15. DARIA
Chapter fifteen
T he road stretched before us as we trudged along on this seemingly never-ending march toward safety. It was a narrow dirt path, worn down by time and tires, cutting through the open countryside. The forest was behind us now, its dark canopy fading into memory, replaced by an expanse of tall grass. The chill of morning lingered. We had been walking for hours, moving southwest toward a town I hoped would be safe for both of us.
Braxton walked beside me, scanning the horizon the way a man does when he’s not used to being hunted. He was learning. Caution came quickly when survival was at stake.
The sky had already begun to shift from deep blue to the pale hues of late morning. If we kept moving at this pace, we’d reach the town by late afternoon. There, we would hopefully be able to find some food and have a chance to think in relative safety.
I needed both in the worst sort of ways.
My thoughts drifted back to waking in Braxton’s arms.
The sun had just begun to rise, and the realization of where I was had come slowly to my weary mind, slipping into my awareness. My head had been resting against his chest as I slept, rising and falling with the steady rhythm of his breath, while his heartbeat had thrummed beneath my ear.
When I awoke, Braxton had been still asleep, his head tilted back against the wall of the trench, his mouth slightly open as he snored softly. His arms were wrapped around me, holding me close as if I were his to protect at all costs.
I’d berated myself then, thinking that I should have pulled away from him last night before drifting off. I should have reminded myself that this wasn’t real—that once he was safe, once he was back with his friends and his coworkers at the Global Food Outreach, I would never see him again.
And yet, I had lingered.
It was such an unusual sensation…to trust someone enough to fall asleep in their arms.
I had spent my entire life sleeping with one eye open, weapons within reach, body tensed to spring into action. Yet there I was, cocooned in the arms of a man I had known for only a few days, a man who had no reason to trust me and yet—somehow—did.
I’d swallowed the lump in my throat and slowly untangled myself from his hold. His grip was firm even in sleep, his fingers curled around my wrist as if to keep me from slipping away. I’d hated breaking the moment, knowing it was fleeting.
The second he was safely out of this war zone, I would be nothing more than a memory. And maybe that was for the best.
I’d traced my fingers along his jaw, taking a minute to appreciate just how ruggedly good-looking he was. God, how I wanted those full lips and that scruffy beard trailing over my skin, leaving heat in their wake. I wanted them on me, marking me, making me forget everything else.
Then, leaning in for a stolen kiss, I’d whispered in Russian, “ Thank you for being the kind of man I never thought existed or allowed myself to see before. Either way, you are what every woman deserves but few ever find—a truly good man. Even if only for a brief time, I was lucky enough to have you cross my path.” The words slipped past my lips quietly, more for me than him.
But the warmth in my chest had faded when Braxton stirred awake and reality set in. His fingers tightened on my arm as he sleepily murmured, “What’d you just say?”
I’d pressed my lips together, shaking my head. “Nothing. I was just thinking out loud about how we needed to get going.” I wasn’t about to embarrass myself by saying it in English—he’d think I was ridiculous.
His brow had furrowed, but he hadn’t pushed.
That was good. Because I wouldn’t have been sure what to say; my emotions were tangled in ways I’d never imagined. So, I’d turned away, chewing on my lip, forcing my mind back toward survival, toward the road ahead—toward anything but how much I had wanted to stay in his arms a little longer, clinging to the illusion that, for once, I was someone worth holding.
I was so lost in my head that I didn’t notice Braxton moving closer until he slung an arm around my shoulders. The sudden contact startled me, my muscles tensing on instinct before I forced myself to relax. He was holding me in that easy, natural way he had, like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. Not to me.
“Whatever’s poisoning your mind,” he said, leaning in and kissing my temple, “you need to let it go. We’re almost safe. Soon, we’ll come up with a plan to get you somewhere far away from your past and the Russians.”
I exhaled slowly, giving him a weak smile.
A new life was starting to sound good, and—with him—I was ready to believe it was possible. And maybe if we survived this, it was.
We had been walking for hours, putting as much distance between ourselves and the border as possible. The deeper we pushed into Ukrainian territory, the better our chances of survival. But until we reached a town with regular Ukrainian citizens and had a way to contact either someone he knew here or the Ukrainian officials who were aware of my status, we wouldn’t be safe. Even then, it wasn’t a guarantee, but our chances were better.
Then a strange sensation hit me. I stepped out of Braxton’s hold, rolling my shoulders, the restless energy in me rising. There was an itch beneath my skin, a prickle of warning that wouldn’t go away.
Something felt off .
I had learned a long time ago to trust my instincts. They only flared like this when something bad was about to happen.
I reached for my GPS and checked our progress. “It’s been six hours since we left the trench,” I murmured. “I’d guess we’ve covered about twenty-nine kilometers.”
Braxton let out a low whistle. “Hell of a way to start your morning.”
I huffed a small laugh, but my gut was unsettled. The road ahead stretched out, empty and quiet. “I’m surprised we haven’t seen a car—or anyone, for that matter.” I frowned, peering into the distance. “But then again, maybe we should be thankful for that.”
