Chapter 6 Aleksandr
ALEKSANDR
Iwake to cold sheets and an empty bed. My hand slides across the mattress where Maya should be, finding nothing but the faint impression of her body and the lingering scent of her skin. The absence hits me harder than it should, a hollow feeling in my chest that I don't have words for.
I sit up, wincing as the movement pulls at my healing shoulder. The stitches are holding, but the muscle protests every time I move wrong. Small price to pay for being alive. Small price to pay for last night.
The memory of her body beneath mine, the sounds she made, the way she looked at me like I was something more than a stranger with a blank past, sends heat through me despite the morning chill.
I pull on my thermal pants and shirt, moving quietly through the cabin. She's not in the kitchen. Not in the bathroom. The front door is slightly ajar, and through the gap, I can see her outside in the gray dawn light.
She's attacking the woodpile like it personally offended her.
I watch through the window as she swings the axe with more force than necessary, her movements sharp and aggressive.
She's wearing her parka and boots, her blonde hair catching the weak sunlight, and even from here I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she's putting her whole body into each swing.
I grab my own jacket and step outside. The cold hits me immediately, stealing my breath, but I ignore it and cross the snow-covered yard toward her. She doesn't look up, just keeps swinging, the axe biting into wood with satisfying cracks that echo through the trees.
"Maya."
She freezes mid-swing, the axe suspended above her head for a heartbeat before she lowers it slowly. When she turns to face me, her expression is carefully neutral, but I can see the wariness in those dark blue eyes.
"You should be resting," she says, her voice flat. "Your shoulder and head wounds need time to heal."
"They're fine." I move closer, noting how she shifts her weight, putting the axe between us like a barrier. "You left."
"I needed firewood." She gestures at the pile of split logs beside her, evidence of at least an hour's work. "We're running low."
"I just stocked it yesterday. We're good for a couple of days."
She looks away, focusing on the tree line instead of me. "I don't know what you want me to say."
"The truth would be nice." I keep my voice gentle, but there's an edge to it I can't quite suppress. "Last night happened. You can't pretend it didn't."
"I'm not pretending anything." She sets down the axe and crosses her arms over her chest, defensive. "Last night was… it happened. But it doesn't change anything."
"Doesn't it?" I step closer, and she takes a step back. The retreat stings more than my shoulder. "You're afraid of me."
"I'm not afraid of you."
"You're lying." I stop advancing, giving her space even though every instinct tells me to close the distance, to touch her, and prove that whatever we shared last night was real.
"You've been watching me for weeks, cataloging everything I do, every instinct I have.
You've seen the scars, the tattoos, the way I move. You know I'm dangerous."
Her jaw tightens. "I don't know anything about you. That's the problem."
"Then ask me."
"Ask you what?" Her voice rises slightly, frustration bleeding through the careful control. "You don't remember who you are. You can't tell me if you're a good man or a monster. You can't tell me if someone's going to show up here looking for you, if being near you is going to get me killed."
The words hit like physical blows, but I can't argue with them. She's right. I'm a blank slate with violent instincts and a body that's been through hell. For all either of us knows, I could be exactly the kind of man she should run from.
"So last night was a mistake," I say quietly.
She flinches. "I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." I turn away, heading back toward the cabin, but her voice stops me.
"Sasha, wait."
I look back at her, and the conflict on her face is painful to see. She wants to trust me. She wants last night to mean something. But fear is winning, and I can't blame her for that.
"I just need time," she says softly.
"Take all the time you need." I force myself to sound understanding even though frustration coils in my gut. "I'm not going anywhere." I pause. "For now, at least."
The irony isn't lost on either of us. I literally have nowhere else to go.
I spend the rest of the morning avoiding her, which is impressive given the cabin's size, doing push-ups until my shoulder screams in protest. Anything to burn off the restless energy that's been building since I woke up alone.
Around noon, she makes lunch. Soup and bread, simple and warm.
We eat in silence, the tension between us thick enough to choke on.
I catch her watching me when she thinks I'm not looking, her gaze lingering on my hands, my chest, my face.
Like she's trying to memorize me or figure me out. Maybe both.
"The storm's coming back," she finally says, breaking the silence. "Weather radio says it'll hit tonight."
"We have enough supplies?"
"We should be fine." She pushes her soup around with her spoon, not really eating. "We might lose power, though. She's quiet for a while, then surprises me when she says, "I don't regret it. Last night, I mean."
I set down my spoon, meeting her eyes across the table. Her cheeks flush pink.
"Then what's wrong?"
She's quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing patterns on the table.
When she finally speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper.
"I've been alone for three years. I chose that.
I needed that. And then you showed up, bleeding in my yard, and suddenly, I'm not alone anymore.
I don't know who you are. You don't know who you are. It's a bit… disconcerting."
The honesty in her words cracks something open in my chest. "You're right. Neither of us knows anything about me. I don't know if I have family, friends, or enemies. But last night, for a few hours, none of that mattered. I was just a man with a woman who made me feel human."
She looks up at me, and there are tears in her eyes. "What if you remember? What if you wake up one day and you're someone completely different?"
"Then I'll deal with it." I reach across the table, offering my hand. After a heartbeat, she takes it. "But right now, in this moment, I'm just Sasha. And you're just Maya. Can't that be enough?"
She squeezes my fingers. "I don't know."
"That's honest, at least."
We clean up together, moving around each other with careful politeness. The easy intimacy from last night is gone, replaced by this awkward dance of two people who've seen each other naked but don't know how to be clothed together.
I'm checking the security feeds when a memory hits me like a freight train.
A boardroom. Long table, polished to a mirror shine.
Men in expensive suits, their faces blurred but their postures clear.
Deference. Fear. Respect. I'm at the head of the table, and when I speak, everyone listens.
The weight of authority settles on my shoulders like a familiar coat, comfortable and heavy.
I'm making decisions that will affect lives, businesses, and territories. My word is law.
The memory fragments before I can grasp more details, leaving me dizzy and disoriented. I grip the edge of the desk, breathing hard.
The day drags on. We read, we cook dinner, we maintain the careful distance we've established.
But I catch her looking at me when she thinks I'm not paying attention.
Her gaze lingers on my chest when I reach for something on a high shelf, on my hands when I'm chopping vegetables, on my ass when I bend to add wood to the stove.
That last one makes me grin. She may be uncertain about me, but she still desires me.
And I'm no better. I watch the way her jeans hug her curves, the swell of her breasts under her thermal shirt, the graceful line of her neck.
Night falls early, and with it comes the storm Maya predicted. Wind howls around the cabin, rattling the windows. Snow falls in thick sheets, erasing the world beyond the glass. We're trapped together again, and the cabin feels smaller than ever.
We sit in silence, listening to the wind. The fire crackles, casting dancing shadows on the walls. It should be peaceful, but the tension between us makes the air feel electric.
"I'm sorry," she says suddenly. "For this morning. For pulling away."
"You don't have to apologize."
"I do, though." She looks at me, and in the firelight, her eyes are almost black.
I'm about to respond when a sharp knock echoes through the cabin.
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. My hand flies to my waistband where a weapon should be, and I'm on my feet before conscious thought kicks in.