7. BRAXTON
Chapter seven
T he adrenaline hadn’t left my system since I’d made the decision to take the Ice Queen’s gun. It coursed through me, keeping me hyperaware of every jolt and creak as the Russian jeep barreled through the dark forest. My thoughts were a storm of unanswered questions.
Why the hell had she made it so easy for me to take her hostage? She’d handed me a gun. That wasn’t normal. She was kicking my ass one minute and easily subdued the next. And why had she seemed to know exactly where to go, as if she had a mental map of every inch of that facility?
I shot a glance at her from the corner of my eye. She was laser-focused, her hand white-knuckling the wheel. A muscle in her neck tightened as she shifted gears and guided us deeper into the forest. The cuffs between us tugged awkwardly whenever she adjusted her position, and she let out a huff of irritation each time. I couldn’t blame her; this arrangement wasn’t ideal.
A searing flash of light streaked across the sky, coming from somewhere behind us, followed by the deafening roar of an explosion. I ducked instinctively, slamming my free hand against the dashboard as the jeep jerked violently to the side.
“Shit!” I barked, gripping the door for balance.
The iron lady didn’t flinch. Her eyes narrowed, and she slammed her foot onto the accelerator. The tires slipped briefly before catching traction again. Another rocket screamed overhead, this time met by a thunderous boom from the opposite direction. The Ukrainians were firing back.
The forest around us lit up in flashes of orange and white. Explosions rocked the ground nearby, but she kept the jeep steady, maneuvering through the trees like a goddamn rally driver. She had nerves of steel; that was for sure.
My mind raced through the possible scenarios we might be facing. Were they tracking us using infrared? Would we receive a direct hit? Would the jeep flip if a stray round found us? I was on the edge of my seat with terror, sure we’d be blown to hell any second, but the Ice Queen continued driving with an almost inhuman composure. I’d always thought I was good under pressure until I met her.
When the sounds of battle finally faded into the distance, replaced by the quiet hum of the jeep’s engine, I exhaled and loosened my grip on the pistol she’d given me. Man, were my fingers stiff.
For several hours we drove in silence, carefully navigating what had once been a road. The night stretched on and on. Since the van ambush, I hadn’t had more than a few scraps of sleep, nothing to eat, and barely any water to drink. I was running on empty in every possible way, wondering if this nightmare would ever end.
Finally, as my eyes were starting to get heavy, the first rays of sunlight pierced through the edge of the forest, casting a golden glow over the landscape ahead. The trees soon thinned out, revealing an open field. In the distance, a farmhouse came into view, its silhouette dark against the rising sun. Beside it, I could make out a barn and a few smaller structures. Beyond that, the glint of water caught my eye—there was a lake or a river behind the house.
Relief flooded through me. Finally, somewhere we could stop. I flexed my fingers, wincing at the ache I had in my hand from gripping the gun for so long. The smell of the grass carried on the breeze, clean and refreshing—a dramatic difference from the stench radiating off me.
God, I needed that water—any sort of bath. More than two days’ worth of grime clung to me, and I could smell every damn bit of it. I glanced down at my shirt. It was crusted with blood and who knew what else. My jeans weren’t much better—filthy and stiff. There was no hiding the toll the past couple of days had taken on me—inside and out.
The iron lady next to me, on the other hand, looked like she’d just stepped out of some tactical gear catalog. She’d had time to shower and change at the prison. Meanwhile, I was a walking biohazard. No wonder she was pissed about being cuffed to me.
I stretched my legs a little and repositioned my hips in the seat, grimacing when the steel of the handcuff bit into my wrist again. What had I been thinking? I’d slapped them on her in a moment of pure impulse, figuring that, if I didn’t, she was going to ditch me the second she got the chance, leaving me to some worse fate. Now, I was sure it had been a terrible idea. There was no way either of us could fight or move quickly with these things on. I was sure the Ice Queen thought I was an idiot. But then again, at the time, I’d had no idea she was breaking me out of that place. I still didn’t know what her intentions were.
