Chapter 18 Aleksandr
ALEKSANDR
Iwake to Maya's warmth pressed against my side, her blonde hair splayed across my chest, one leg thrown over mine in sleep.
The morning light filters through the curtains, painting her skin in shades of gold and cream.
She's beautiful like this, unguarded and peaceful, and something in my chest tightens at the sight.
Then the memory hits.
I'm sitting behind a massive desk, mahogany polished to a mirror shine. The office is expensive, everything in it chosen to project power. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city, lights twinkling like stars below. Three files are spread before me, each one containing a life I'm about to judge.
The first is a soldier who skimmed from a protection racket. Small amount, first offense, but theft is theft. I flip through the surveillance photos, the bank records, the witness statements. My finger taps the folder once. "Break his hands. Send him back to his family as a warning."
The second is a rival's lieutenant who's been making noise about expanding into my territory. I study his face in the photo, memorizing it. "Make it public. I want everyone to see what happens when you challenge me."
The third is a politician who's threatening to investigate my operations. I lean back in my leather chair, considering. This one requires finesse. "Find his weakness. Everyone has one. When you do, apply pressure until he remembers who really runs this city."
My second-in-command nods, gathering the files. No questions. No hesitation. My word is law, and these men will carry out my orders without mercy because that's what I've trained them to do.
I feel nothing as he leaves. No guilt. No satisfaction. Just the cold efficiency of problems being solved, loose ends being tied off. This is who I am. This is what I do. And I'm very, very good at it.
The city lights below seem to pulse with my heartbeat, and I think, This is mine. All of it. And I'll do whatever it takes to keep it.
I jerk out of the memory flash, my heart pounding, sweat cooling on my skin despite the morning chill. Maya stirs beside me, her hand sliding across my chest.
"You okay?" Her voice is rough with sleep, sexy in a way that makes my cock stir despite the darkness churning in my head.
"Fine." The lie tastes bitter. "Just a dream."
She props herself up on one elbow, and the sheet falls away from her breasts. Even disturbed and shaken, I notice. Notice the way her nipples tighten in the cool air, the soft curve of her waist, the way her hair falls across one shoulder.
"You're a terrible liar, Sasha." She traces a finger down my chest, following the line of a scar. "What did you remember?"
"Nothing important." I catch her hand, bringing it to my lips. "Go back to sleep."
"It's morning." She glances at the window, where pale light is growing stronger. "And you're wound tighter than a spring. What's wrong?"
Everything. I remembered making decisions about people's lives like I was choosing what to have for breakfast. I remembered feeling nothing while ordering violence. I remembered being the kind of man who breaks hands and makes examples and destroys anyone who threatens his power.
And the worst part? It felt natural. Right. Like slipping into a well-worn coat.
"I need to move." I slide out of bed, pulling on jeans and a thermal shirt. "Chop some wood and clear my head."
Maya sits up, the sheet pooling around her waist, and I force myself not to stare at her bare breasts.
"Want company?" she asks.
"No. Stay warm." I lean down and kiss her forehead, breathing in the scent of her hair. "I'll be back soon."
Outside, the cold air hits my face, sharp and almost painful. Good. I need the shock of it, need something to ground me in the present instead of the fragments of a past I'm not sure I want to remember.
The axe feels perfect in my hands. Balanced. Familiar. I position a log on the chopping block and swing, the blade biting through wood with a satisfying crack. The impact reverberates up my arms, and I welcome the burn in my shoulders as I set up another log.
Swing. Crack. Split.
I fall into a rhythm, letting the physical work quiet the noise in my head.
But the memory lingers like smoke. The cold efficiency of those decisions.
The way I felt nothing while ordering pain and death.
The certainty that I was right, that my authority was absolute, and that anyone who challenged me deserved what they got.
Is that who I am? A man who breaks people without hesitation? Who sees violence as just another tool in the toolbox?
The axe comes down harder, faster. Wood splinters and flies. My breath comes in clouds, and sweat dampens my shirt despite the cold.
Maya's voice echoes in my head. Aleksandr Romanov ordered the hit on me himself.
What if I'm like him? What if the man she's sleeping with, the man she's starting to trust, is the same kind of man who would put a price on an innocent young woman's head?
The thought makes my stomach turn. I set down the axe and brace my hands on my knees, breathing hard.
I straighten, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. The pile of split wood has grown considerably, enough to last us another few days, at least. My shoulders ache, and my hands are starting to blister, but the restless energy is finally starting to fade.
I gather an armload of wood and head back toward the cabin. The cold air feels good against my overheated skin, and my muscles burn in that satisfying way that comes from hard physical labor. It's honest work. Simple. Nothing like the complicated mess inside my head.
