CHAPTER 21
THE BLADE AND THE BONE
POV: IVY
The cold is a physical weight.
It presses down on the tin roof of the cabin, seeps through the chinking in the log walls, and settles in the marrow of my bones. It is a primitive, relentless cold that makes the air inside the single room sparkle with frost when the fire dies down.
I am not cold, though.
I am encased in heat.
The bunk bed is narrow—a cot meant for a hunter, not a couple.
We are forced to tangle our limbs together just to fit.
I am lying on my side, my back pressed against the rough log wall, and Silas is plastered against my front.
His heavy arm is thrown over my waist, pinning me to the mattress, his hand resting flat on my stomach.
Even in sleep, he holds me like I might evaporate.
I stare at the zipper of his thermal shirt, mere inches from my nose. I can feel the slow, steady thud of his heart against my own chest. It’s a rhythmic drumbeat that drowns out the wind howling outside.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
It’s the sound of the wall. The sound of the monster who ate my father and then curled up around me to keep me warm.
I shift slightly, trying to alleviate the cramp in my hip.
Silas’s grip tightens instantly. His eyes don't open, but his hand slides down, splaying possessively over my hip bone.
"Still here," he rumbles, his voice thick with sleep and gravel.
"I know," I whisper. "I’m not running."
"You couldn't run if you tried."
He opens his eyes. In the gray pre-dawn light filtering through the dirty window, his irises are the color of the frozen lake we passed yesterday. Blue ice.
"Up," he commands.
The transition from lover to commander is instantaneous. He rolls away from me, swinging his legs off the bed. The loss of his body heat is a shock that makes me gasp.
"It’s dark out," I complain, pulling the thin, scratchy wool blanket up to my chin.
"Darkness is cover," he says, standing up. He stretches, his spine cracking. He is wearing the tactical pants and the tight black shirt from yesterday. He looks rougher here. The stubble on his jaw is darker, thicker. The perfectly tailored CEO is dead; the warlord has taken his place.
He walks to the wood stove and kicks the door open, throwing in a fresh log. Sparks fly up, illuminating the room for a second.
"Get your boots on," he says over his shoulder. "Training starts in five minutes."
"Training?" I groan, sitting up. "Silas, I shot a man yesterday. I think I graduated."
He turns to look at me. The firelight casts half his face in shadow.
"You pulled a trigger," he says dismissively. "A gun is a coward’s weapon. It’s distance. It’s impersonal. If you run out of bullets, Ivy, what are you?"
He walks over to the table where he dumped the duffel bag. He pulls out two knives.
They are identical to the one strapped to my belt. Seven inches of black, serrated steel.
"If you run out of bullets," he repeats, "you are dead. Unless you know how to bleed someone."
He tosses one of the knives onto the mattress. It lands with a heavy thud next to my leg.
"Outside."
The clearing in front of the cabin is covered in a layer of fresh, powdery snow. The air is so cold it burns my lungs with every inhale, tasting of pine resin and ice.
Silas stands ten feet away from me. He holds his knife in a reverse grip, the blade lying flat against his forearm. He looks relaxed. Loose.
I hold mine the way I’ve seen in movies—point out, shaking slightly.
"Stop shaking," he barks. "You’re telegraphing your fear. If I’m your enemy, I already know I’ve won because your hand is trembling."
"I’m freezing," I snap back, my breath puffing out in white clouds.
"Adrenaline warms the blood. Attack me."
I blink. "What?"
"Attack me. Try to cut me."
"Silas, I’m not going to—"
"Ivy," he interrupts, his voice dropping to that dangerous, soft register. "Nikolai’s men won't ask you nicely. They won't care if you're cold. They will drag you into a van and they will peel your skin off. Now, attack me."
He steps forward. He swipes his knife through the air. It’s a feint, fast and terrifyingly close to my face.
I yelp and jump back, slipping on the snow. I barely keep my balance.
"Too slow," he taunts. "You’re dead. Try again."
