Chapter 3
Eyes in the Dark
Stone Volkov never slept through storms, a survival instinct carved into his bones by years of reading danger in shifting winds and atmospheric pressure drops that whispered of violence to come.
He stood sentinel in the surveillance room’s ethereal blue-white glow, fingers wrapped around a warmed tumbler of clear Stolichnaya that had surrendered its chill an hour ago, but he sipped it anyway.
Turning back to the wall of monitors that transformed the space into a technological altar, his eyes narrowed.
Each screen offered a glimpse into every corner of their fortress.
Storms played games on the senses, waking ancient trees as the wind breathed life into ice-covered limbs.
Illusions that could easily frighten little ones, but he’d grown up around far worse.
Outside, the storm raged with the fury of primordial gods denied their sacrifice. Inside, empty corridors stretched like arteries through the lodge’s heart. Vacant rooms waited in patient silence. The great hall displayed its cold fireplace like an unlit funeral pyre, awaiting their next—
“What do we have here?” The motion sensor chimed softly, and his sharp, arctic glare cut to the upper screens with deadly promise.
Stone’s brow furrowed, cold eyes flicking from one harbor camera to the next, his predatory instincts honed by years of eliminating threats before they could breach his sanctuary.
“What in fresh hell was this?” He zoomed in the lens, but the storm made it difficult to see small details.
The dock’s weathered planks hosted an unexpected guest, small and shivering. A child? From where—here—at this time of night? Then he spotted the wreckage of what looked like a dilapidated boat that hadn’t existed thirty minutes ago, bobbing against the waves like an abandoned toy in the distance.
“A castaway?” Whoever it was, they looked to be hauling themselves onto death’s door. He glanced at the gauges. The temperature was below zero.
He was gathering his emergency rescue gear as the trespasser flailed onto the dock, flopping to her back and then falling completely still. He paused at the slight curves and long hair. A woman?
Interesting.
She looked half dead and would likely be fully there by the time he reached her.
No one approached this island uninvited. No one possessed the technology or connections necessary to sneak past their security. And no one could cross the choppy seas on a night like this without proper nautical gear and equipment. Or so he thought.
His fingers danced across the console, switching to thermal imaging trained on the trespasser. She was a determined little thing.
A single heat signature climbed the hillside, stumbling through wind and sleet with the desperation of prey fleeing hunters. The figure moved too unsteadily, too frantically for the professional killers who occasionally tested their defenses.
How was she managing it? Her clothing was stiff and frozen, her balance off, and her feet were wrapped in cloth. Such determination had to spur from desperation. She was either running from something or aggressing toward something.
Stone reached for his phone to wake Hunter and Ash, but paused when the door camera captured the intruder’s face, and the thermal readings hadn’t prepared him for the reality of such desperate beauty.
She was vulnerability incarnate. Golden hair whipped around features that belonged in a museum.
Those classical lines and ethereal beauty made his chest constrict with something he refused to acknowledge.
Amber eyes looked up at the hidden camera, wide with desperation and flickering like precious stones held too close to a flame.
A woman. Young. Beautiful in a way that made dangerous men stupid and smart men reckless.
Stone set his vodka down with deliberate precision and leaned closer to the monitor, pale eyes tracking every nuance of her movements. She reached for the door handle, hands shaking so violently the tremor transmitted through the camera grain.
Taking pity on her the way one does a sacrificial lamb, he punched in the code.
The other monitors showed the usual views—empty docks, silent forests, and in the distance, the glittering lights of the other isles.
Even through the storm, he could make out the surroundings and saw no other incoming threats.
When the massive door opened, she stumbled across the threshold and practically collapsed on the polished floor.
The foyer camera claimed her immediately.
She stood, dripping, on marble that had witnessed centuries of Volkov power, her torn, stockinged feet wrapped in wet rags contrasting with her wet cashmere coat, marking her as either privileged or a thief.
“What the hell are you doing here, little one?” He zoomed in, noting the tremor of her eyes as her teeth noticeably chattered.
Their island was the furthest north, protected by fierce weather and bitter climates that devoured the unprepared. No way she made it here on that piece of shit boat.
