Chapter 25 Lena
LENA
Ilie in the darkness, listening to the storm rage outside and the low rumble of male voices from the living room.
I roll onto my side, pulling the blanket tighter around myself. And then it hits me. Not gradually. Not a slow dawning of realization. It slams into me like a freight train, stealing my breath and making my heart stutter in my chest.
Aleksandr.
Danil keeps almost calling him Aleksandr. Catching himself, switching to Sasha, but that first half always tries to escape. Alek. Short for Aleksandr.
The dragon wings tattooed across his shoulder blades. I wondered why they seemed familiar when I'd first seen them. I'd heard how they were on Aleksandr Romanov's back, though I'd never seen a picture of them or the man.
Aleksandr Romanov.
The name sits in my mind like a stone, heavy and cold and undeniable.
The man sleeping in my bed, the man whose hands have touched every inch of my body, the man I've laughed with and cooked with and trusted with my life, is Aleksandr Romanov!
The Pakhan who ordered my execution.
My stomach lurches, and for a moment I think I might actually vomit. I press my hand over my mouth, breathing hard through my nose, trying to keep the panic at bay.
Of all the people in the world. Of all the men who could have stumbled bleeding into my yard during a blizzard. Of all the people I could have pulled from the snow and brought into my home.
It was him.
The universe has a sick sense of humor.
I saved the life of the man who tried to have me killed. I nursed him back to health. I fell into bed with him. I let him touch me, taste me, claim me in ways I've never let anyone else.
And God help me, I fell in love with him.
The realization crashes over me like a second wave, somehow worse than the first. Because it's true.
Somewhere between the snowball fights and the quiet mornings and the way he looks at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters, I fell completely and irrevocably in love with Aleksandr Romanov.
I'm in love with the man who put a price on my head.
A laugh bubbles up in my throat, hysterical and bitter. I clamp my hand tighter over my mouth to keep it from escaping. This is insane. This is beyond insane. This is the kind of twisted irony that only happens in bad movies and worse nightmares.
But it's real. He's real. The way my heart races when he walks into a room is real. The safety I feel in his arms is real. The future I've started imagining, the one where maybe I don't have to run anymore, where maybe I could actually be happy, that's real too.
And it's all built on a foundation of lies and blood and a hit order that's probably still active.
I sit up, my hands shaking as I push hair out of my face. I need to think. Need to figure out what to do.
Running is the obvious answer. Wait until morning, wait until the storm breaks, and disappear again. I've done it before. I can do it again.
Except the storm shows no signs of stopping. The wind howls like something alive and furious, and snow falls so thickly, I can barely see the tree line from my window. Even if I wanted to run, I couldn't. Not in this. I'd be dead within an hour.
And the truth, the part that terrifies me more than anything else, is that I don't want to run.
I don't want to leave him.
Even knowing who he is. Even knowing what he's done. Even knowing that if his memory returns fully, he might finish what he started three years ago.
I'm in love with him, and that love doesn't care about logic or self-preservation or the very reasonable fear that should be screaming at me to get as far away as possible.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see stars.
This is what happens when you spend three years alone.
You lose perspective. You forget how to protect yourself.
You fall for the first man who shows you kindness, even when that man is literally the worst possible choice in the entire world.
But it wasn't just kindness. It was the way he chopped wood shirtless in the cold, muscles flexing with each swing. The way he reinforced my doors and windows without being asked. The way he kissed me like I was something precious and fucked me like I was something he'd die to keep.
My chest aches with the weight of it. With the impossibility of loving someone who should be my enemy. With the knowledge that every moment of happiness I've felt in his arms was built on a lie.
Except it wasn't a lie. Not for him. He doesn't remember ordering the hit. Doesn't remember being the Pakhan who made my family's name synonymous with betrayal and death. To him, I'm just Maya. The woman who saved his life. The woman he's falling for.
The voices in the living room have gone quiet. I strain to hear anything, but there's only the storm and the creak of old wood settling. Are they asleep? Still talking? Planning what to do about me?
I should go out there, should confront this head-on instead of hiding in my bedroom like a coward. But my legs won't move. My body has decided that staying right here, in this bed that smells like him, is the safest option.
I finally drift into fitful sleep sometime before dawn, my dreams full of gold eyes and dragon wings and the sound of gunshots echoing through snow.