For a while longer, I searched the horizon, sweeping my gaze over the road, the trees in the distance, and the surrounding fields. There was nothing. No movement, no shifting shadows, no telltale signs of an ambush waiting to spring.
And yet, the unease remained.
Braxton’s fingers brushed against mine before curling around them.
I looked down at our joined hands, then up at him.
The cocky man just smiled at me as if it were nothing—like it was the easiest thing in the world to touch me.
I hated myself for loving it so much.
I had never been with a man who reached for me simply because he wanted to. Not out of dominance, not to stake a claim, not as a prelude to sex. Just a touch, a connection, as natural as breathing.
Butterflies— actual butterflies—fluttered in my stomach, something light and unfamiliar stirring in my chest.
I’d always thought that was just some romantic notion, a dreamy fantasy only found in books.
There was no escaping the reality though. Being with Braxton sent an electric current from my brain to my heart and straight to my most intimate places.
I couldn’t help the blush that heated my cheeks, but I didn’t pull away.
My mind wandered to our time at the river, to how free I’d been with him, how exhilarating it had been to let go, to give in to nothing but pure bliss. And then I thought of that first night on the run, when he had touched me, pleased me—but refused to take anything in return.
Sexual attraction was immediate and undeniable. At least, it always has been for me. A rush of need took hold, my body reacted, and I claimed exactly what I wanted.
But this …
This sweet, quiet affection, his easy way with me, was something altogether different.
And it scared the hell out of me.
I couldn’t be catching feelings .
No way. I couldn’t let myself want something I could never have.
But the way he made me wish I could ? That was beyond unexpected. Strange even .
And still, here I was daydreaming, my protective instincts raging. I wanted to make sure he got back to whatever normal life he had. Wanted to see him safe. Wanted… more . More time. More days to talk. More moments to melt into his arms. More chances to feel desired—not for my body, not for my skill, but for the woman buried beneath the hard shell.
My mind flickered to my mother. Had she ever felt this way?
Had she ever looked at my father and felt something real? Or had she only ever felt trapped?
I knew the story well enough. My father had seen her dance in St. Petersburg and had become infatuated. Their courtship had been fast, furious. But had it been something she wanted? I would never know.
Because, when my father wanted something, he pursued it relentlessly. He always got what he wanted.
And maybe, to him, my mother had been nothing more than a trophy. Something beautiful to own.
Until she wasn’t.
A chill rippled through me.
I had my father’s blood in my veins. I had been raised by his rules. But as I glanced at Braxton, at the man holding my hand so casually, I knew—whatever this was, it was nothing like what my mother had ever known.
And I wasn’t sure if that made me feel better…
Or worse.
Braxton squeezed my hand and pressed a quick kiss to my cheek, jolting me out of my thoughts.
“Hey, whatever it is, let it go,” he demanded softly. “You’ve got plenty of time to solve the world’s problems.”
I glanced up at him, still lost in my head, still thinking about things I had no business dwelling on. But his warm brown eyes held steady on me in a way that made my chest tighten. I exhaled and nodded, forcing myself to refocus.
He didn’t let go of my hand. “So, when do you think it’ll be safe to contact someone to get us the hell out of here?”
Once more, I turned to the horizon and scanned the distant rooftops that were barely visible through the haze. “We wait until we’re closer to town. More people, more places to hide if we need to. The second we turn on a phone or send a signal, we’ll light up like a beacon. I’d rather not make it easy for them.”
Braxton nodded, his expression becoming serious again. But after a few moments, he sighed and shook his head. “All right. In that case, let’s kill some time.”
I eyed him warily. “What do you mean?”
His lips curled into a lazy smirk. “What’s your favorite color?”
I blinked. “What?”
“Your favorite color.”
I huffed a laugh. “That’s…random.”
“Humor me.”
After a moment of hesitation, I shrugged and said, “Pink.”
Braxton snorted, his grin widening. “Pink? You mean to tell me that a badass Russian spy, trained killer, and world-class saboteur likes the most girlie color on the spectrum?”
I arched a brow. “Just because I work in a man’s world, that doesn’t mean I have to forgo my femininity.”
Braxton held up his other hand in mock surrender. “Fair point.”
We walked in comfortable silence for a few more minutes before he spoke again. “Okay, next question. Favorite food?”
I shook my head. “Impossible question.”
“Why?”
“Because I love too many things. But…” I smirked slightly. “I do have quite a sweet tooth.”
Braxton gasped dramatically. “No way. I totally had you pegged as a Wagyu and mushroom risotto with rosemary and Asiago type of girl.”
I rolled my eyes. “Although that sounds delicious, I am not pretentious.”
Braxton barked out a laugh. “Definitely not. You’re probably the most pragmatic person I’ve ever met.”
In one smooth move, he let go of my hand, slid his palm up my back, gripped the back of my neck, and pulled me in for a hard kiss, stopping us in our tracks. God, this man could kiss. Wet heat surged between my thighs.
When he finally broke away, that infuriating grin of his was waiting for me—the one I hated, the one I couldn’t get enough of. Then, as if to prove a point, he pressed a quick kiss to my forehead, took my hand again, and resumed walking like nothing had happened.
