Chapter 23 Lena
LENA
Iwake to the smell of coffee and something frying, which is wrong on so many levels, my brain can't process it fast enough. Sasha doesn't cook breakfast. I cook breakfast. And the sounds coming from my kitchen are too confident, too familiar, like someone who knows exactly where everything is kept.
I throw on clothes and pad out to find Danil moving through my kitchen like he owns it, cracking eggs into a pan with one hand while flipping what looks like blini with the other.
"Good morning," he says without turning around, like he has some sixth sense that tells him I'm standing here. "I hope you don't mind. I'm an early riser, and I figured I'd make myself useful."
Mind? I mind that he's in my space, touching my things, breathing my air. But I can't say that without sounding insane.
"Coffee's fresh," he adds, nodding toward the pot.
I pour myself a mug and lean against the counter, watching him work. There's something unsettling about how comfortable he is here, how he found the spatula in the second drawer and the plates in the cabinet above the sink without asking. Like he's done this before. Like he belongs.
"So, Maya." He plates the eggs and blini with surprising delicacy for a man his size. "How long have you been in Montana?"
The question sounds casual, but I hear the weight underneath. "Three years."
"Long time to be alone in the mountains." He sets a plate in front of me, then starts on another. "What brought you out here?"
"Needed a change." I take a bite of blini, and damn it, it's perfect. Light and slightly sweet, just the way I like them. "City life wasn't for me."
"Which city?"
My fingers tighten on my fork. "Does it matter?"
"Just making conversation." But his dark eyes are sharp, assessing. "You seem like an East Coast girl to me. New York, maybe? Boston?"
Before I can answer, Sasha emerges from the bedroom, his hair still damp from the shower.
He's wearing jeans that hang low on his hips and a thermal shirt that clings to every ridge of muscle across his chest and abs.
Even stressed and suspicious, my body responds to the sight of him.
Heat pools low in my belly, and I have to force myself to look away before I do something stupid like stare.
His gold eyes move between Danil and me, reading the tension in the air like it's written in neon. "Breakfast smells good," he says, but his voice has that edge I've learned to recognize. The one that means he's paying very close attention.
"Sit." Danil gestures to the table with the spatula. "There's plenty."
Sasha doesn't sit. Instead, he moves to stand beside me, his hand finding the small of my back. The touch is possessive and protective, and I see Danil notice it, see the way his eyebrows rise slightly before he schools his expression back to neutral.
"Maya was just telling me about how she ended up in Montana," Danil says, plating more eggs. "Though she's being a bit mysterious about the details."
"Maybe she likes her privacy." Sasha's voice is flat, dangerous. "Maybe that's why she lives in the middle of nowhere."
"Fair enough." Danil sets the pan aside and finally sits, his large frame making my kitchen chair look like doll furniture. "I'm just curious. It's not every day you find someone living this far off the grid."
The storm outside howls, rattling the windows. Snow falls so thick, I can barely see the tree line, and the world beyond my cabin has disappeared into white. We're trapped here together, the three of us, and the walls feel like they're closing in with every passing second.
"Where are you from originally?" Danil asks me, taking a bite of his eggs. "Your accent is interesting. Not quite East Coast, not quite Midwest."
"I don't have an accent," I say, but my voice comes out too defensive.
"Everyone has an accent." He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm good with voices. Comes from years of listening to people lie to me."
Sasha's hand tightens on my back. "That's enough."
"I'm just making conversation," Danil says mildly, but there's steel underneath the casual tone. "Getting to know the woman who saved my best friend's life."
"Then ask about something else." Sasha pulls out the chair beside me and sits, his thigh pressing against mine under the table. Even through our jeans, the contact sends electricity up my spine. "Her past is her business."
Danil studies us both for a long moment, then shrugs. "All right. Fair enough." He takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully. "These mountains must get lonely. Do you get many visitors?"
"Just Pavel," I say before I can stop myself.
"Pavel." Danil's eyes sharpen. "Who's Pavel?"
"A neighbor," Sasha says flatly. "He checks in sometimes."
"Sounds like a good friend."
"He's helpful." I push eggs around my plate, suddenly not hungry. "Brings supplies here and there."
"Convenient." Danil leans back in his chair, and the movement makes his shirt pull tight across his chest. He's built like a tank, all muscle and controlled power, and I can see why he and Sasha are friends.
They're cut from the same dangerous cloth.
"And he doesn't ask questions about the mysterious woman living alone in the woods? "
"He minds his business," Sasha says, and there's a warning in his voice now, clear and unmistakable.
Danil raises his hands in mock surrender. "I'm not trying to start anything. Just trying to understand the situation."
"The situation," Sasha says slowly, "is that Maya saved my life. That's all you need to understand."
The tension at the table is thick enough to choke on. I stand abruptly, grabbing my plate even though I've barely touched the food. "I should check the generator. Make sure we have enough fuel to get through the storm."