Anger flares in my chest. It’s a hot, welcome spark. He’s mocking me. He’s treating me like a child after I proved I could kill for him.
I lunge.
I aim for his chest. It’s a clumsy, desperate thrust.
Silas sidesteps effortlessly. He catches my wrist with his free hand, twisting it painfully. He spins me around and slams my back against his chest.
Suddenly, his knife is at my throat. The cold steel presses against the pulse point, right above the diamond choker I’m still wearing under my thermal gear.
"Dead," he whispers in my ear.
He releases me and shoves me forward. I stumble into the snow.
"Again."
I turn around, panting. "You’re stronger than me! It’s not fair!"
"Fair is a fairy tale," he growls. "You think a Russian enforcer cares about weight classes? You don't fight fair, Ivy. You fight dirty. You use your size. You get inside their guard."
He waits.
I circle him. I watch his eyes. They aren't looking at my knife. They’re looking at my hips, my shoulders, reading my movement before I make it.
I need to distract him.
I step closer. I lower the knife slightly. I let my lips part, letting out a soft, pained sound.
His eyes flick to my mouth for a fraction of a second.
I strike.
I slash upward, aiming for his arm.
It’s fast. Faster than I thought I could be.
Silas moves, but not fast enough to avoid it completely. The tip of my blade catches the sleeve of his shirt. Riiip. Fabric tears. A thin line of red appears on his forearm.
We both freeze.
I stare at the blood welling up on his skin. A drop falls onto the pristine white snow. Like a rose petal.
"I..." I gasp, dropping the knife. "Silas, I’m sorry! I didn't mean to—"
"Don't apologize," he roars.
He closes the distance. He kicks my knife away and grabs the front of my jacket, slamming me backward until my spine hits the rough bark of a pine tree.
He pins me there with his body. His hips grind against mine. His face is inches from mine, his eyes wild, dilated.
"You drew blood," he breathes. He sounds exhilarated. He sounds aroused.
He lifts his bleeding arm and presses the wound against my cheek. He smears his warm, wet blood onto my frozen skin.
"That," he growls, "is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever done."
"You’re bleeding," I whimper, my heart hammering so hard I think it might crack my ribs.
"Pain is information," he says. "It tells you you’re alive."
He leans in. He kisses me.
It’s not a kiss; it’s a war. His tongue invades my mouth, tasting the cold and the fear. His hands are everywhere—in my hair, gripping my waist, squeezing my ass through the thick tactical pants.
He presses his erection against my stomach. He is hard. Rock hard. The violence turned him on. I turned him on.
"You are dangerous," he murmurs against my lips. "My little artist. My little killer."
He pulls back, breathing heavily. He looks at the blood on my cheek. He licks his thumb and wipes it away, then puts his thumb in his mouth, tasting his own essence mixed with my sweat.
"Pick up the knife," he orders.
"Silas..."
"Pick it up. We’re not done until you can put me on my knees."
We train for hours.
By the time he lets me stop, my muscles are screaming. My knuckles are bruised. I am exhausted, cold, and hungry.
But I feel... solid.
I feel like the iron in my blood has hardened into steel.
We go back inside the cabin. Silas tends to the fire while I collapse onto the bench at the table. He opens a can of beans and heats them on the stove. It’s not roast beef. It’s not served on china. But when he hands me the spoon, I eat it like it’s a feast.
"We have a problem," Silas says, leaning against the counter, eating directly from the can.
"Besides the federal government freezing your assets and a Russian mobster trying to kill us?" I ask dryly.
He smirks. A genuine, small smirk that softens the scar on his brow.
"We need capital," he says. "Luca says the cash in the bag will last us two weeks if we stay hidden. But we can't fight a war on pocket change. I need to buy equipment. I need to bribe officials. I need to hire contractors who don't take checks."
"How much do you need?"
"Millions," he says. "Liquid."