The cabin door opens before I reach it. Maya stands in the doorway, wrapped in one of the thick blankets, her hair still tousled from sleep. The morning light catches the auburn highlights, making it look like spun copper.
"You've been out here for a long time," she says, stepping aside to let me pass. "I was afraid you'd cut off a hand or leg… or something even more important." The grin that creases her face relieves some of my tension.
"Oh? And what appendage would that be?" I ask with a raised eyebrow as I dump the load of firewood into the container by the fireplace. Her face flushes, but she grins even wider as her eyes drop to my crotch. "So, it's my dick you're after."
"Well, it would be a shame to lose such a fine specimen," she says, her voice dropping to that husky tone that makes heat pool in my gut.
I move toward her, backing her against the doorframe. The blanket slips from one shoulder, revealing smooth skin and the curve of her collarbone. I brace one hand on the frame above her head, caging her in.
"I'm not afraid of you, remember?" Her hand comes up to rest on my chest, fingers splaying over my heart. Even through my shirt, her touch burns.
"You should be." But I'm leaning down anyway, drawn to her like metal to a magnet.
She rises on her toes to meet me halfway. "Too late for that."
The kiss starts soft but quickly turns hungry. Her fingers curl into my shirt, pulling me closer, and I slide my hand into her hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss. She tastes like coffee, and I could lose myself in this. In her.
But the memory of that office, those cold decisions, surfaces like oil on water. I pull back, breathing hard.
"Sasha?" Her lips are swollen, her eyes dark with desire.
"I need to shower." I step away, putting distance between us before I do something stupid like carry her back to bed and forget about everything else. "I'm covered in sweat."
"I don't mind." She moves toward me, persistent as always.
"I do." I head toward the bathroom, needing space to think, to breathe without her scent clouding my judgment.
The shower is scalding, but it doesn't wash away the unease that's been building since I woke. Those memory fragments feel like puzzle pieces that don't quite fit together, and the more I try to force them into place, the more jagged the edges become.
When I emerge, dressed in clean jeans and a thermal shirt, Maya has made coffee. She's in my shirt, her legs bare beneath the hem, and I have to force myself to look away from the smooth expanse of her thighs.
"Better?" she asks, handing me a mug.
"Getting there." I take a long drink, letting the heat settle in my chest.
We stand in comfortable silence for a moment, and then she says, "You want to talk about what's really bothering you?"
"Not particularly."
"Sasha." She sets her mug down and crosses her arms. The movement pushes her breasts up, and I can see the outline of her nipples through the thin fabric. Focus, you bastard. "You can't keep everything locked inside."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You've been chopping wood like you're trying to split the mountain in half." She moves closer, and I can feel the heat radiating from her body. "What did you remember?"
I set my own mug down and turn to face her fully. "Things I'm not proud of. Decisions that came too easily and violence that felt natural."
"You don't know if those memories are even real," she says softly. "They could be fragments of something bigger.""
“They feel real." I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger on her jaw. "They feel like the truth."
"So what if they are?" Her hand covers mine, holding it against her face. "So what if you did terrible things before? That doesn't define who you are now."
"Doesn't it?" I pull away and move toward the window, needing to see outside, to check the perimeter, old instincts rising to the surface. "If I was capable of that kind of cold calculation, that kind of brutality, then it's still in me. Waiting."
"Everyone has darkness in them." She follows me, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor. "The question is what you choose to do with it."
I stare out at the trees, at the road barely visible through the pines, and spot a plume of dust rising from the road.
Maya must sense my sudden tenseness. "What is it?"
"Someone's coming." My hand instinctively goes to my waistband, where a gun should be. Where I'm certain it used to be, in another life.
The dust cloud grows closer, and then I see it. Pavel's ancient Ford truck, moving faster than usual down the narrow road.
"It's just Pavel," Maya says, but I can hear the uncertainty in her voice.
"Pavel doesn't come two days in a row." I move toward the door, every instinct screaming that something is wrong. "Not unless there's a problem."
The truck pulls up near the cabin, and Pavel climbs out. Even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes scan the tree line before he heads toward us.
I open the door before he can knock.
"Pavel." I keep my voice neutral, but my muscles are coiled tight, ready for action. "Wasn't expecting you back so soon."
He pulls off his cap, turning it over in his weathered hands. His face is grim, the lines around his eyes deeper than yesterday. "We need to talk."
"About?"
"Had more visitors at the store this morning." His eyes flick past me to where Maya stands, then back to my face. "Like the ones from before. City types. Expensive clothes, expensive car. But these aren't the same men."
My jaw tightens. "What did they want?"
"They were asking questions. About strangers in the area. About anyone new who might have shown up in the last few weeks." Pavel shifts his weight, his weathered hands gripping his cap tighter.
"They were very specific about who they were looking for." Pavel meets my eyes. "A man with dark hair and tattoos."