12. BRAXTON
Chapter twelve
O ur boots crunched through the leaves littering the forest floor. Tall, sturdy trees stretched upward, their trunks spaced enough to give us room to walk side by side. Light filtered through the canopy overhead, casting a dappled pattern of shifting shadows across the ground. It was cooler here, the oppressive heat of the sun lessened by the shade. Fallen branches and patches of moss were scattered across the ground, but the path was manageable. My legs felt like lead, every step sending a dull ache up my calves, but slowing down wasn’t an option. We kept moving, step after step, both of us forging ahead with the kind of exhaustion that left little room for conversation.
Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more going on with Daria than just physical weariness. There was a heaviness to her, and although we were navigating a dangerous situation, this disquietude seemed to run deeper. I needed to know more, to understand the woman who’d risked everything to save me. If I could just get her to talk to me, let me in even a little, maybe her walls would start to crack.
Without really thinking about it, I reached for her hand. It was smaller than mine, calloused but warm. She tensed immediately, her fingers stiffening. She looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “What are you doing?” she asked, glancing down at our joined hands.
I chuckled softly. “I’m holding your hand.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to.”
She blinked at me, and one brow quirked up. For a few beats, I thought she might pull away, but she didn’t. Slowly, her hand relaxed in mine. We kept walking in silence until she finally muttered, “Americans are so touchy-feely. This reminds me of some playground crush.”
I grinned. “Really? Maybe Russians just need to learn to lighten up. Or maybe it’s just you,” I teased. “Life’s about the small things, Daria. Not everything has to be driven by some life-or-death purpose. It’s okay to let your guard down and share your feelings.”
She shook her head, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “I don’t do emotions,” she said flatly. “They get in the way and make you weak. People use them to control you—to hurt you.”
I squeezed her hand gently, letting her know I heard the unspoken truth beneath her words. “Doesn’t have to be that way.”
She didn’t respond, but she didn’t let my hand go either.
I glanced over at her. “You ever think about what life might be like if things were…different?”
Her gaze stayed fixed ahead, her brows drawing together slightly. “Different how?” she finally asked.
“I don’t know,” I said carefully. “Like, if you didn’t have to be constantly on guard. If you didn’t have to be some tool like this all the time. You know, having the ability to relax and have some fun. The freedom to do whatever your heart desires?”
She let out a humorless chuckle. “Freedom isn’t something people like me get to have. Not for long, anyway.”
I scrubbed my fingers over my chin. “What do you mean, people like you?”
She sighed, her shoulders sagging slightly. “I’m Russian—we don’t have a constitution that guarantees our freedoms or the rule of law. We have a dictator who decides everything. I was raised to follow orders. Discipline, control, and strength—those were the only things that mattered. My father made sure of that after my mother…” Her words faded into silence, and her hand became rigid before she forced it to relax.
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” I said softly, not wanting to push too hard. Still, I wanted her to know I was here to listen.
“No, it’s fine,” she said, though her voice grew a bit remote. “Like I told you, she…died when I was six. After that, my father made sure I understood weakness wasn’t an option. I learned quickly how to survive on my own.”
I swallowed the lump forming in my throat. “I get that,” I said after a moment. “My parents…weren’t really there for me either. My mom tried, but…” I hesitated, then decided to just lay it all out. “She slit her wrists when I was only ten, and things went downhill from there. Eventually, she died two years later from alcohol poisoning. My father didn’t murder her, but he wasn’t a good man, which played a part in her issues. Then, a year later, he passed away from a heart attack. I guess you could say I learned to survive on my own too. If it hadn’t been for my older brother, my little brother and I would have gone completely off the rails. We’ve all dealt with what happened differently, but no matter what any of us has gotten ourselves into, we always have each other’s backs.”
Daria’s head tilted slightly as she gave me a sidelong glance. There was no pity in her eyes—just quiet understanding. “At least you have your brothers.”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “Atticus and Conan. They keep me grounded. Without them, I don’t know where I’d be. There’s nothing like the bond we have.” I let out a sigh of frustration. “They’ve got to be losing their minds about the van getting ambushed and me going missing. I feel like such an asshole for putting them through this.”
“It’s not your fault—shit happens.”