Soaked to the bone, he wondered why she kept the wet clothes on. Perhaps she was sick in the head. Who knew how much time she’d been out there and how much she had left? He should help her, but instead, he merely watched her stagger from one room to the next, curious what she was looking for.
Maybe she was a decoy. A distraction.
His gaze quickly flicked to the other cameras, searching again for incoming threats.
Nothing.
Just her. She was either running from something or towards something. Maybe both.
He pulled his vodka closer and sipped, watching her discover the great hall with great satisfaction. “Ah, that’s what you were looking for.”
He reclined slightly, his mouth kicking up in a half smirk as he watched her search the hearth and nose around their private cabinets for kindling.
He chuckled. “Good girl. You’re resourceful when you need to be.” But despite finding the matches, her body shook so violently she couldn’t seem to get the kindling lit.
He read her frustration through the grainy screen, grinning at her determination.
When she flung off the expensive coat, his eyes widened.
Definitely not a child. Her wet clothes clung to her like threadbare rags, translucent enough that he could see every vertebra of her spine as she kneeled before the hearth, hunched over the scraps of bark, fighting with matches to get them lit.
She drew back and stilled as a tiny flame flickered to life, then she blew delicate breath over the bark, spreading her creation, and her face came alive with hope.
“Poor little lamb,” he said in a thick Russian accent as he studied her over the rim of his glass. “You nearly froze to death in the wild.”
He should have called Hunter and Ash by now, but he liked having a chance to observe her in her unhindered state, before she realized she’d stumbled into the bear’s den, before she understood she’d escaped death only to run into danger. And he liked having her all to himself.
“You should take off those wet clothes, little rabbit, before you freeze to death.”
She confronted the mammoth fireplace like David faced down Goliath. Something tender stirred in his chest at her unbreakable resolve. Even when her body betrayed her with evident exhaustion and hypothermic shuddering, she refused to give up until she had the fire lit.
But she didn’t last long once flames filled the enormous hearth. Stone found himself oddly proud of her resourcefulness, so he decided to give her a moment to bask in her small victory.
She lay down on the cold stone, visibly shivering as she curled onto her side, but she’d never get warm as long as she stayed in those wet clothes.
“Come on, little rabbit, you’re smarter than that, aren’t you?”
Her body stilled for a long moment, and he leaned forward in concern. Then she snapped out of her trance and forced herself up.
Looking back longingly at the raging fire, she staggered out of the great room into the hall. Her instability might be more than just the effects of the cold. A dry trickle of blood curled down the side of her face, but her hair covered the source of the injury. Perhaps she was concussed.
As she hobbled through the house, she moved with a rheumatoid gait, likely from the stiffness in her bones, but she also held her left shoulder as if it ached.
She followed the corridors, scurrying like a mouse locked in the shadows as she tested door after door, seeking something specific, and moving on when she didn’t find it.
When she reached Hunter’s room, she rushed inside. She was damn lucky he wasn’t there, or her little exploration would have ended abruptly.
Stone switched monitors and brought up the image as she ripped open the wardrobe and pilfered the armoire shelves. Arms full, she carried the stack of stolen clothes to the bed and stripped away her soaked clothes.
He should have been prepared, but there was no warning for what he would see.
Long, delicate limbs leading to a pert little ass so ripe he wanted to sink his teeth into it.
The feminine flare of her hips spoke of hardiness, but there was something utterly fragile about her tapered waist. He bet he could hold her captive in the span of his bare hands.
Her breasts, pale and full, hung like inviting fruit, fresh for the picking.
Stone’s mouth watered, and he swallowed just before her beautiful body was engulfed in wool.
The sweater draped her like an ill-fitting dress.
She pulled thick hunting socks up past her knees, further emphasizing her petite size.
She was… voskhititelny. “Exquisite,” he whispered, letting his thick Russian accent savor the taste of the word as if he were tasting her. “Sit on the bed, little one. Show me more.”
Unfortunately, that was the end of the show as she shrouded herself in an old fur coat he hadn’t seen in years. It engulfed her from shoulder to shin.