Chapter 8 Aleksandr
ALEKSANDR
Ihaven't been able to get Pavel's visit yesterday out of my head.
His nervous energy and pale eyes linger in my mind like smoke I can't wave away.
Something about him scratches at the edges of my memory, a splinter I can't quite dig out.
The way he moved through her cabin with that careful, observant precision.
The way his eyes darted to the exits, cataloging escape routes.
The nervous habit of adjusting his glasses when he was uncomfortable.
I know these behaviors. I recognize them because I do some of the same things.
A memory flickers at the edge of my consciousness, trying to surface. I close my eyes and reach for it, willing it into focus.
Numbers. Columns and columns of numbers, neat and precise, marching down pages in a ledger. My hands holding the book, my thumb running down the margin. The numbers mean something important, something dangerous. Money moving through channels, being cleaned, redistributed, hidden.
And a face. Pale, sweating, eyes wide with terror behind wire-rimmed glasses. A man begging, his voice high and desperate, promising he can fix it, that he just needs more time.
The memory fragments before I can grasp more, leaving me with a headache pulsing behind my eyes and the certainty that Pavel Galkin is more than just Maya's helpful neighbor.
The cabin is cold, the fire burned down to embers. I add wood and stoke it back to life, then stand at the window staring out at the snow-covered landscape. I can see the tree line, the shed, and the path Pavel's truck carved through the fresh powder yesterday.
I pour myself water from the pitcher on the counter and drink it standing at the window. My reflection stares back at me from the dark glass. A stranger's face with a stranger's eyes, but the instincts are all mine. And those instincts are screaming that Pavel is dangerous.
The question is whether he's dangerous to me, to Maya, or to both of us.
Maya finally emerges from the bedroom, her hair tousled and her eyes still heavy with sleep.
"You're up early," she says, padding over to the counter.
"Couldn't sleep."
She accepts the mug I hand her and takes a long sip, studying me over the rim. "Still thinking about Pavel?"
"Among other things."
"Such as?"
I gesture toward the north window. "That lock is a joke. A child could break in through there."
She sets down her coffee and crosses her arms, which does interesting things to her breasts under the thick fabric of her shirt. "Good morning to you, too, Mr. Home Security."
"I'm serious, Maya. This place has more weak points than a house of cards in a windstorm."
"That's a terrible analogy."
"The point stands."
She sighs, but there's amusement in her eyes. "Okay, what do you want to do about it?"
"Reinforce the windows. Fix the back door. Check the camera angles and add sensors where we need them."
"We?"
"Unless you'd rather I do it alone while you watch and critique my technique."
A smile tugs at her lips. "I wouldn't dream of missing the chance to watch you do manual labor. You're very attractive when you're being paranoid and handy."
"I'm not paranoid."
"You absolutely are. But it's kind of hot, so I'll allow it." She drains her coffee and sets the mug down with a decisive clink as my eyes widen in surprise over her flirting. "Let me get dressed, and we'll tackle your security concerns together."
Twenty minutes later, we're standing in front of the north window with a toolbox between us.
Maya's bundled in her winter coat, layers of thermal clothing underneath, but somehow, the fitted jeans she's wearing still manage to showcase the curve of her ass in a way that makes concentration difficult.
Her cheeks are already flushed from the cold, making her eyes look even bluer, and when she bends over to hand me a tool, I have to force myself to focus on the work instead of how competent and sexy she looks handling a wrench.
"You're staring," she says without looking up, her breath misting in the frigid air.
"Can you blame me?"
"Focus, Sasha. You're supposed to be fixing my window, not mentally undressing me. Which would be counterproductive in this weather, anyway."
"I can multitask. And I'd keep you warm."
She laughs, the sound bright and genuine, and hands me the screwdriver I need. "Here. Make yourself useful."
We work in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the scrape of metal on wood and the occasional grunt of effort. I remove the old lock mechanism and examine it, shaking my head at how flimsy it is.
"This wouldn't stop a determined squirrel," I mutter.
"Good thing squirrels aren't usually breaking and entering."
"You know what I mean."
"I do." Her voice softens. "And I appreciate your caring about keeping us safe."
I glance at her and find her watching me with an expression that makes my chest tight. Trust. Affection. Something deeper that neither of us has named yet.
"Always," I say quietly.
We install a new deadbolt on the window, one I found in her surprisingly well-stocked shed. Then we move to the back door, which is even worse than the window. The frame is old, the wood soft in places, and the lock is the kind you could pick with a credit card.
"How have you survived out here for three years with security like this?" I ask, examining the door frame.
"Carefully. And with the knowledge that I'm in the middle of nowhere and most people don't know I exist."
"Most people isn't all people."
"Hence why I'm letting you tear apart my door instead of arguing about it."
I look at her, taking in the way she's leaning against the counter with her arms crossed, one hip cocked. Her dark blue eyes are warm with humor, but there's steel underneath.
"What?" she asks when I don't look away.
"Just appreciating the view."
"The door?"
"You."
Color rises in her cheeks, and she ducks her head, but I can see her smile. "Flirt later. Fix my security now."
"Yes, ma'am."