“Maybe, but like you said, I shouldn’t have waltzed into someone else’s war and tried to play the hero. I didn’t stop and think about how something could actually go wrong—or how that would impact them. I was offered an opportunity to see some of the world, and I seized it.”
She gave a small nod but stayed silent. I readjusted the pack on my shoulders and kicked a rock out of the path.
“It was good you had them,” she said after a few beats of silence. “I didn’t have that luxury. I had to survive all by myself.” Her voice held a note of wistfulness.
She was quiet for another moment before glancing over at me, her expression softening. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like. Losing both of your parents so young—and in such terrible ways. For your mother to be in so much pain…and then for you to lose your only other parent, no matter what kind of man he was. You were just a kid, you and your brothers.” She shook her head slightly. “It says a lot about you that you didn’t let it destroy you. That you became someone who helps others when they’re at their lowest.”
The sincerity in her voice caught me off guard. This wasn’t the cold, closed-off woman I’d met back at that abandoned Ukrainian house. There was empathy in her, something deep and real. It was like she was giving me a glimpse of her true self.
“Thanks,” I said quietly. “It wasn’t easy, but we leaned on each other. That’s what got us through.”
She nodded slowly. “You’re lucky. A lot of people…they don’t get that kind of support. They have to carry everything alone.”
That comment hit me hard. It revealed her loneliness, the years of carrying burdens no one should have to bear all alone. She’d hardened herself into steel because she’d never had anyone else to share the load.
“You’re not alone now,” I said quietly, meaning every word.
Daria’s footsteps slowed, and she looked at me with disbelief. She didn’t say anything, just shook her head slightly before returning her attention to the path ahead.
We kept walking, and I kept holding her hand.
Soon, the sun dipped low on the horizon, and the forest grew dark. We were both exhausted from the relentless trek, and we’d begun tripping over roots and branches, despite having slowed our pace to a walk. Daria kept checking her GPS, glancing at it with increasing frequency. Suddenly, she stopped and turned to me, the exhaustion on her face momentarily replaced with a look of excitement.
“There,” she said, pointing ahead. “There should be a bunker nearby. It was built by the Russian military but never really used. If it’s still intact, we can stay there tonight.”
Shelter. Real, solid shelter. It sounded damn good after a day of running through forests and fields. “A bunker, huh? Okay, lead the way,” I said, adjusting the pack on my shoulders.
We continued moving through the trees, Daria scanning the terrain as she navigated. Eventually, we found it—a thick concrete structure partially buried in the earth. It had a metal door and a small turret poking out from the top.
I grinned. “Not exactly five-star accommodations, but I’ve stayed in worse.”
Daria approached the door cautiously, testing the handle. It gave with a low groan, the hinges complaining but functional. We stepped into the darkness. The walls were thick, the air cool and still. There was enough space on the concrete floor for both of us to lie down, and beneath the turret was a small opening that would work as a chimney for a fire.
“This’ll do,” she said, nodding with satisfaction.
I dropped the pack by the door. “It’s nearly dark. Let’s gather some wood and kindling for a fire.”
She nodded, and together we scoured the area, finding enough dry wood for a decent fire. We stacked it over the kindling, and I stuffed some of the papers and a few hryvnia around the edges. Then I pulled out the flint and steel, scraping the steel over the stone in a nice rocking motion and sending sparks flying in the air. The paper caught fire, followed by the kindling, and soon we had a small fire going. The smoke filtered up and out, leaving the interior of the bunker surprisingly breathable. Its light and warmth were nice in the cold, barren space.
“Not bad,” I said, settling near the fire. “Like camping in a concrete igloo.”
Daria rolled her eyes and started unpacking the rucksack. I spread the plastic shower curtain I’d grabbed earlier across the ground and laid the blanket over it. It wasn’t much, but it beat sleeping on cold concrete. While I worked on adding more wood to the fire, she dug through the supplies, pulling out the pot, oats, honey, and jam.
“We need to eat as much as we can so we’ll have energy for tomorrow’s long trek,” she said. “It’ll be about twenty-six kilometers. Plus, it will make the pack a little lighter for you to carry.” She laughed softly.
