Chapter 13 Lena
LENA
The door opens before I can reach it, and Sasha fills the frame. Snow dusts his dark hair, melting into droplets that catch the lamplight. His gold eyes are hard, flat, the kind of expression that makes my stomach drop.
"Someone was here. And I'm not talking about Pavel." His voice is cold, controlled. The warmth from earlier, the tenderness after we made love, is gone. This is someone else entirely. Someone I instinctively know is dangerous.
I step back so he can come inside. "What do you mean?"
"Tire tracks. Fresh. About fifty yards from the cabin." He moves past me, tracking snow across the floor as he heads straight for the window. His movements are precise, economical, like a predator assessing territory. "They circled close enough to see inside, then headed back toward the main road."
My hands start to shake. I clasp them together, trying to hide the tremor. "Maybe it was just someone who got lost. Turned around in the dark."
"At this hour?" He doesn't look at me, just keeps scanning the tree line through the window. "The tracks show deliberate movement, not confusion."
"It could have been Pavel coming back. Maybe he forgot something."
"Wrong tread pattern." He finally turns, and the intensity in his gaze pins me in place. "I memorized his tire marks when he left. These are different. Wider base, deeper grooves. Probably an SUV."
Of course he memorized Pavel's tire tracks. Because that's what normal people do.
Except Sasha isn't normal. The way he's moving through my cabin right now, checking sight lines and angles, his body coiled and ready for violence, proves that beyond any doubt.
"How many visitors do you get out here?" he asks, his tone making it clear this isn't casual conversation.
"Just Pavel. And occasionally a delivery driver if I order something I can't get in town." I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the fire crackling in the wood stove. "But I haven't ordered anything in months."
"So whoever was out there shouldn't have been.
" He crosses to the kitchen, his thermal shirt pulling tight across his broad shoulders as he reaches for something on the counter.
When he turns back, he's holding the hunting knife I keep in the drawer.
He tests the weight, flips it once with practiced ease, then sets it on the table within easy reach.
"We need to assume they're coming back."
The casual way he handles the blade, like it's an extension of his hand, sends ice through my veins. "You think those men Pavel warned us about found us already?"
"I think someone knows we're here." He moves to the gun cabinet I keep locked in the corner. "Do you have more ammunition for that rifle than just this one box?"
"Yes. Top shelf of the closet in my bedroom."
He's already moving, his long legs eating up the distance.
I follow, watching as he retrieves the several boxes of ammunition with the same efficiency he does everything else.
His hands are steady as he loads the rifle, checking the action, the safety, every movement speaking of familiarity that goes beyond casual gun ownership.
"You've done this before," I say quietly.
"Apparently," he says wryly and sets the loaded rifle against the wall near the front door, positioned for quick access. "A lot."
The admission should terrify me. Maybe it does. But watching him secure my cabin, seeing the cold competence in every action, I feel something else too. Something that feels dangerously close to relief.
Because whoever is out there, whatever is coming, Sasha knows how to handle it.
The question is whether that makes me safer or puts me in more danger.
He catches me staring and raises an eyebrow. "What?"
"Nothing." I look away, but not before my gaze drops to his chest, to the way his thermal shirt clings to defined muscle. Even terrified, my body responds to him. To the raw masculinity he projects, the barely contained violence that should repel me but doesn't.
"You're thinking something." He crosses to me, and suddenly, we're too close. I can smell him, wood smoke and cold air and something uniquely male. "I can see it on your face."
"I'm thinking you're very good at this." I force myself to meet his eyes. "At preparing for violence. At knowing exactly what to do when someone's hunting you."
"Is that a problem?"
"I don't know yet." Honesty feels dangerous, but lies feel worse. "Part of me is grateful. The other part is wondering what kind of man has these skills."
His jaw tightens. "The kind who survives."
"Or the kind who makes other people need to survive him."
The words hang between us like smoke. Sasha's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in those gold eyes. Acknowledgment, maybe. Or resignation.
"You're probably right." He steps back, putting distance between us. "I'm probably exactly the kind of man you should be running from."
"Except I can't run." My voice comes out sharper than I intend. "Because whoever was circling my cabin knows we're here. And if those men from town are looking for you, then I'm already involved, whether I like it or not."
"I could leave." But he doesn't sound like he means it. "Draw them away from you."
"In the middle of the night? With no vehicle and no memory of who you are?" I shake my head. "That's suicide. Plus, who's to say they aren't after me, so your leaving could end up putting me in more danger?"
He studies me for a long moment. Whatever instincts he has, they're sharp. Calculating.
"You have a point," he finally says. "If they wanted you, specifically, they would have made a move already. The tracks suggest surveillance."
"That's not as comforting as you think it is."
A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Wasn't trying to comfort you. Just stating facts."
"Well, your facts suck."
He actually laughs, a low rumble that does absolutely nothing to help my nerves. Or maybe it does something entirely different, because I'm suddenly very aware of how his shoulders fill out that flannel shirt. How the fabric pulls slightly across his chest when he moves.
Not helpful, Maya.
"So, we agree," I say. "You stay."
"You trust me that much?"
"I trust that you've had multiple opportunities to hurt me and haven't." I move past him toward the kitchen. "I also trust that rifle you're holding."