He runs a hand through his hair. "I have assets Nikolai doesn't know about. Physical assets. Gold. Diamonds. But they’re in vaults in the city. And right now, every camera in New York is looking for my face."
I chew on my lip, thinking.
I look at the knife on the table. I look at Silas—the man who bought my paintings when I was a nobody. The man who appreciates art.
"Art," I say.
He looks at me. "What?"
"Nikolai," I say. "He’s not just a thug, is he? The file... I remember seeing something in the file back at the office. Before the shooting. It mentioned the Voronezh Trust."
Silas’s eyes narrow. He puts the can down. "The Voronezh Trust is a front. It’s how the Sokolovs launder their heroin money. They buy high-value art, store it in freeports, and sell it years later clean."
"The Winter Gala," I say. The memory surfaces from my time at Parsons. Every art student knew about it. "It’s next week. In Manhattan. It’s the biggest black-market art auction of the year. Invite only. Cash only. No questions asked."
"I know it," Silas says. "I’ve bought there before."
"Nikolai will be there," I say. "He has to be. He’s the primary backer this year. I read it on the forums before... before you took me."
Silas walks over to the table. He places his hands on the wood, leaning down to look at me.
"Go on."
"He’s moving a collection," I say, my mind racing. "The Romanov Icons. Stolen from Kyiv last year. They’re worth fifty million, easily. He’s going to sell them at the Gala to wash his money."
"And?"
"And I know who the authenticator is," I say. "Professor Arthur Sterling. He was my thesis advisor at Parsons. He’s corrupt as hell. He takes bribes to certify fakes."
I look up at Silas.
"If Nikolai is selling the Icons... he needs Sterling to sign off on them right before the auction starts. The money goes into escrow tonight pending authentication."
Silas stares at me. I can see the gears turning in his predator mind.
"If we get to Sterling..." he muses.
"We don't need to get to Sterling," I correct him. "We need to be Sterling."
I stand up. My legs ache, but I ignore it.
"Sterling is terrified of germs. He never meets clients in person. He sends his assistant. A graduate student."
I point to myself.
"I was his favorite student, Silas. I know his codes. I know his authentication process. If I walk into that vault... if I tell the escrow agent the Icons are fake..."
"...the deal collapses," Silas finishes. "The buyers pull out."
"And the money?" I ask.
"The money is in limbo," Silas says, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "And if I have the escrow keys... I can divert it before it bounces back to Nikolai."
"Fifty million dollars," I whisper. "Stolen from the man who tried to steal me."
Silas reaches out. He grabs the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair. He pulls me close, until our foreheads touch.
"You’re suggesting a heist," he says. "In the middle of a manhunt. Walking right into the lion’s den."
"You said I needed to be a wolf," I remind him. "Wolves hunt."
He laughs. It’s a dark, rough sound that vibrates in my chest.
"God, I love you," he growls.
The words hang in the air.
He freezes. I freeze.
He didn't mean to say it. It slipped out. A jagged shard of truth in the middle of a war council.
He pulls back, his eyes searching mine. He waits for me to flinch. He waits for me to use it against him.
"You love me?" I whisper.
"I am obsessed with you," he corrects, trying to walk it back. "I am possessed by you."
"No," I say, stepping closer, pressing my body against his. I feel the knife on my belt dig into his hip. "You said you love me."
I reach up and trace the scar on his eyebrow.
"Say it again."
He closes his eyes for a second, surrendering.
"I love you," he says roughly. "I love your rage. I love your hands. I love the way you look at me when you want to kill me."
My heart stutters. Thump-thump-thump. The tracker on my ankle must be lighting up the dashboard of his soul.
I should run. This man is dangerous. He is a criminal. He is pulling me into a heist that could get us both killed.
But standing here in this freezing cabin, with his blood on my cheek and his confession in the air... I know I’m exactly where I belong.
"Then let’s go get your money," I say.
Silas opens his eyes. The blue fire is back, brighter than ever.
"Get the laptop," he commands. "We have a heist to plan."