We spend the next several hours reinforcing the door frame, installing a proper deadbolt, and adding a security bar for good measure.
Maya proves to be surprisingly handy, anticipating what I need and working alongside me without complaint.
We fall into an easy rhythm, passing tools back and forth, our hands brushing more often than strictly necessary.
By the time we move outside to check the security cameras, the sun is high and bright, reflecting off the snow in a way that makes everything look clean and new. I walk the perimeter while Maya monitors the feeds from her laptop, calling out when I hit blind spots.
"There," she says when I reach the northeast corner. "I can't see you at all."
I mark the spot mentally and continue around the cabin. There are three significant blind spots, all of them on the north side where the tree line comes closest to the building. Perfect places for someone to approach unseen.
"We need more cameras," I call out.
"Add it to the list."
By the time we finish, the sun is starting to sink toward the horizon, painting the snow in shades of pink and gold. We're both tired, our breath misting in the cold air, but there's satisfaction in the work we've done together.
Maya stretches her arms over her head, and her shirt rides up to expose a strip of pale skin above her jeans. My hands itch to touch her, to slide my palms over that exposed skin and feel her warmth.
"Hungry?" she asks, catching me staring again.
"Starving."
"For food or for something else?"
The teasing note in her voice sends heat through me. "Both."
She grins and heads inside, and I follow, my eyes on the sway of her hips.
We make dinner together, another comfortable dance of movement and conversation.
Such a huge change from yesterday with the standoffish approach she gave me.
She tells me about her first winter here, how she nearly froze to death before she figured out the wood stove.
I tell her about the memory fragment from last night, the ledger and the terrified man.
"You think that was Pavel?" she asks, stirring the pot of stew.
"I don't know. Maybe. The face feels familiar, but I can't place it."
"It'll come back. Your memories are returning more frequently now."
"Not fast enough."
She sets down the spoon and turns to face me, her expression serious. "They'll come when they come. Pushing won't help."
"Easy for you to say. You know who you are."
"Do I?" She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I've been Maya the hermit for three years. Sometimes, I forget who I was before."
I step closer, drawn by the vulnerability in her voice. "Who were you?"
"Someone who trusted the wrong people. Someone who thought she was smarter than she was." She meets my eyes. "Someone who ran instead of fighting."
"Running kept you alive."
"Maybe. Or maybe it just delayed the inevitable."
I cup her face in my hands, forcing her to hold my gaze. "Nothing is inevitable. We make our own fate."
"That's very philosophical for a man who can't remember his own name."
"I remember the important things. Like how you taste. How you sound when you come. How you look at me like I'm not just a broken man with a violent past."
Her breath catches, and I see desire flare in her eyes. "Sasha…"
I kiss her, slow and deep, and she melts into me, her hands fisting in my shirt, and the stew on the stove is forgotten.
We barely make it to the bedroom. Clothes come off in a trail from the kitchen, and by the time we fall onto the bed, we're both naked and desperate. I take my time anyway, kissing every inch of her skin, learning what makes her gasp and what makes her moan.
When I finally slide inside her, we both go still, savoring the connection. Then I start to move, slow and deep, watching her face in the lamplight. She's beautiful like this, open and unguarded, her pleasure written in every line of her body.
"Harder," she breathes, and I oblige, changing the angle until she cries out.
We move together, finding a rhythm that's perfect, building toward something that feels bigger than just physical release.
Her nails dig into my shoulders as I drive deeper, and the small bite of pain only heightens the pleasure.
I can feel every inch of her wrapped around me, hot and slick, and perfect.
"God, Sasha," she gasps, her head thrown back, exposing the long line of her throat. I lean down to taste the salt on her skin, feeling her pulse racing beneath my lips.
I shift my weight, hooking one of her legs over my shoulder to get even deeper, and she makes this sound, half moan, half sob, that goes straight through me. Her breasts bounce with each thrust, and I can't resist palming one, rolling her nipple between my fingers until she arches into my touch.
"Look at me," I command, and her eyes flutter open, hazy with pleasure. "I want to see you when you come."
She holds my gaze as I increase the pace, harder, faster, the headboard hitting the wall with each thrust. Her inner muscles start to flutter around me, and I know she's close.
"That's it, baby. Let go."
When she comes, her body clenches around me like a vice, her back arching off the bed, my name torn from her throat in a cry that's almost feral.
The sight of her, the feel of her pulsing around me, the sound of her pleasure, it's too much.
I follow her over the edge with a groan, burying myself deep as I empty inside her.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, sweaty and satisfied. She traces patterns on my chest while I play with her hair, both of us too content to move.
Her breathing evens out gradually, her body going heavy and relaxed against mine. I hold her close, one hand splayed across her lower back, and listen to the quiet sounds of the cabin settling around us.
But sleep won't come for me. My mind keeps circling back to Pavel, to that memory fragment, to the certainty that I know him from somewhere. The pale eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. The nervous energy. The way he looked at Maya.
I know that man.
The knowledge sits in my gut like a stone, cold and heavy. Maya sleeps peacefully beside me, trusting me to keep her safe, and I lie awake staring at the ceiling, whispering into the darkness, "I know that man from somewhere."