Chapter 4
Katerina
The helicopter descends through a darkness that feels older than the city we left behind. No neon lights here. Just black ridgelines and the faint outline of trees waiting below.
Hawk doesn’t narrate the landing. He doesn’t reassure me. He simply lowers us through the last pocket of wind and sets the helicopter down with a precision that feels almost quiet.
The rotors slow and the world shrinks to the sound of ticking metal. For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then he unstraps and steps out into the cold. The kind that steals warmth without asking permission. I follow. My breath ghosts white in front of me.
The cabin sits thirty yards from the landing patch. Dark wood. Sloped roof. No exterior lights except the faint amber sensor glow near the door. It’s not a mansion. Not a bunker. It’s something in between.
Hawk moves ahead of me, scanning without looking like he’s scanning. He unlocks the door with a keypad code I pretend not to memorize. The door opens to darkness and the faint scent of old smoke and pine. He steps inside first.
I wait exactly one second before following. He crosses to the wall and flips a switch. Lights come alive. The interior is simple. Wide-plank floors. Stone fireplace. A heavy wool throw draped over the back of a couch that looks like it has seen winter before.
The fireplace draws my attention immediately. Wood stacked neatly beside it. Split clean. Prepared. He notices.
“Power’s stable,” he says. “But the fireplace runs regardless.”
He sets his headset on a side table and shrugs out of his jacket. Not casually. Efficiently.
“Bedroom’s through there,” he says, nodding toward a hallway. “Bathroom opposite.”
“You do this often?” I ask.
“Land helicopters in the mountains?” His mouth almost tilts. “When necessary.”
The cold has already crept into my bones. My gown was designed for admiration, not altitude. Silk offers nothing against mountain air.
He notices that too.
“Sit,” he says.
I arch an eyebrow. “You give a lot of instructions.”
“You’ve been barefoot in thirty-eight-degree air.”
That is not inaccurate, so I sit.
He kneels in front of the fireplace and sets a match to kindling with hands that don’t hesitate. Flame catches quickly. He builds it with quiet competence, stacking wood the way someone does when they’ve done it before.
Within minutes, warmth begins to push back the cold. The transformation is subtle but real. The mountain man comment I almost make dies before it reaches my lips. He stands and crosses to a storage cabinet near the kitchen area. Opens it.
Inside, I see vacuum-sealed packages, labeled bins, bottled water, emergency ration kits.
He pulls out two items and sets them on the counter.
“Clothing,” he says.
I stand and approach cautiously. Inside the first package, I find thermal leggings and an oversized flannel shirt. There are also thick socks. The second package holds plain gray sweatpants and underwear. It’s not tailored to fit. But, it’s safe, warm clothing. Totally not flattering.
“You stock women’s sizes often?” I ask.
“Standard issue covers a range.”
I pick up the flannel. It smells faintly of detergent and storage plastic. Not him. That shouldn’t disappoint me.
“There’s dried food,” he continues. “Protein packs. Rice. Freeze-dried meals. Generator-backed freezer in the lower storage if power goes out.”
He speaks like he’s reading inventory. But his eyes are on me. Not my body. My condition.
I hold the flannel against myself. “And if someone followed us?”
“They didn’t.”
Certainty.
“How do you know?”
“I would’ve seen it.”
His confidence isn’t arrogance. It’s assessment. That should calm me. It doesn’t. Because confidence fails when the variable is unknown. And he still doesn’t know the variable.
“I need a shower,” I say.
He nods once. “Hot water’s limited. Ten minutes.”
I step toward the hallway, then pause.
“What is this place?” I ask without turning.
“A contingency.”
“For what?”
“For tonight.”
That is not an answer. But it is honest. I close the bedroom door behind me and lean against it for a moment. For one reckless second, I consider letting go of being Katerina.
Then I remember — rooms like this could have eyes.
Entering the bath, I peel the gown from my skin slowly. It pools on the floor like something shed. In the mirror, I look smaller without elevation. Barefoot. Hair wild from rotor wash. Makeup slightly smudged at the edges.
I step into the shower and let heat return to my hands. I hurry and stay within the time limit. Once I’m out, I listen. In the living area, I can hear him moving. Cabinets opening. Water running in the sink. Wood shifting in the fire.
He is not pacing back and forth and really has not interrogated me. He hasn’t even pressed hard. He’s securing my position … and his too. That matters more than he could know. I just hope it’s enough.
When I return wrapped in borrowed flannel and thick socks, he is standing near the window, phone in hand, speaking low into his comm.
“… temporary hold. No external contact until I confirm.”
Pause.
“Yes. I’m aware.”
Pause.
“I’ll assess.”
He ends the call before I step fully into the room. His eyes move over me once, not really lingering, just registering that I’m a little different than I appeared a couple of hours ago.
The oversized flannel swallows my frame. The sleeves cover half my hands.
“You look warmer,” he says.
“That was the goal.”
He hands me a protein bar without ceremony. I accept it. The fire cracks behind us. He studies me the way he did in the corridor — like he’s mapping something he hasn’t seen before.
“You weren’t surprised,” he says finally.
“About what?”
“The helicopter.”
I don’t answer. His gaze doesn’t soften.
“Someone promised you protection,” he continues. “That wasn’t my team’s idea.”
“I was promised I wouldn’t be alone tonight,” I say evenly.
“And you trusted that?”
“No,” I reply. “I calculated it.”
Something in his expression tightens. He’s beginning to see it.
He knows I’m not a frightened client, though maybe I should be.
The fire pops as the wind pushes against the cabin walls. And in the quiet of the mountains, with silk replaced by flannel and diamonds replaced by kindling, the illusion has thinned.
He doesn’t know what I am. He doesn’t know what I’m carrying into this place. But he’s starting to suspect that the ballroom wasn’t the most dangerous room tonight.
This one has no exits.