9. Sabina
9
Sabina
I wake up late, sunlight slanting through the curtains, casting a soft glow on the cabin walls. For a moment, I just lie there, disoriented, until the memories of last night come rushing back. The fire in the stove has burned down to a few glowing embers, but the room is still warm, the faint hum of the generator steady in the background. Outside, the storm has dwindled for the moment to a gentle snowfall, the flakes catching the pale light like glitter.
I stretch, trying to work out the stiffness in my back and shoulders, only to realize I’m still curled up in the armchair by the fireplace. The dead man’s coat is draped around me, its heavy, bloodied fabric a grim reminder of everything we’ve been through. My tailored cashmere coat is beneath it, just as bloodstained. I shift uncomfortably, my movements stilted from the layers and the night spent twisted in this position.
I drag off both coats, my stomach twisting at the sight of the dried blood. Grabbing them, I cross to the cabin door and fling both outside into the snow. A cold gust of air whips at my face, and I shiver, slamming the door shut behind me. I’ll deal with them later, after I wash the blood and the memories off my skin.
I spot a neatly folded stack of clothes on the side table by the sofa—a pair of gray sweatpants and a black sweatshirt, both worn and soft. The gesture feels oddly intimate, and the intimacy unsettles me. I brush my fingers over the fabric and feel a strange warmth unfurl in my chest. Nikolai must’ve left them here while I slept. He didn’t say a word, but there’s an unspoken care in this quiet gesture. They’re his clothes—I know it instinctively. I lift them to my nose and inhale. The faint scent of amber and spice still clings to them, and I can’t help but imagine how he must’ve looked wearing them during one of his past stays here.
My mind betrays me with an image of him—shirtless, his powerful shoulders and tattooed chest flexing as he pulls the sweatshirt over his head. I clench my fists, trying to banish the thought. He’s not for you, Sabina. Not like that.
I carry the clothes to the bathroom. The shower is a simple setup—no luxury tiles or rainfall heads— but the hot water is heavenly, scalding away the chill that’s settled in my bones. I let the spray cascade over me, closing my eyes as the tension in my muscles slowly unravels.
And then, like an uninvited guest, the thought sneaks in. What would Nikolai do if he saw me like this…bare and vulnerable? Would he strip away every last defense until there was nothing left? Would I let him?
I catch my breath, my skin prickling despite the heat. Stop it, Sabina. You don’t fantasize about Nikolai fucking Ivanov. He is the enemy. He’s a threat, a danger—not a man to imagine pressed against the shower wall. Or better still, him pressing me against the shower wall.
But even as I try to chase the thought away, I remember the way his hands felt on me yesterday when he pinned me down in the limo. Strong. Sure. Possessive. The memory makes me tremble—not with fear, but with something far more dangerous. My body reacts in ways I can’t control, and I press my palms to the cold tiles of the shower wall, trying to will the heat out of my blood.
He is not for you , I tell myself again. But the voice sounds hollow, like even it doesn’t believe me.
I step out of the shower, the chill of the tile beneath my feet a sharp contrast to the warmth of the water. Sliding into the oversized sweatshirt and sweatpants, I feel a strange mix of comfort and unease. The fabric is soft against my skin, his scent faint and enticing, leaving me feeling like I’m wrapped in him.
I return to the main room, and wander around, looking at the array of old paperbacks on the shelves, lifting a picture in a dark green leather frame. It’s a young boy, dark hair, blue eyes, big grin, holding up a tiny fish.
The front door creaks open, and a gust of icy air sweeps into the cabin as Nikolai steps inside. He freezes when he sees me, his gaze flicking to the framed photo in my hand.
“Whose cabin is this?” I ask.
“It was my uncle’s,” he replies. “It was left to me in his will. So, I guess it’s mine. I haven’t been here for well over a year.”
“Your uncle.”
“Vlasta,” Nikolai supplies, his lips thinning. Something slides behind his blue eyes. Pain.
But it’s gone in a flash, as if it had never been there in the first place.
“Your uncle left you a cabin in the woods,” I say.
“Along with three hundred acres.”
My brows raise. “That’s a hell of a gift.”
“He brought me here when I was younger. He taught me to fish, one of his favorite things to do in the world. Just him and me and the lake. I caught a trout my first time out. It was no bigger than my hand, but he was so damn proud.” He nods at the photo in my hand.
I set down the photo and say, “Your first kill,” knowing very well that it’s an unkind response to what must have been a happy memory for him.