Pouring some water into the pot, she placed it into the fire to heat. “Oats and MREs it is,” she said.
“Luxury,” I said dryly, picking up an MRE and opening it. I tore open some of the little packages and peeked inside them. Stewed meat, dried nuts, some crackers, and—another chocolate bar. Hell yeah. The Russians might get a lot wrong, but they sure knew how to make good chocolate.
Daria raised an eyebrow. “You really like those?”
“Chocolate’s chocolate,” I said with a shrug. “Especially after a day like today.”
As the oats thickened over the fire, Daria tossed me a wet wipe from one of the MREs. “Clean your hands before you eat.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, giving her a mock salute. I wiped down my hands with the cool, citrus-scented cloth. She did the same before dishing out the porridge, adding honey and jam like before, and passing me a bowl. We ate in comfortable silence, staring into the crackling fire.
We forced down the MRE stew next, followed by the plums. I couldn’t help but chuckle as I savored the chocolate. Simple pleasures.
Daria scooted back, stretched her legs out, and leaned back against the wall. “I’ll take the first watch,” she said, her tone leaving no room for debate.
I frowned. “We’re inside a concrete bunker in the middle of nowhere. We haven’t seen any signs of people—just wildlife. I think we’ll be fine.”
“Lack of vigilance is what gets people killed,” she countered.
“No, what gets people killed is exhaustion,” I shot back. “Daria, we’ve been running on fumes for days. Lack of sleep messes with your brain—delaying reaction times, impairing decision-making, decreasing situational awareness. All of it tanks when you’re sleep-deprived. You might think you’re alert, but your body’s already betraying you. Trust me. I’m a paramedic. I’ve seen what happens when people push past their limits.”
She hesitated, clearly thinking about my words.
“We both need rest,” I continued. “In the event something does happen, we won’t be any good to each other if we can’t function properly. Besides, based on what I know of you, the least little sound will have you awake and moving.”
She exhaled slowly, some of the tension easing from her body. “Fine. I’ll just rest my eyes a little.” She picked up the package of wet wipes and moved to stand by the makeshift bed. God, she was beautiful in the light of the fire.
“Good,” I said, setting my bowl aside.
She removed the tactical belt and her fatigue shirt and laid them on the edge of the blanket, then lowered herself and sat cross-legged. Pulling out a couple of the wipes, she cleaned her face. I sat down next to her and took one too. The cool cloth felt good against my dirty skin.
I watched Daria as she rubbed the wipe along her neck and down toward her chest. The firelight danced across her skin, highlighting the lines of her collarbone and the curves that teased just beneath her tank top. I swallowed hard, my thoughts veering into dangerous territory.
I grabbed another wipe, shaking my head to clear it. “I think you missed a spot,” I said softly, leaning toward her.
Her eyes flicked to mine, but she didn’t pull away as I gently ran the cool cloth along her cheek, trailing it down the length of her throat. She let out a slow breath and tilted her head back, her eyes fluttering shut. Damn, her vulnerability in this moment stunned me in a way I hadn’t seen coming. The woman was a fortress most of the time, but here she was letting me care for her.
Moving without really thinking, I tossed the wipe and pulled her closer so she could lie beside me on the makeshift bed. I stretched out my arm, letting her rest her head on my bicep while my other arm circled her waist. She fit perfectly against me, her body warm and soft.
But then she shifted, adjusting herself to get comfortable, and in doing so, her ass pressed right against me—right against my cock, which decided it didn’t give a damn about my exhaustion. It sprang to life instantly, and I cursed under my breath. I tightened my hand on her belly, splaying my fingers to keep her from moving again.
“Stay still,” I rumbled. “You keep doing that, and you’re going to get more than you bargained for.”
Her response was a light, playful giggle. And, of course, she wriggled her hips again, this time intentionally. The pressure of her against me shot straight to my balls, and I hissed through clenched teeth.
“Dammit, Daria,” I growled. “I mean it.”
She turned her head just enough to glance at me, her eyes shimmering with mischief. That surprised me. She’d been clear—we couldn’t blur our boundaries again like we had back at the lake. But here she was, teasing the hell out of me. There was no way I could resist that glimpse of playfulness. Her icy blues were on fire.