It wasn’t the move itself—I’d been kissed many times by other men, most of them with far less honorable intentions. No, it was the way he’d done it. Casual, effortless, like it meant nothing and everything at the same time.
I frowned at him in confusion, but he just smiled broader.
Before I could analyze it, he threw another question at me. “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Is this fifty questions?”
“Obviously.” He grinned. “Are all Russians this reluctant to share personal details?”
I smirked. “Are all Americans this nosy?”
“Of course,” he shot back. “How else can I get to know you better? I want to know everything about you. What makes you tick, what lights you up, what makes you sad, your darkest fears…” He tilted his head just a little, studying me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve. “You fascinate me, Daria.”
I swallowed hard, my stomach twisting.
So I focused on the question. There were so many places I wanted to see. Thoughts of sun-drenched beaches and thick, mysterious rainforests flashed through my mind. But before I could open my mouth to answer—
Dust.
A plume of it kicked up in the distance.
I tensed, tightening my hand around Braxton’s. A second later, I spotted a black SUV barreling toward us, moving fast .
Shit.
I whipped my head around just as another one appeared on the road behind us.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Braxton’s grip became iron-tight. “Oh, fuck,” he muttered. “That doesn’t look friendly.”
It wasn’t.
And we were out in the open.
Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run.
My eyes darted along the stretch of barbed-wire fencing, searching for a break, an opening—anything. But there was nothing. Just more wire.
“Come on!” I yanked on Braxton’s hand, dragging him toward the fence anyway. “Crawl under.”
He barely hesitated before grabbing the bottom wire, but instead of ducking down, he turned to me and pulled the wire up. “Go first.”
“No.” I shook my head. “You go.”
“ Daria, go! ” he barked, his eyes wild and his muscles coiled like he was ready to throw me over the damn thing himself.
I opened my mouth to argue, but the roar of engines cut through the air.
Too late.
Tires skidded to a stop.
Doors flew open.
“Hands in the air!” a man shouted in Russian.
Men in black tactical gear spilled from both SUVs, raising AK-47s and locking aim onto us.
Braxton’s body went rigid. My pulse thundered in my ears.
I turned to him, my throat tightening as his wide eyes bored frantically into mine. I’d failed him.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, slowly raising my hands.
Braxton hesitated, then stepped away from the fence before lifting his hands in surrender. Together, we moved back onto the road.
One of the men from the SUV that had pulled up behind us barked another order. “Drop your weapons!”
I moved first, unholstering my Glock and tossing it into the dirt. Braxton stood still, keeping his hands raised, the Makarov remaining in his waistband. He had no idea what they were saying.
The men took a couple of wary steps toward us, and then all hell broke loose.
The men from the SUV that had approached us from behind rushed me, shouting for me to get on my knees.
The ones from the front went for Braxton.
I didn’t comply, and as soon as the first man reached me, I threw an elbow into his throat, using his momentary stumble to grab his rifle and yank it forward, knocking him off-balance. Another man grabbed my arm. I twisted, slamming my knee into his stomach, but their grip on me didn’t loosen.
Chaos erupted, followed by shouting and struggling.
I caught a glimpse of Braxton, who was twisting, thrashing, trying to break free as they dragged him toward their SUV. He fought like hell, landing blows where he could, refusing to go down easily.
I wanted to scream for him not to fight, but a fist crashed into my face, rattling my skull. I staggered back, my vision swimming for a split second before instinct took over.
Memorize. Everything.
License plate. Type of vehicle. Their faces. The way they move. Their accents.
I was back in Special Intelligence mode now.
A hard punch connected with my ribs, another with my stomach. I gritted my teeth, refusing to make a sound, even as pain detonated throughout my body.
Braxton’s roar cut through the noise of the melee.
I snapped my head up, blood dripping from my lip. Four men were on him now, struggling to keep him contained. His entire body strained against the men holding him back, veins bulging in his neck, his face contorted, his teeth bared in a feral snarl. He fought like a man possessed, but his eyes—God, his eyes—locked onto mine, dark with something more than anger. It was sheer, undiluted agony, carving lines across his face as he threw himself forward again.
He clearly understood what me getting dragged back into Russia would mean for me.
His eyes were wild, desperate, and he kept them locked onto mine as he fought. “Get the fuck off me!” he bellowed. “You have no idea what you’re doing! You’ve got it all wrong!”
Another punch crashed into my ribs, forcing me to my knees.
Braxton lost it.
With a violent jerk, he nearly tore free from his captors, the raw power of his fury taking over for a split second. “Daria!”
“Stop!” I gasped, but the wind was knocked out of me as a kick landed on my kidney, sending me sprawling onto my side.
Braxton continued to scuffle, trying to command the men into compliance—like he could talk these men into letting us go.
Irrational.
These weren’t men you reasoned with.
A sharp sting exploded at the base of my neck.
My vision tilted, then tunneled.
“Daria!” Braxton’s voice rang out—desperate, frantic—as darkness swallowed me whole.