A muscle in his cheek twitches. “No. Uncle Vlasta preferred catch and release. My first kill came several years later and was most definitely of the human species. Sorry, but I don’t have a picture of that one.”
I almost ask him who he killed, and why, but bite my tongue at the last second, not certain I want to know. I don’t want to learn Nikolai Ivanov’s secrets. I just want to get as far away from his as I can, as soon as possible.
He shrugs off his coat and hangs it on a hook near the door, running a hand through his dark hair, the strands falling messily over his forehead. The gesture is almost boyish, but there’s nothing soft about him, not the set of his jaw or the tension coiled in his muscled frame. His face is etched with exhaustion, dark shadows underlining his piercing blue eyes.
He looks like a man who hasn’t slept in days, but the sheer force of his presence fills the cabin, crowding the air between us.
“You look like hell,” I say, settling into the armchair and pulling a blanket around me.
“Good morning to you too,” he replies, his tone as dry as winter air.
“Did you sleep at all?” I ask. I don’t know why I care.
“No.” He crouches by the stove, pokes at the embers and adds wood. The orange glow illuminates the curve of his cheekbone, the muscled lines of his tattooed forearms. “I kept watch.”
“Are we still in danger?” The words betray more vulnerability than I want him to see.
“There’s always a possibility,” he says without looking at me. “I wasn’t taking any chances.”
I bite my lip, watching him as he adds a log. There’s something about the way he moves, controlled, deliberate, like every action is part of a larger strategy. He’s a man who holds the world in his hands and doesn’t let anyone see how much it costs him.
“Go rest,” I say, surprising myself with the softness in my voice. “I’ll keep an eye on things.”
That gets his attention. He glances up, his pale blue eyes locking on mine with a sharpness that makes my pulse stutter. There’s something dangerous in his gaze, something that warns me he’s not the kind of man who trusts anyone.
“You?” he asks.
I’m not sure if that single words carries skepticism or amusement. Maybe curiosity.
“Yes, me.” I lift my chin. “I’m perfectly capable of staring out a window and listening for suspicious noises.”
Nikolai stands, his full height dwarfing me. He doesn’t say anything at first, just studies me with that too-perceptive gaze, like he’s peeling back layers I didn’t even know I have. Then, without a word, he reaches for the waistband of his jeans and pulls his gun. The movement is smooth, casual, but there’s nothing casual about the way he holds it, firm, steady, like the weapon is an extension of himself.
“If there’s even a hint of trouble,” he says, “wake me.” He holds the gun out to me, the polished steel catching the firelight.
I take it, the weight familiar in my hands. But the gesture is anything but. It feels like a challenge…or a test.
“You’re trusting me with this?” I ask, raising my brows. “Given that you’ve kidnapped me, aren’t you worried I might turn it on you?”
Even saying those words make me feel ill. But he doesn’t know that. He knows nothing about me, least of all my secrets and my weaknesses.
He leans in, close enough that I catch the faint scent of snow and smoke clinging to him. Close enough that his presence presses against me, heavy and inescapable. His voice drops, low and intimate.
“Don’t make me regret it,” he says.
For a moment, we’re frozen like that, the air between us crackling with unspoken tension, his nearness making it impossible to think straight.
“Go to bed, Nikolai,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “You look like you’re about to drop.”
“Bossy,” he murmurs, and his lips twitch in the ghost of a smile. Without another word, he turns and heads to the bathroom. The sound of running water follows.
Less than five minutes later, Nikolai emerges, his hair damp, his torso bare. He’s all hard muscle and smooth, tattooed skin—roses, thorns, skulls, a dagger. His jeans hang low on his hips, and my traitorous gaze dips before I can stop myself.
He doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does and he’s just too infuriatingly self-assured to care. He pulls a t-shirt over his head, the fabric clinging to the still-damp planes of his chest.
He strides to the small bedroom and collapses face-down on the bed. He doesn’t bother with the covers. Within moments, his breathing evens out, and he’s still.
I cross to the doorway and linger for a moment. For the first time, Nikolai Ivanov doesn’t look like a man who could destroy worlds with a single decision. He looks human. Vulnerable, even. Like someone who’s spent his entire life fighting battles no one else can see.
I close the door softly and return to the main room, settling into the armchair by the fire. The gun sits heavy in my lap, a reminder of the man sleeping just feet away. My fingers curl around the grip, but my thoughts drift to Nikolai’s intense blue eyes and the way they see too much. To the way his voice wraps around me like a promise and a threat all at once.
This man is my enemy, I remind myself. But the truth is messier than that. Nikolai Ivanov is a weapon, and he’s pointed right at me.