I leaned in and kissed her temple softly. “I know exactly what you need right now,” I murmured near her ear. My voice was a low command. “But you need to stop moving and relax. Just…be still and trust me.”
Her breathing hitched, and she went motionless. I pressed gently on her stomach, and she let out a slow exhale, gradually melting into my hold.
We were both worn out, and it was the kind of fatigue that seeped into your bones and made you ache for a moment of peace. Daria had made me rock hard. She was exhausted from our long trek, and yet there was a tension in her, a coiled spring of stress and adrenaline that I recognized all too well. If she was ever going to get any sleep, she needed to let go, find some semblance of calm.
She’d been teasing me, knowing exactly what she was doing when she pressed against me. But I wasn’t about to take advantage of the situation. She needed release, not complications.
Slowly, I let my hand drift up under her tank top, my fingers grazing the soft skin of her stomach. Her sharp intake of breath was the only indication that she was still very much awake and very much aware of my every move. Her heartbeat quickened beneath my hand as I gently squeezed, my thumb circling her nipple until it hardened under my touch. She let out a soft moan, arching her back to press her breast more firmly into my hand.
Her body yielded to the pleasure she sought, the pleasure I was more than willing to provide. I let my fingers wander, tracing the curve of her breasts.
I took my time, exploring every inch of them, rolling her nipples between my fingers. Her breaths came faster now, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath she took. I continued, moving my fingers slowly, alternating between gentle caresses and firmer tugs. Her body writhed against mine as I teased and pleasured her.
My hand slid down her belly, tracing the line of her waistband before unfastening the button of her pants. When I dragged the zipper down, she shivered with anticipation.
I slipped my hand inside, my fingers finding the tight bundle of nerves. She was already slick with desire, her body responding immediately to my touch. I circled her clit with gentle pressure, each stroke eliciting a moan from her parted lips.
Her body tensed within my arms, her hips rocking as I teased her. As soon as I slid one finger inside, her tight walls clenched around my finger like they never wanted to let go. I added a second finger, stretching her, preparing her for the rhythm I was about to set.
She was so wet, so needy, her body trembling.
Thrusting in and out, I found the perfect pace that made her cry out in pleasure. She tried to turn toward me, but I held her firmly in place, determined to make her come, to give her the gratification she craved.
Her moans grew louder, and she began to seek the friction needed to tip her over into oblivion. I increased the speed of my fingers, curling them just so, to hit that sweet spot inside her. My thumb continued to stroke her clit in time with the thrusts of my fingers, pushing her closer and closer to the edge.
And then, she was there, her orgasm washing over her in waves. Her walls clenched around my fingers, her body shuddering with the force of her release. I continued to move my fingers, drawing out every last tremor until she lay spent and sated in my arms.
As her body relaxed, she tried to roll toward me again, no doubt with the intention of returning the favor. But I wasn’t having any of it. This wasn’t about me. This was about taking care of her, giving her the release she so desperately needed to find sleep.
“Shh,” I whispered in her ear, holding her firmly against me. “Just sleep, Daria. I’ve got you. I just wanted to take care of you.”
She melted against me, her body boneless and pliant in the afterglow of her orgasm. My arm folded around her, creating a protective cocoon that I hoped would keep the nightmares at bay.
“Sweet dreams, beautiful,” I breathed, kissing her on the cheek.
I started humming, gently singing, “Your Man,” one of my favorite songs by Josh Turner. As I sang, her breathing evened out, her body relaxing even further against mine. I watched her —this strong, fierce woman who had been through so much—as sleep finally claimed her. The lines of stress and worry vanished from her face, replaced by a serene calm that was almost otherworldly.
For a few minutes afterward, I continued to hum, my voice a low rumble in the stillness of the dark bunker. Soon my own eyelids grew heavy, the exhaustion from the last few days finally catching up to me. But I didn’t want to sleep, not yet. I wanted to stay awake, to watch over her, to protect her from the dangers that lurked outside.
Eventually, though, sleep became an inevitability. I tightened my hold on Daria, tucking her closer to me. And with the sound of her steady breathing in my ear and the warmth of her body against mine, I allowed myself to drift off, content knowing that, for this moment at least, she was safe.