I glanced over at her again. She hadn’t relaxed an inch. Her eyes were darting between the dirt road ahead of us and the rearview mirror. She was on edge, and that put me on edge.
What was she thinking? Was she planning to leave me in the middle of nowhere? Or worse, shoot me and dump my body?
The jeep hit a bump, jostling us. She growled under her breath, shifting gears and slowing the vehicle. Eventually, the road became less overgrown as we approached the farmhouse, transitioning to a dirt road that curved behind the barn.
When we pulled up to the farmhouse, it became apparent that the place was abandoned. There was no movement anywhere on the premises. There were no lights on anywhere, no smoke from the chimney.
She slowed the jeep, her hand brushing mine as she changed gears one final time. I hated that she hadn’t spoken to me since we’d escaped, and I still wondered how well she understood or even spoke English. She’d shouted a few words that were almost indiscernible due to her thick accent, but who knew?
We rolled to a stop behind the barn, hidden from view of the main road.
“Now what?” I asked.
She didn’t respond but continued scanning the area. Finally, she edged forward and came to a stop under a sagging carport, its rusted roof rattling in the wind. The early-morning light further revealed the dilapidated state of the farm—peeling paint, overgrown grass, and no signs of life.
Without a word, she yanked against the handcuffs, pointing toward my door. Her lips curled in irritation as she muttered in Russian, gesturing for me to get out of the jeep. In her free hand, she swung the Glock around, its presence a reminder of just how precarious my situation was.
I grabbed my pistol, shoved the door open, and started to exit the vehicle awkwardly. Her body twisted to follow me, her shoulder smacking into mine. She muttered another string of biting words in Russian, her tone leaving no doubt she was pissed off. Frustration radiated off her in waves as she clambered over to my side and crawled out the door, shoving me forward.
I hesitated for a second, unsure of our next move. She turned back to the jeep, tugging on the cuffs and glaring at me with eyes that demanded compliance. Roughly, she shut the door, spitting out more rapid-fire Russian words that I didn’t stand a chance of understanding.
“I don’t speak Russian, you know!” I snapped, exasperated.
Her response was a sarcastic smirk, one corner of her mouth curling up in a way that somehow managed to piss me off and intrigue me at the same time. She waved her hand impatiently as if to say, “Get moving,” before walking out from the carport. She didn’t wait for me to start moving; she just started walking, dragging me along. I rolled my eyes but fell into step beside her.
The Ice Queen cautiously turned toward the barn. As we drew nearer to it, she pulled me closer, angling her body slightly in front of mine—a protective effort that didn’t go unnoticed. She then interlaced her fingers in mine, taking a firm hold. It was a move so casual and efficient that it caught me off guard. Her touch sent a strange current through me, like electricity sparking under my skin.
Her focus was laser-sharp, her eyes scrutinizing every shadow.
When we approached the barn door, she crouched low, her Glock steady in her hand. Her head tilted subtly as she listened for the slightest sound. She used her foot to nudge the barn door open a few inches, peering through the gap before slipping inside. I followed. For a second, my chest pressed against her back, and I felt the tension in her shoulders.
The barn was empty—just a few broken tools and an old tractor collecting dust. She didn’t relax though. She continued investigating until she had swept every nook and cranny.
After exiting the barn, we moved toward the house at a slow pace. Her steps were light and deliberate, barely disturbing the gravel beneath her boots. Her fingers clenched around mine, tension radiating through her touch, silently signaling her anxiety as we advanced.
Her eyes darted to the windows, and I focused my gaze there as well, scanning for any movement or signs of life. Her fingers pressed tighter against mine, and she took a measured breath.
When we reached the porch, she paused, kneeling beside the steps. She ran her cuffed hand beneath a wooden plank at the edge of the porch, pressing down. It took me a second to realize she was checking for booby traps.
Who the hell was this woman?