Morning comes too soon and not soon enough. I wake to pale light filtering through the curtains and the smell of coffee. For one blissful moment, I forget everything. Then it all comes crashing back, and I have to fight the urge to pull the covers over my head and never come out.
But hiding won't solve anything. And I need to know what Danil told him. Need to know if I have hours or minutes before everything falls apart.
I dress quickly in jeans and a thermal shirt, then braid my hair with shaking fingers. My reflection in the small mirror looks pale and drawn, with dark circles under my eyes that no amount of concealer could hide. Not that I have concealer. Not that it matters.
The cabin is quiet when I emerge. Too quiet. My heart hammers as I move down the hallway, half expecting to find them both gone. Or worse, waiting for me with guns drawn and questions I can't answer.
They aren’t in the cabin anywhere, and then I see the note.
It’s from Sasha—Aleksandr. He and Danil are walking the perimeter and won’t be back for a while.
I busy myself with mundane tasks such as mending a shirt, restacking wood in the fireplace, and even reorganizing some kitchen cupboards.
By afternoon, I’m yawning every five minutes since I didn’t get much sleep, so I decide to take a nap.
When I wake again, my eyes pop wide open. I must have slept the entire day away because no light filtered in through the windows. I jerk up to a sitting position, then notice Sasha, sleeping peacefully next to me. Just how late is it?
Carefully so I don’t wake him, I get out of bed, wrap a warm robe around me, and leave the bedroom, pulling the door closed softly behind me.
Danil is still awake, standing in the kitchen with a glass of vodka in his hand.
"Hi," he says, but the smile he gives me doesn’t seem genuine. His dark eyes study my face, and I see the moment he registers the fear there. The knowledge.
"You figured it out," he says quietly. It's not a question.
I nod, not trusting my voice. I don’t need to be told what he’s talking about. He knows I’ve figured out who Sasha really is.
He's quiet for a moment. "And you didn't run."
"Storm," I manage. "Can't run in this."
"Bullshit." He leans back in his chair, and the wood creaks under his weight. "You could have tried. Taken your truck, risked it. But you're still here."
I don't answer. Can't answer. Because he's right, and we both know it.
"You love him." Again, not a question, just a statement of fact delivered in that same calm, measured tone.
Heat floods my cheeks. "I don't…"
"Don't lie to me, Lena." The use of my real name makes me flinch. "So either you're stupid or you're in love. And you don't strike me as stupid."
"What are you going to do?"
"That's the question, isn't it?" He leans forward with his elbows on the table.
The position makes his shoulders look even broader, more intimidating.
"I could tell him. Right now. Wake him up and explain that the woman he's falling for is Lena Orlova.
The girl whose family stole from him. The girl he ordered killed. "
My throat closes. "Will you?"
"I haven't decided yet." His expression is unreadable. "I'm trying to understand what happened here." He runs a hand over his shaved head. "Aleksandr has been missing for weeks. People are looking for him. Our Pakhan is needed. And there's the others."
"What others?"
"Rivals. Enemies he's made over the years." He pauses. "Maybe someone inside his own organization. Someone who wanted him gone."
The implication hangs heavily in the air. "You think someone in the Bratva tried to kill him?"
"I think someone shot him and left him to die. And I think they're still looking to finish the job—if they suspect he's alive." His dark eyes are serious, and I notice a hint of worry that surprises me.
"That hit…" He hesitates, choosing his words carefully. "It was business. Nothing personal. Your family stole from him. He had to respond or look weak. That's how this world works."
"Nothing personal." I laugh, and it comes out harsh and broken. "My uncle's gambling debts and my father's desperation got me a death sentence, and it was nothing personal."
"I'm not saying it was right. I'm saying it was business." He leans back again, and I notice the way his shirt pulls tight across his chest. Even sitting still, he radiates controlled violence. "Aleksandr doesn't remember ordering it. Doesn't remember you or your family or any of it."
"But he will remember. Eventually." My voice cracks. "And then what?"
Danil is quiet for a long moment, his gaze moving to the window where snow continues to fall in thick sheets, highlighted by the yellow glow of the porch light.
"I'd pray he never remembers. Because the Aleksandr I know doesn't leave loose ends."