the weight of everything that’s happened tonight begins to creep in—the crash, the gunfire, Piotr’s lifeless body sprawled in the snow.
“Nikolai,” I say, my voice quieter now. “What happened back there…your driver…”
“Don’t,” he interrupts, his tone flat.
“You don’t even want to talk about it?” I ask, struggling to match his pace.
“He knew the risks,” Nikolai replies, his voice cold, final.
“That’s it?” I press. “That’s all you have to say?”
He stops again, his broad shoulders stiff. When he turns to face me, his expression is unreadable, but there’s a tension in his jaw that wasn’t there before.
“He was with me for ten years. He wasn’t just my driver, he was my friend. And now he’s dead because of me.” His voice doesn’t crack, but there’s a weight in it that cuts through the freezing air like a blade. “So, no, Sabina, I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to make sure his death wasn’t for nothing.”
“It wasn’t your fau—”
“Keep moving, Sabina.”
The bluntness of his words cuts through me, but there’s something beneath them—a hint of something raw and unguarded. I don’t push him further. Not now.
We trudge on, the forest growing denser, the wind howling through the trees. My breath is shallow, every step heavier than the last. The oversized coat and makeshift boots are warm, but they weigh me down, and the exhaustion from everything—physical, emotional—presses in on me.
“How much farther?” I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper.
“Not far,” he says, his tone softer this time. “We’re close.”
I don’t know if I believe him, but I don’t have the energy to argue. I focus on putting one foot in front of the other, my gaze fixed on the outline of his back.
Then, through the swirling storm, I see it—a faint shape, dark on dark. The cabin emerges from the shadows like a ghost, its dark silhouette outlined against the snow-draped trees. It’s small and unassuming, the kind of place that could vanish into the wilderness if you weren’t looking for it. The windows are dark, no golden glow of warmth spilling out, and the chimney stands cold and lifeless, dusted with snow. The roof sags slightly under the weight of the storm, the wooden porch half-buried in a drift. It looks abandoned, forgotten—just another relic of a harsh, unforgiving landscape. The sight sends a chill through me, not from the cold, but from the realization that we’re on our own. Whatever warmth and safety we find here will have to be made, not given.
“Is this the part where you offer me a warm bed and a cup of tea?” I ask through chattering teeth.
“This is the part where you realize you’re stuck with me, for better or for worse,” Nikolai replies.
His pace quickens, and I force my legs to follow.
Nikolai pushes open the heavy wooden door, stepping aside to let me pass. The inside of the cabin is dark, the cold wind biting as it rushes in. No fire crackles, no warmth or light welcomes us. Just silence, shadows, and the faint scent of cedar.
I hesitate in the doorway. It’s as lifeless inside as the snowy wilderness outside. My makeshift boots skid on the wooden floor as I stumble inside.
“Stay there,” Nikolai says, his voice clipped as he moves past me. He doesn’t even spare me a glance before striding into the darkened cabin like he owns it. He reaches for something on the wall—a lantern—and with a sharp twist, the room is bathed in a dim, golden glow.
The cabin is small but functional, the kind of place built for survival, not luxury. The kitchen is to the right of the main room, separated by a half-wall made of weathered wood. It’s compact but well-equipped—a deep farmhouse sink sits under a window frosted with snow, and there’s an old but sturdy propane stove beside it. Open shelves hold mismatched dishes and a row of basic utensils hang neatly on hooks.
The main room doubles as a living area and dining space, with a wood-burning stove in one corner and a small table with two chairs pushed against the far wall. Above it, a window overlooks the dark expanse of trees, but there’s no hint of anything outside except the storm. The cabin feels secluded, utterly alone in the wilderness.
I collapse into a battered leather armchair near the cold stove, my body sagging under the weight of exhaustion and disbelief. My numb fingers claw at the oversized coat he forced me to wear, but I can’t bring myself to shed it. It’s a dead man’s coat, but it’s warm.
Nikolai moves with purpose, his steps sure despite the flickering light. He grabs a bundle of wood stacked neatly by the stove, then kneels to arrange some kindling with quick, efficient motions. The sound of a match striking cuts through the stillness, followed by the sudden bloom of firelight. After a time, he adds couple of logs.
The cabin starts to warm—slowly—but the tension in my chest doesn’t ease.
“Don’t get comfortable,” Nikolai says, his voice low as he straightens, brushing ash from his hands. “We’re not done yet.”
“Comfortable?” I echo, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “I wasn’t planning to unpack my champagne and caviar.”
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t take the bait.
“I’m going to check the generator,” he says. The door creaks as he vanishes into the storm for a moment before returning, brushing snow from his shoulders.
“Generator’s in good shape,” he says, stamping his boots on the threshold before shutting the door behind him.
“Is there a landline here?” I ask.
“No.”
“Satellite phone?” I ask.
“No.”
“Walkie-talkie? Ham radio? CB?” I ask, syrup sweet, just to needle him.
The corners of his mouth curl in a faint smile. “You’re determined to be difficult, aren’t you?”
“You haven’t earned an easier version of me,” I say, refusing to let him get the last word.
He just cuts me a quelling look and heads into the kitchen where he swings open the cupboards to reveal rows of canned goods—soups, beans, vegetables—all stacked with military precision. He tests the tap, which offers a steady stream of clear water.
“It’s a well system,” he says, his tone calm and matter-of-fact. “Water’s clean. Thanks to the generator, we’ll have lights, heat, running water. Enough to cook and shower. No luxury, but it’ll do.”