Every movement she made was so precise, so calculated, but her behavior also raised a thousand questions. She wasn’t just some soldier. She was trained—really well trained. Special Forces maybe? Intelligence? My suspicion grew the more we were together, but so did my respect.
There was something mesmerizing about the way she moved, the way her body seemed to hum with awareness. She was a force of nature, and I wasn’t sure if I was more intimidated or impressed.
When we reached the door to the house, she pressed her back against the wall beside it, letting go of my hand. She turned her head slightly and gestured for silence, holding her finger to her lips.
Her hand hovered in front of her for a second, cautioning me, her eyes narrowing as she listened. She gently tested the knob. Then, with a swift twist, she shoved the door open, holding the Glock out in front of her.
The house was silent, the air stale with disuse. Without hesitation, she stepped inside and quickly swept the space. I followed, staying close, my pulse pounding in my ears.
It was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that made you second-guess every move. The sun was rising higher in the sky, light spilling through the dusty windows. The place was a time capsule—frozen in the moment its owners had fled. The table still had a tablecloth draped over it, and a pair of boots sat by the front door.
The Ice Queen didn’t seem fazed. She moved with the same cold precision I was starting to expect from her—her eyes darting to every corner, her body tense and ready for danger.
After a few minutes, she finally holstered her Glock, but her hand hovered near it. I followed suit, slipping my pistol into the waistband of my jeans at my back. It wasn’t ideal, but it’d have to do.
She checked the cabinets first, running her uncuffed hand along shelves and lightly tapping the wood to check for anything hidden. I stood behind her, watching as she reached for the top shelf, her muscles flexing under her fitted black shirt. She was tall for a woman, maybe just shy of six feet, and every inch of her was lean muscle. The way she moved—it wasn’t just grace; it was discipline. She reminded me of one of those gymnasts you saw in the Olympics, all strength and balance disguised as elegance.
She turned abruptly, yanking on the chain between us. I stumbled forward, the cuff biting into my wrist, and huffed out in pain.
In response, she threw a glance over her shoulder, her brow arching just enough to let me know she didn’t give a damn about my comfort—or lack thereof. Her smirk was fleeting, barely there, before she turned her attention back to the room.
I shuffled along beside her as she continued to explore the house, staying alert in case anything went awry.
The house felt…untouched. There were dishes in the sink, a pot on the stove, and faded family photos on the walls. It didn’t look like Russian or Ukrainian forces had been through here, and I wondered how long it had been like this. Three years? Long enough for dust to settle but not long enough for the memories of the people who’d lived here to fade entirely.
Finally, she stopped searching and straightened, her hand brushing against mine as she pulled me forward. She muttered something in Russian and released a relieved sigh.
With that, she turned her attention to the pantry, rummaging through cans and jars. She bent over, with me in tow, and I had to place my hand on her hip and lean against her to avoid toppling over. Her scent did strange things to my head. Between my chest grazing her back and the sway of her hips as she shifted, it was impossible not to respond physically. I clenched my jaw, willing my focus elsewhere, but my desire for her was undeniable.
After a minute, she straightened, holding an unopened bag of oats in one hand and a sealed jar of honey in the other. She handed them to me and turned back to the pantry, grabbing a jar of dark purple jam that had been preserved who knew how long ago and, to my surprise, a can of Spam. She examined each item with a critical eye before placing it on the counter.
It was the box she pulled from the bottom shelf that really caught my attention. With a grunt, she hauled it up and pried it open, revealing Russian MREs stacked neatly inside. She inspected a few before setting the box aside, giving a decisive nod and clearly noting it for later use.
“Not exactly steak and potatoes,” I muttered under my breath. She didn’t respond, though I caught the slightest twitch of her lips.
Moving to a cabinet, she found a pot and turned to the sink. She tested the faucet, letting the rusty, sputtering water run until it cleared.
“Hey, it’s clean,” I said, relief flooding through me.