I pull out ingredients for dinner. Pasta, because it's quick and I need something to focus on that isn't the dangerous man whose forearms flex in a very distracting way as he handles the weapon.
"Most people with amnesia would be more freaked out about all this," I say, filling a pot with water.
"Maybe I'm not most people."
"That's becoming increasingly obvious."
He sets the rifle against the wall near the door, then crosses to the kitchen, leaning against the counter beside me.
"Need help?" he asks.
"You cook?"
"No idea. But I can follow instructions."
I hand him a knife and a cutting board. "Garlic. Mince it."
He takes the knife, testing its weight. For a second, I wonder if I've made a terrible mistake. The blade looks natural in his grip, like an extension of his arm. But then he's peeling garlic cloves with surprising efficiency.
"You've definitely done this before," I observe.
"Apparently." He glances at me, something almost playful in his expression. "Though I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing in your assessment of my character."
"Jury's still out."
We work in silence for a few minutes. I'm acutely aware of every movement he makes, the way his hands move with precision, the flex of muscle in his shoulders. He's graceful in a way that shouldn't be possible for someone his size.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, it sends a different kind of shiver down my spine.
"So, Pavel," Sasha says. "He's the only person who visits regularly?"
"Pretty much. He's been good to me since I moved here." I stir the pasta. "Checks in, makes sure I'm not dead in a ditch somewhere."
"And the deliveries?"
"Rare. Maybe once every few months when I need something specific." I turn to face him. "Why are you bringing this up again?"
"Just trying to understand the pattern. If someone's been watching, they'd know your routine. Know when you're vulnerable."
"I'm always vulnerable out here."
His eyes meet mine, and there's something fierce in them. "Not anymore."
The words sound like a promise. A dangerous one.
"Sasha…"
"I know." He sets down the knife. "I know I'm probably the last person who should be making promises about keeping you safe. But until we figure out what's going on, you're stuck with me."
"Is that what we're calling this situation?"
"You have a better term?"
"Clusterfuck comes to mind."
He laughs again, and I realize I like that sound. I like it way too much for someone who should be keeping her distance.
We eat at the small table, and Sasha asks questions about the area, about the trails. I answer carefully, giving him information without revealing too much. It's a dance we're both doing, circling around the bigger questions neither of us wants to ask.
After dinner, he insists on cleaning up. I let him, partly because I'm exhausted, partly because watching him move around my kitchen is doing things to my pulse. The way his jeans fit, the way his back muscles shift under the flannel.
This is insane. I'm attracted to a man who might be a criminal. Who definitely has blood on his hands.
"You're staring," he says without turning around.
"Just making sure you don't break anything."
"Liar."
Heat floods my cheeks. "You're awfully confident for someone with no memory."
"Some things you just know." He glances over his shoulder, and the look he gives me is pure heat. "Like when someone's checking you out."
"I was not…"
"You were." He turns, leaning back against the sink with his arms crossed. The position makes his biceps strain against the fabric. "It's okay. I've been doing the same thing."
My breath catches. "Have you?"
"Hard not to." His gaze travels down, then back up, slow and deliberate. "You're beautiful, Maya. Even when you're pointing a shotgun at me."
"Especially then, probably, given your apparent taste for danger."
"Maybe I just appreciate a woman who can take care of herself."
The air between us feels charged, electric. I should move, should put distance between us. Instead, I stay frozen.
"I'm going to bed," I finally say, my voice rougher than I intend. "You should get some sleep too."
"Agreed."
I retreat to my bedroom, closing the door behind me. My heart is hammering.
I change into sleep clothes and go through all the normal motions.
But nothing about this feels normal. When I finally climb into bed, I lie there staring at the ceiling, listening to Sasha moving around in the main room.
The creak of the couch as he settles in.
The soft click of him checking the rifle one more time.
Am I safer with him here? Or am I in more danger because of him?
The question circles in my mind. On one hand, he's clearly capable. Dangerous. Whatever skills he has, they're the kind that could keep us both alive if those men come here.
On the other hand, what if he's the reason they're here in the first place? What if I've invited a wolf into my home?
I think about the coldness that came over his expression when we talked about the tire tracks. The way his whole demeanor shifted, became harder. More lethal. That's not the face of a good man.
But then I remember the way he looked at me in the kitchen. The heat in his eyes, yes, but also something softer. Something almost vulnerable.
Which version is real? Or are they both real?
I roll onto my side, pulling the blanket tighter. The cabin is quiet except for the wind outside and the occasional creak of old wood settling.
But underneath it all, I can feel the tension. The waiting. Something is coming.
Maybe I'm safer with him. Maybe his presence is the only thing keeping whoever's out there at bay. Maybe without him, I'd already be dead.
Or maybe I'm lying in bed, separated by a single door from the most dangerous thing in these mountains.
I close my eyes, trying to will myself to sleep. Trying to silence the questions that won't stop spinning through my head.
The gunshot shatters the silence like breaking glass.
It echoes through the valley, close enough that the cabin windows rattle in their frames. Close enough that there's no mistaking it for anything else.
Someone just fired a gun. And they're close.
Very close.