I’m fixated on the word shower . Hot water running over my skin, washing away the blood, sweat, and grime of tonight, sounds like salvation.
“Hot water?” I ask, unable to mask the edge of hope in my voice.
His lips twitch in the faintest smirk, like he knows exactly how much I want this.
“Yes, goddess. A hot shower.”
I could kiss him for that, but then I remember who he is—and who I am—and shove the thought aside.
I start to push myself up from the chair, aching for that shower, but a wave of fatigue swamps me, and I let myself fall back in the seat. Maybe I’ll just rest for a bit…
Nikolai glances at me and frowns. “I need to deal with your head.”
He strides to a cabinet and pulls out a small metal first-aid kit. Without a word, he crosses the room, crouching in front of me.
“Let me see,” he says, his tone gentler now. His eyes flick to mine, sharp and assessing.
“I’m fine,” I mumble, shrinking back into the chair. The truth is, I’m not fine. My head is pounding, and the cut on my temple throbs with every beat of my pulse. But I’m wary of admitting weakness.
“Sabina,” he says, his voice low and commanding. “Let me help you.”
His fingers catch my chin, tilting my face toward his. It’s not rough, but there’s power in his touch that makes my breath catch. The firelight flickers over his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the dangerous edge to his gaze.
“Trust me,” he murmurs. “For now.”
Something in his tone cuts through my resistance. I nod, begrudgingly leaning forward.
He tilts my chin with one hand, his touch firm but careful, and inspects the wound. His breath is warm on my skin, a stark contrast to the chill still clinging to my body.
“You’re lucky,” he murmurs, opening the kit and pulling out a small bottle of antiseptic. “It’s shallow.”
“Lucky,” I repeat, my voice faint. “That’s one word for tonight. Just not one I would have chosen.”
He dabs at the cut with a clean square of gauze dampened with antiseptic, his movements precise but gentle. The sting makes me wince, but it’s nothing compared to the heat pooling in my chest at his proximity. The room feels smaller, the air heavier, as his focus stays locked on me.
“Why do you call me goddess?” The question slips out before I can stop it, the words trembling in the air between us. I’ve wondered since the first time he said it—the weight it carries, the way it feels like more than just a nickname. Like it means something I’m afraid to name.
His hand stills mid-motion, the cloth pausing against my temple. When his gaze meets mine, it’s not the cool, calculating stare I expect. It’s raw, focused, and so intense it feels like it could peel back my skin and see everything I’m trying to hide. There’s no smirk, no trace of mockery. Just him, completely unguarded for the briefest of moments.
“Because that’s what you are,” he says, his voice low and steady, each word deliberate as he finishes with two precise butterfly bandages, his touch gentle. “A goddess doesn’t bow. She doesn’t break. She rules.”
The words land heavy, punching the air from my lungs. My heart stutters. The warmth of his breath brushes against my cheek, and for a second, everything else—the cold, the danger, the impossible situation we’re in, the fact that he is my enemy—fades into the background. It feels as though the cabin itself is holding its breath.
The moment shatters as he stands, the spell breaking. His expression is shuttered again, locked behind that unshakable wall of control.
“Done,” he says briskly, stepping away like nothing happened. He moves toward the stove, crouching to add another log. “Get some rest. You need it.”
“What about you?”
He pokes at the fire, his back to me. “I’ll rest when it’s safe.”
“Safe,” I repeat, the word thick with bitterness. “You keep saying that like you didn’t drag me into this, Nikolai.” My voice shakes. “You’re the reason I’m not safe.”
He doesn’t turn, but his shoulders tense, the faintest reaction to my words. “I’m the reason you’re alive,” he says quietly, his tone carrying a weight that makes my stomach twist.
I swallow hard, hating that he’s right. Hating him for being right.
“Why?” I demand. “Why go to all this trouble for me? What do you want, Nikolai?”
Finally, he turns, his piercing blue eyes locking on mine, freezing me in place. The firelight dances across his face, throwing sharp shadows that only emphasize the predatory edge of his features. He takes a step closer, then another, until he’s standing over me, the heat of his presence suffocating.
“What I want,” he murmurs, his voice low and dark, “is for you to understand that you’re not some pawn in this game, Sabina. You’re the prize.”
The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. I want to scoff, to throw them back in his face, but the intensity in his gaze makes my throat tighten. It’s not just a line—it’s a declaration, a promise wrapped in danger. And that terrifies me almost as much as the way my body responds to him, the treacherous heat that refuses to fade.
I glare up at him, determined not to let him see the cracks forming in my armor.
“The prize? You mean a tool you can use to form an alliance with my brother,” I snap, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me. “Go to hell.”
His lips curve into a slow, dangerous smile, and he leans down just enough that I feel his breath against my skin. His lips are a whisper from mine.
“I’ve already been there, goddess,” he says softly. “More than once.”
The fire crackles behind him, the only sound in the heavy silence that follows. He straightens, his movements deliberate, and strides toward the door without another word.
I stay frozen in the chair, the weight of his words pressing against me like an iron chain. I hate him. I despise him. And yet, the image of him standing over me, his voice like a dark caress, is seared into my mind.
When he disappears into the storm to check the perimeter, I let out a shuddering breath, forcing myself to focus on the warmth of the fire and not the heat still burning low in my belly.
Nikolai Ivanov is a man who takes what he wants, a man who bends the world to his will. And tonight, for reasons I can’t fathom, he’s decided that includes me. He isn’t a man who just brushes up against the world—he leaves fingerprints on its very core.
And now he wants to leave his fingerprints on me.