She grabbed two glasses from a cabinet and handed them to me. I rinsed them out quickly, the handcuffs making the process awkward as hell. Her silent irritation hung in the air between us, but I was too thirsty to care.
I filled one glass and drained it in a single gulp. The cool water hit my throat like salvation, and for the first time in days, I felt halfway human.
Her gaze dropped to the handcuffs binding us, and she frowned, rotating her wrist to examine the restraints. A muscle in her jaw tightened as she ran her fingers along the chain, her eyes narrowing in frustration. She was already calculating how to remove them; she wasn’t going to put up with this situation for much longer.
I refilled the two glasses and handed one to her. She took a long sip and then set her glass on the counter. Her eyes closed momentarily, and she took a long, cleansing breath, nodded, and turned. She rummaged through some more cabinets and found a few pots and pans. After selecting a small saucepan, she turned back to the sink and rinsed it quickly. Then she filled it with water and tugged on the cuffs, leading me into the living room, toward a wood-burning stove in the corner. There wasn’t much I could do except try to stay out of her way as much as possible.
We were in luck; there were a few pieces of unburned wood, a little kindling, and some wadded-up paper inside. I reached down and fumbled with the old-fashioned flint and steel, managing to light the paper under the kindling and get a small fire going. Thankfully, the dry wood caught quickly.
The Ice Queen smiled in approval. Hmm, could she possibly be thawing?
She tugged me back into the kitchen, grabbed the oats from the counter and a spoon from a drawer, and returned to the stove. She added a generous portion of the oats to the saucepan, and it wasn’t long before the mixture started bubbling. I shoved a hand in my pocket, standing patiently beside her as she stirred them, lost in my thoughts. Soon, the oatmeal thickened, and she carried it back into the kitchen, setting the pot on a gas stove that appeared to be long out of commission.
While the oatmeal cooled, she reached for the can of Spam and grabbed a knife from the drawer. She popped the lid, slid the meat out onto a plate, and sliced it into thick pieces, putting the plate in the center of the table for us to share.
Together, we found and rinsed two bowls and spoons. She poured the oatmeal, giving me most of it, and added a generous drizzle of honey and a heaping spoonful of jam to each bowl. The sweet smell of the jam made my stomach growl loudly. God, I was so hungry.
We sat down across from each other at the kitchen table, our linked hands resting on top. She placed her Glock on the table, picked up her spoon, and started eating.
I followed her lead, shoveling a massive spoonful into my mouth. The oatmeal was warm and perfectly sweetened by the honey and jam.
Grabbing a slice of Spam, I tore off a hunk with my teeth. It was salty and oddly satisfying. Between the two of us, we demolished the entire can in minutes. After days of nothing but adrenaline and fumes, the processed meat tasted better than any steak dinner I’d ever had.
The sun was shining brighter and lighting up the room now. It was going to be another hot day, and I wasn’t looking forward to what lay ahead, but at least I had managed to get some food. She sat quietly, focusing entirely on what she was eating. She didn’t say a word, didn’t meet my eyes, merely chewed methodically as if it were just another task to complete.
“Thanks for breakfast,” I said dryly, raising my glass of water in a mock toast.
Her eyes flicked to mine for a brief second, and for the first time, I thought I recognized a hint of amusement…maybe.
We continued eating in silence, the scraping of our spoons against the bowls the only sound. The farmhouse was quiet, as though the world outside had pressed pause, but the air between us was far from calm. It was tense and charged with an energy I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Every time her hand brushed mine or the chain yanked on my wrist, my pulse kicked up, and her tension bled into me. Was it frustration? Or something else? Either way, it was crawling under my skin and impossible to ignore.
It wasn’t just the situation we were in—being on the run, on the constant edge of survival—it was her . This woman was dangerous, and she knew it, owned it, and dared me to take her on. Yet beneath all that was an undercurrent of attraction I couldn’t explain but sure as hell felt.
I didn’t know what was going on between us, but one thing was clear: she was unlike anyone I’d ever met, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to run from her iciness or straight into her fire.