Chapter 5 Lena
LENA
Two weeks have gone by and I've watched Sasha move through my cabin like he owns it, his presence filling every corner until I can't remember what silence felt like before him.
I'm chopping vegetables for dinner when he walks past the kitchen window, his shirt off despite the cold, an axe balanced on his good shoulder.
My knife pauses mid-slice as I watch the play of muscles across his back, the way the dragon wings tattooed on his shoulder blades seem to move with each swing of the axe.
Sweat gleams on his skin even in the frigid air, and I have to force myself to look away before he catches me staring.
Again.
"You're going to cut yourself," I mutter, refocusing on the carrots.
The door opens and he steps inside, bringing the scents of pine and wood smoke with him. "Firewood's stacked. Should last us another week at least."
"Thank you." I don't look up from the cutting board, but I'm acutely aware of him moving behind me, the heat radiating from his body as he reaches past me for a glass.
"You're welcome, Maya." He says my fake name like he knows it's a lie, but he's never pushed, never asked why a woman my age lives alone in the middle of nowhere, Montana, with enough security equipment to guard a small fortress.
I watch from the corner of my eye as he fills the glass with water, his throat working as he drinks. The bandage on his shoulder is smaller now, the stitches healing cleanly. In another week, I'll be able to remove them. And then what? Will he leave? Will I want him to?
"Generator's making that noise again," he says, setting down the glass. "I should take a look at it before it dies completely."
"You don't have to do that."
"I want to." His gold eyes meet mine, and there's something in them that makes my stomach flip. "Let me help, Maya. I'm going crazy with nothing to do."
I nod, not trusting my voice, and he disappears into the bedroom to grab a shirt. I hear him moving around, the rustle of fabric, and I absolutely do not imagine what he looks like pulling that thermal shirt over his head, the way it would cling to his chest and abs.
Liar.
By the time he emerges, I've gotten myself under control. Mostly.
"Lead the way," he says, and I grab my parka.
The generator shed is small and cramped, forcing us into close proximity as I hold the flashlight while he examines the machinery. He's surprisingly knowledgeable, his hands moving with confidence as he checks connections and tests components.
"How do you know so much about generators?" I ask.
He pauses, his brow furrowing. "I don't know. I just… do." He taps a wire connection. "This is loose. And this filter needs replacing. You have a spare?"
"In the cabin. I'll get it."
When I return with the filter, he's removed his jacket despite the cold, his shirt sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. I try not to stare at the way his hands work, competent and sure, like he's done this a thousand times before.
"You're good at this," I say, handing him the filter.
"Apparently." He flashes me a grin that transforms his face from dangerously handsome to devastating. "Maybe I was a mechanic in my past life."
"Maybe." But I don't think so. Mechanics don't move like predators. They don't have scars like battle maps across their bodies.
He finishes the repair and tests the generator. It hums to life, smooth and steady, and he looks ridiculously pleased with himself.
"There. Should run fine now."
"Thank you, Sasha." The name feels natural now, like it belongs to him even though we both know it's temporary.
We walk back to the cabin together, our breath forming clouds in the frigid air.
The sun is setting, painting the snow in shades of pink and gold, and for a moment, I let myself pretend this is normal.
That I'm just a woman living in the mountains with a man who makes her heart race, not a fugitive hiding from a death sentence with an amnesiac who might be as dangerous as the people hunting me.
Dinner is comfortable with easy conversation about nothing important.
He tells me about the book he's reading, a thriller I recommended, and I tell him about the podcast I listened to while he was outside.
We do the dishes together, moving around each other in the small kitchen with a familiarity that shouldn't exist after only two weeks.
"I'm going to shower," he says, and I absolutely do not think about water running over his body, soap sliding across those muscles, and his hands moving over his skin.
"Okay." My voice comes out slightly strangled, and he gives me a look that suggests he knows exactly what I'm thinking.
I busy myself with checking the security feeds, reviewing the cameras, anything to distract myself from the sound of water running in the bathroom.
When he emerges twenty minutes later, his hair is damp, and he smells like my soap, and I have to grip the edge of the desk to keep from doing something stupid.
"Your turn," he says, settling onto the couch with his book.
The shower helps. The cold water at the end definitely helps. By the time I emerge in my pajamas, thermal pants, and a long-sleeved shirt, I've gotten myself under control.
He's still reading, his long legs stretched out, his feet bare. I curl up in the armchair with my own book, and we read in comfortable silence, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and the occasional turn of a page.
I'm not sure when I fall asleep, but I wake to the sound of thrashing and mumbled Russian words. Sasha is on the couch, his body rigid, his face contorted in pain or fear or both. Sweat beads on his forehead despite the cool cabin, and his hands are clenched into fists.
"Sasha." I cross to him quickly, kneeling beside the couch. "Sasha, wake up."
He doesn't respond, just continues to thrash, his voice rising in pitch, the Russian words coming faster. I catch "nyet" and "predatel" again, that word he said the first night. Traitor.
"Sasha!" I shake his good shoulder, harder this time.
His eyes snap open, wild and unfocused, and suddenly, I'm on my back on the floor with his hand around my throat. Not squeezing, not hurting, but holding me in place with terrifying efficiency. His body covers mine, heavy and hot, and his gold eyes are empty of recognition.