"I'll do it," Sasha says, already standing.
"No, I've got it." I need space, need air, need to get away from Danil's probing questions and knowing looks. "You two should catch up. Talk about old times."
Before either of them can argue, I'm pulling on my coat and boots. The cold hits me like a wall when I step outside, stealing my breath, but I welcome it. Anything is better than sitting in that kitchen feeling like a bug under a microscope.
The generator shed is only fifty feet from the cabin, but the snow is deep enough that each step is a struggle. By the time I reach it, my legs are burning, and my lungs ache from the frigid air.
I check the fuel levels, top off the tank, and do all the routine maintenance I've done a hundred times before. Anything to delay going back inside. Anything to avoid Danil's questions and the way he looks at me. Suspiciously.
When I finally can't justify staying out any longer, I trudge back through the snow. My fingers are numb despite my gloves, and my face feels like it might crack from the cold.
I stamp snow from my boots on the porch and push open the door. The warmth inside is almost painful after the bitter cold, and I stand there for a moment, letting sensation return to my extremities.
Voices drift from the living room. Sasha and Danil, speaking in rapid Russian. I don't understand most of it, but I catch my fake name. Maya. And then another word that makes my stomach drop. Familiar. He's saying I look familiar.
I clear my throat loudly, and the conversation stops. When I round the corner, both men are sitting by the fire, mugs of coffee in hand, looking for all the world like old friends catching up. Except for the tension in Sasha's shoulders and the calculating look in Danil's eyes.
"Generator's fine," I announce, peeling off my coat. "Should last us through the storm."
"Good." Sasha pats the couch beside him, and I sink down gratefully.
His arm comes around my shoulders immediately, pulling me against his side.
I can feel the heat of him through his shirt, smell the clean scent of soap and something uniquely him.
My body relaxes despite my anxiety, molding against his solid warmth.
"The storm's supposed to last another day, at least," Danil says, staring into the fire. "Looks like we're stuck together for a while."
Lucky us.
The day drags on with painful slowness. Danil is everywhere, filling my small cabin with his presence. He's polite, even helpful, but I can't shake the feeling that he's watching me. Studying me. Trying to figure out where he knows me from.
Around noon, I escape to my bedroom to change into dry socks. That's when I see him.
Danil stands in my doorway, his large frame blocking most of the light from the hallway.
He's staring at my nightstand, at the photograph I forgot to hide.
The one of me at eighteen, with long hair, darker than what it is now, and a smile that belongs to someone who didn't know the world could be so cruel.
"What are you doing in here?" My voice comes out sharper than I intend, but I don't care. This is my space, my sanctuary, and he's violating it.
He turns slowly, and there's something in his expression I can't read. "Sorry. I was looking for the bathroom. Got turned around."
"The bathroom is the other door." I point down the hall, my hand shaking slightly. "This is my bedroom."
"Right. My mistake." But his eyes drift back to the photograph, lingering for just a second too long before he leaves.
I grab the frame and shove it into my dresser drawer, my heart hammering against my ribs. He saw it. He definitely saw it. And now he's going to put the pieces together, if he hasn't already.
That evening, Sasha suggests cards to pass the time.
We sit around the kitchen table, playing poker with matchsticks as chips.
Danil is good, reading tells and bluffing with practiced ease.
Sasha is better, his face an unreadable mask.
I'm terrible, my anxiety making me fidget and give away every hand.
"You're too honest for poker," Danil says with a laugh after I fold yet another potentially winning hand. "Your face shows everything you're thinking."
"Not everything," I mutter, but he's right. I've never been good at hiding my emotions.
Sasha's hand finds my thigh under the table, squeezing gently. The touch is reassuring and distracting in equal measure. His fingers are warm through my jeans, and I'm acutely aware of how close they are to places that have no business being thought about while his best friend sits three feet away.
"Another round?" Danil shuffles the cards with surprising dexterity for someone with hands that big.
"I'm out." I stand, needing to move. "I'll make coffee."
I busy myself at the counter, measuring grounds and water, trying to ignore the low rumble of male voices behind me. They've switched to Russian again, and while I can't understand the words, I can hear the tone. Serious. Concerned. Sasha asking questions, Danil answering carefully.
The coffee maker gurgles and hisses, filling the kitchen with the rich scent of dark roast. I'm reaching for mugs when I hear the back door open and close. Sasha's voice calls out, "Going to check the generator. Be right back."
My stomach drops. He's leaving me alone with Danil.
I turn slowly, and Danil is standing now, moving toward the kitchen with that same unsettling familiarity. He's not threatening, not overtly, but something in the way he moves makes my instincts scream.
He leans against the counter, casual and relaxed, but I see the predator underneath. His voice drops to barely above a whisper. "I know who you are, Lena Orlova. The question is, does he?"