Chapter 7 Aria
ARIA
Iwake to the sensation of being watched.
My eyes flutter open to find Nikolai already awake, propped on one elbow, those ice-blue eyes tracking my movements with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
The morning light filters through the gaps in our makeshift shelter, casting shadows across the sharp planes of his face, and I'm suddenly hyperaware of how close we are.
How we've been sleeping side by side for three nights now, our bodies learning the rhythm of each other's breathing, the warmth we share in the cooling darkness.
The intimacy of it should terrify me. Instead, it feels almost natural, like we've been doing this for years rather than days.
I stretch, my muscles protesting the hard ground, and his gaze follows the movement.
Heat floods my cheeks as I realize my sports bra has ridden up slightly, exposing a strip of skin at my midriff.
His eyes linger there for a heartbeat before he looks away, his jaw tightening with what might be restraint.
"Morning," I manage, my voice rougher than intended.
"Good morning." His accent is thicker in the mornings, I've noticed. The Russian edges are more pronounced, wrapping around the English words in a way that does things to my pulse I refuse to examine too closely.
I push myself upright, needing distance from the warmth of his body and the dangerous thoughts circling in my mind.
We need to focus on survival, not whatever this tension is that builds between us with each passing hour.
I've spent three years building a business on discipline and focus.
I can apply those same principles to keeping us alive.
"We should expand our food sources," I say, crawling out of the shelter into the already-warm morning air. "The fish you caught yesterday won't last forever, and we need variety to stay healthy."
Nikolai follows me out, his movements fluid despite the cramped space. "What did you have in mind?"
I lead him inland, toward the scrubby vegetation that clusters near the freshwater spring.
My knowledge of edible plants comes from years of researching herbs and ingredients for Thyme yet it burns so quietly within my soul, no longer should you feel distressed by it.'"
The words hang between us, heavy with meaning I'm not ready to examine. I force myself to look away, to focus on the palm frond in my hands rather than the way his gaze makes my skin flush with heat.
"You know a lot about Russian literature," I say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.
"My mother loved poetry." His voice softens fractionally.
"Before she disappeared, she used to recite it while she cooked.
Pushkin, Akhmatova, Tsvetaeva. I didn't understand half of it as a child, but the sound of her voice…
" He trails off, and I see something vulnerable flicker across his face before his mask slams back into place.
I want to ask about his mother, about the life that created the man beside me, but the moment passes.
He shifts the conversation to Repin's paintings, discussing the symbolism in Ivan the Terrible and His Son with the ease of someone who's spent hours in museums. The cognitive dissonance makes my head spin.
This is the same man whose Google search revealed alleged organized crime, violence, and a world so dark I can barely comprehend it.
Yet here he is, discussing art and poetry like a professor rather than a predator.
By afternoon, we've established a rhythm that feels almost comfortable.
He gathers firewood while I prepare the plants we foraged, and when he makes a dry observation about our situation, something about how we're living like our ancestors but with worse hygiene, I find myself laughing, actually laughing, the sound startling in its genuineness.
He looks up at the sound, his expression shifting into something I can't quite identify. Surprise, maybe. Or pleasure that he made me laugh. The moment stretches between us, charged with an awareness that makes my pulse hammer in my throat.
I force myself to look away, to focus on the task at hand.
This is survival, nothing more. The fact that I'm noticing the play of muscles beneath his skin as he works, the way the tropical sun has bronzed his shoulders, the precise movements of his hands, means nothing.
It's just biology, just my body responding to proximity and adrenaline and the strange intimacy of our situation.
I almost believe the lie.
"We should check the tide pools," I say, needing to break the tension crackling between us. "See if we can find shellfish or crabs."
Nikolai nods and follows me toward the rocky outcroppings on the northern shore. The tide is low, exposing pools teeming with life, and I lose myself in the familiar comfort of foraging. This, at least, I understand. The ocean has always made sense to me in ways people never have.
I'm so focused on searching for edible creatures that I don't notice Nikolai has waded into the shallows until I hear the splash.
I look up, and my breath catches in my throat.
He stands knee-deep in the crystal-clear water, his body absolutely still, his eyes fixed on something beneath the surface.
The sunlight catches the water droplets on his skin, making him look almost ethereal, but there's nothing soft about his posture.
He's coiled tension, a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Then his hands move.
The speed is inhuman, lethal, his fingers closing around a fish with the same precision I imagine he'd use to break someone's neck.
The fish thrashes in his grip, but he holds it steady, his movements economical and brutally efficient.
No wasted motion. No hesitation. Just pure, calculated violence wrapped in the guise of survival.
He turns toward me, holding up his catch with something that might be pride, and I understand with sudden, crystalline clarity that the man beside me is far more dangerous than any storm.