"Sasha, it's me. It's Maya." I keep my voice calm, even though my heart is trying to break through my ribs. "You were having a nightmare. You're safe."
Recognition floods back into his eyes, and he releases me immediately, rolling off and sitting up in one fluid motion. "Fuck. Maya, I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?"
"No." I sit up slowly, rubbing my throat. "You didn't hurt me. You were just… somewhere else."
He runs his hands through his hair, his chest heaving. "I was back there. In the snow. Someone was walking away, and I couldn't move, couldn't stop them." He looks at me, and there's anguish in his eyes. "I think it was someone I trusted. Someone I cared about."
I move closer, sitting beside him on the floor, our backs against the couch. "Do you remember anything else?"
"No. Just the feeling of betrayal. Like my chest was being ripped open." He turns to look at me, and the vulnerability in his expression makes my breath catch. "I'm sorry I scared you."
"You didn't." Lie. "Well, maybe a little. But I'm okay."
We sit in silence for a moment, and then he reaches out and pulls me against his side. I should resist. I should maintain distance. Instead, I curl into him, my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow from its frantic pace.
"Stay," he murmurs against my hair. "Please."
I should say no. I should go back to my bedroom, lock the door, and remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea. Instead, I nod against his chest.
He shifts us both onto the couch, his back against the cushions, me tucked against his side. It's a tight fit, but neither of us seems to mind. His arm wraps around me, holding me close, and I feel the tension slowly drain from his body.
I'm not sure who moves first. Maybe it's him, tilting my chin up. Maybe it's me, rising to meet him. But suddenly, we're kissing, and it's nothing like the tentative kiss from before. This is desperate and hungry, weeks of tension finally breaking free.
His hand slides into my hair, angling my head for better access, and I open for him, tasting mint toothpaste and something darker, more primal. My hands find his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath my palms, and he groans into my mouth.
He rolls us so I'm beneath him on the couch, his body covering mine, and the weight of him feels right in a way that should terrify me. His mouth moves to my neck, teeth grazing my pulse point, and I arch into him with a gasp.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs against my skin. "Tell me this is a bad idea."
"It's a terrible idea." My hands slide under his shirt, finding hot skin and hard muscle. "The worst."
He lifts his head, his gold eyes searching mine. "Then why aren't we stopping?"
"Because I don't want to." The admission feels like jumping off a cliff. "Do you?"
"No." He kisses me again, slower this time, thoroughly. "I want you so badly, I can't think straight. But I don't want to hurt you. I don't know who I am, what I've done. I could be anyone."
"I know." I cup his face, feeling the rasp of his beard against my palms. "I don't care."
That's all the permission he needs. His hands find the hem of my thermal pajamas, and I lift my arms so he can pull it off in one quick move.
His eyes darken as he takes in my body, and I feel beautiful under his gaze despite my practical cotton bra and the fact that I haven't bothered with makeup in three years.
I reach for his shirt, and he helps me remove it, wincing slightly when the movement pulls at his healing shoulder. The reminder of his injury makes me pause.
"Your shoulder. We shouldn't."
"My shoulder is fine." He kisses me again, his hands moving to my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples through the cotton.
We shed the rest of our clothes with fumbling urgency. When we're finally skin to skin, I take a moment to just look at him. He's beautiful in a dangerous way, all hard muscle and old scars, his body a testament to violence survived.
He positions himself over me, his weight on his good arm, and I feel him hard and ready against my thigh. But when he tries to enter me, he gasps in pain, his shoulder protesting the position.
"Damn it." Frustration colors his voice.
"Wait." I push gently at his chest. "Let me."
I guide him onto his back and straddle his hips, taking control. His hands immediately find my waist, his fingers digging into my skin as I sink down onto him slowly. We both groan at the sensation, the perfect fit of our bodies.
"Fuck, Maya." His head falls back against the couch cushion, his eyes closing. "You feel incredible."
I start to move, finding a rhythm that works for both of us, and his hands guide my hips, helping me ride him. The firelight casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the strong line of his jaw.
"Look at me," I whisper, and his eyes open, locking onto mine.
The intensity in his gaze steals my breath. He watches me move above him, his hands sliding up to cup my breasts, and the pleasure builds between us like a storm gathering strength.
"I'm close," he warns, his voice rough.
"Me too." I lean forward, changing the angle, and suddenly, I'm there, falling over the edge with his name on my lips.
He follows seconds later, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, his body arching beneath mine as he finds his release.
I collapse onto his chest, both of us breathing hard, our bodies slick with sweat despite the cool cabin. His arms wrap around me, holding me close, and I feel his heart pounding against my cheek.
"That was…" he starts.
"Yeah." I don't have words either.
We lie there for long minutes, neither of us wanting to move, to break the spell. Eventually, he shifts slightly, and I lift my head to look at him.
"Stay with me tonight," he says. "In your bed."
I nod, and we gather our clothes, moving to my bedroom. We slide under the covers together, and he pulls me against his side, my head on his chest, his arm around my shoulders.
I'm drifting off to sleep when my eyes zero in on the dragon wings tattoo that spreads across his shoulder blades and back, now in the moonlight streaming through the window. Something about them tugs at my memory, a detail I can't quite place.
My chest tightens with a sinking feeling. Something about that tattoo is familiar, but I just can't place it.