Chapter 15 Lena
LENA
Iwake to the weight of his stare.
Not touching me. Not moving. Just watching with an intensity that pulls me from sleep like someone yanked the covers off. My eyes flutter open, and there he is, propped on one elbow, his gold eyes fixed on something on my nightstand.
The photograph.
My stomach drops so fast, I feel it in my toes.
"Morning," I say, my voice rough with sleep. I reach for the frame, but he's faster, his hand closing around it first.
"Who is this?" His tone is casual, but there's steel underneath. The kind of steel that suggests he already knows the answer and is testing me.
"An old friend." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. "From college."
"Really." He tilts the frame, studying it in the morning light streaming through the window. "She looks a lot like you."
"People say that." I sit up, pulling the sheet with me even though we're both fully clothed. The defensive gesture isn't lost on him. His eyes flick to mine, one eyebrow raised. "Can I have that back?"
"In a minute." He traces the edge of the frame with his thumb, his gaze moving between the photo and my face.
"Same cheekbones. Same nose. Same mouth.
" His eyes linger on my lips long enough to make heat pool low in my belly despite the panic clawing at my chest. "But the hair is different. Longer. Darker."
"Lots of people change their hair." I reach for the frame again, and this time he lets me take it. I set it face down on the nightstand, my hands shaking slightly. "It's not a big deal."
"Then why are you nervous?"
"I'm not nervous."
"You're a terrible liar, Maya." He sits up, the movement making his thermal shirt pull tight across his chest. Even terrified, my body notices.
Notices the way the fabric stretches over defined muscle, the way his shoulders fill the space beside me.
"You've been lying since the moment I woke up in your cabin. "
"I saved your life." My voice comes out sharper than I intend. "That should buy me some privacy."
"It does. But it doesn't buy you immunity from questions." He swings his legs over the side of the bed, standing in one fluid motion. The man moves like a predator even doing something as mundane as getting out of bed. "That's you in the photo. Before you came here."
It's not a question.
I don't answer. Can't answer. My throat feels like someone's wrapped barbed wire around it.
He crosses to the window, looking out at the snow-covered landscape.
The morning light catches in his dark hair, and I notice the way his jeans hang low on his hips, the way the waistband reveals a strip of tanned skin above the denim.
Wrong time to be noticing his ass, but my brain apparently doesn't care about appropriate timing.
"How long have you been here?" He doesn't turn around. His voice is quiet, but there's steel underneath. The kind of tone that probably makes grown men confess to things they didn't even do.
"Three years." The truth slips out before I can stop it.
"And before that?"
"Does it matter?"
Now he turns. The intensity in those dark eyes pins me to the bed more effectively than any physical restraint. "Someone tried to kill me. I wake up in a cabin with a woman who's clearly not who she says she is. So yes, Maya, it fucking matters."
I pull the blanket tighter around myself, suddenly aware that I'm only wearing a tank top and sleep shorts. His gaze flickers down, then back up. The heat in that brief glance makes my stomach flip.
"I'm not a threat to you."
"I didn't say you were." He leans against the window frame, arms crossed. The position makes his biceps strain against the thermal fabric. "But you're hiding from something. Someone doesn't just disappear to the middle of nowhere, Montana, change their appearance, and live like a hermit for fun."
"Maybe I like being alone."
"Bullshit." He pushes off the frame, moving closer. "You're too good at it. The isolation, the careful routine, the way you watch the road like you're expecting someone. That's not preference. That's survival."
My heart hammers against my ribs. He's too close, too observant, too everything. I need to redirect this conversation before he digs any deeper.
"We need supplies." I throw the blanket off and stand, putting the bed between us.
"Don't change the subject."
"I'm not. We're actually low on food, and you need proper clothes if you're staying here." I move toward the dresser, pulling out jeans and a sweater.
I don't wait for his response. The bathroom door closes behind me with a soft click, and I lean against it, trying to steady my breathing.
This is bad. He's too smart, too perceptive.
And the way he looks at me, like he can see straight through every wall I've built, makes me feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with my thin tank top.
I dress quickly, pulling on thermal leggings under my jeans and layering a flannel over my sweater. When I emerge, Sasha's in the kitchen, coffee already brewing.
"You know how to make coffee." I try for light, casual.
"I know how to do a lot of things." He pours two mugs without asking. "Including reading people."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's an observation." He hands me a mug, his fingers brushing mine. The contact sends electricity up my arm. "You're scared. Not of me, I don't think. But of something."
I wrap both hands around the mug, using it as a shield. "Everyone's scared of something."
"True." He leans against the counter, those dark eyes never leaving my face. "But most people don't run this far to hide from it."
"Maybe I just like the mountains."
"And maybe I'm actually an accountant who got lost on a hiking trip." His mouth quirks. "We're both full of shit, Maya. Difference is, I'm not pretending otherwise."
Despite everything, I almost smile. "An accountant?"
"Too boring?"
"Too…" I gesture at him, at the dangerous energy that radiates off him even standing still in my kitchen. "Everything."
"I'll take that as a compliment." He sips his coffee, watching me over the rim. "You're determined to go for supplies, even when we know there were guys there asking about us?"
"I think it's a risk we need to take," I say slowly, then stand and grab my truck keys from the hanger on the wall. "We can sit here and starve, or we can risk going to town, maybe even find out something about the men looking for us."
He sets his mug down with deliberate care, the ceramic making a soft clink against the counter. "Then we move now. While we have the chance."
He pushes off from the counter and walks toward the door where I'm standing, truck keys in hand and purse slung over one shoulder.
He reaches past me to open the door. His hand lingers on the doorframe, blocking my path for just a moment while his eyes scan the tree line beyond the porch.
"Stay close," he says quietly.
The walk to the truck is silent except for gravel crunching under our boots.
He moves like he's expecting an ambush, each step deliberate, his attention split between the road and the forest. When we reach the truck, I unlock it and slide into the driver's seat.
He takes the passenger side, adjusting the seat back so he has a clear view of both mirrors.
The engine turns over, and I pull onto the mountain road. The landscape unfolds around us, dense forest giving way to patches of open sky. Beautiful and isolating in equal measure.
Beside me, Sasha is utterly still. Every few seconds, his eyes flick to the mirrors, then back to the road ahead. Not relaxed. Never relaxed.
"There's someone who might be able to help," I say after a few minutes of silence. My hands tighten on the wheel. "John Davis. The cop. He's been in the area for years, and he's more observant than anyone else. If those men have been around asking questions, showing pictures, he'd have noticed."
The temperature in the truck drops about ten degrees.
I don't look at him, but I feel the shift, the way his body goes from watchful to predatory in the space of a heartbeat.
"Davis." His voice is flat, dangerous. "You want to walk up to that cop and ask him about the men hunting me."
"He notices things," I say quickly. "More than the locals do. If anyone would know who they are, it'd be him."
He looks at me with a raised eyebrow. "Wonder what he'd say about you."
It's not a question. In fact, he sounds a bit sarcastic. With a frown, I continue driving, refusing to look at him.
The silence stretches for several minutes and I'm just starting to breathe a little easier when he suddenly, and quietly, speaks up.
"You're running from something, Maya." His tone is strong and certain. "Or someone."