Chapter 4 #2
But I haven’t forgotten. And standing there wrapped in the blanket, in need of a bath and on the verge of passing out, I realize she’s still just as beautiful to me as she was in champagne silk, with her hair done and her lips painted red.
She looked like a queen that night. Like she belonged in that ballroom with all those powerful, dangerous men. And I wanted her.
I can remember clearly how much I wanted her, in a way that I can’t remember some of the women that I’ve actually slept with. But it didn’t matter. Wanting her was impossible and inappropriate. She was going to be Ilya's wife. She was untouchable.
I've had women before. Plenty of them. I knew what desire felt like. But what I felt that night was different.
I watched her all night. I couldn't help it. I watched the way she smiled at Ilya, the way she let him touch her—his hand at the small of her back, his lips brushing her temple as they danced. I watched the way she held herself, that perfect posture that never wavered even as the night wore on. It didn’t matter if she was tired.
No one would ever know, I realized. She would be perfect in front of all of them, for as long as she needed to be.
I told myself it meant nothing. That I needed to get my shit together and stop thinking about my boss's future—and then later, actual fiancée—like she was anything other than off-limits.
I thought I'd succeeded. After the engagement fell apart, after she disappeared, I thought I'd buried it. Out of sight, out of mind. I had other things to focus on. Other jobs. Other women.
But I clearly was lying to myself all that time.
Because standing here now, looking at her wrapped in that blanket with her hair hanging in wet tangles around her face, with bruises on her skin and exhaustion in her eyes—I want her just as much as I did then. Maybe more.
Now I’ve seen her when she’s not perfect, when everything is trying to break her down, and she’s still fighting to survive. I’ve seen how strong she is, how much fire there is in her, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"Stop staring at me," she hisses, her voice cutting through my thoughts.
I realize I've been standing here like an idiot, just looking at her. I force myself to focus on something else.
"I'm going to check the cabin. See what supplies we have."
I move to the shelves on the wall, examining what's there as Svetlana sinks onto the edge of the bed. We’re better off than I expected.
There’s a decent bit of canned goods—mostly soups and stews, and some vegetables.
There are a few jars of preserves, too, and a tin of coffee.
I find some dried meat that's probably older than it should be but still edible, as well as matches, candles, and a kerosene lamp with some fuel.
Whoever uses this cabin keeps it stocked for emergencies. There's also a small cache of clothes in a wooden chest—heavy wool shirts, thick socks, a pair of pants that are too big for Svetlana but better than nothing. Hunters' gear.
I pull out a large, long-sleeved wool shirt and some socks and bring them to her. "Here. These will be warmer than that blanket."
She takes them without looking at me, clutching them to her chest. "Turn around."
I do, moving back to the stove to add more wood. I can hear her behind me, the rustle of fabric, her sharp breaths when movement pulls at her injuries. It takes everything I have not to turn around and offer help. Not to close the distance between us and—
And what? She doesn't want me to touch her. She made that clear.
"You can look now," she says finally.
I turn. She's wearing one of the wool shirts, which hangs on her like a dress, falling almost to her knees. The thick socks make her feet look very small, and they’ve sunk down around her ankles, bunching adorably. She's still wrapped in the blanket over it all, huddling down in it.
But at least she's dry and somewhat warm now. That's something.
“I’m going to change, too,” I tell her. “Your turn to turn around.”
I try to say it with some humor, trying to make a joke out of all this, but she doesn’t even crack a smile.
She just turns her back on me, staring at the door as I get out of my own wet pants and shirt, pulling on the hunters’ clothes that are slightly bigger than what I wear, but not so much as to be uncomfortable.
It’s not my usual style—outdoor pants and a flannel checked wool shirt, but I’m just happy to be dry.
I take all our clothes and lay them by the fire to dry out, then clear my throat.
"Sit down," I tell her, gesturing to the chair by the table. "I'll heat up some food."
She moves to the chair slowly, carefully, like every step hurts. Which it probably does. She sits down with a barely suppressed wince, pulling the blanket tighter around herself.
I find a dented pot on one of the shelves and open a can of stew—beef, according to the label, though it's probably more vegetables than meat.
I set it on top of the stove to heat, then open another can and eat it cold while I wait.
I'm hungry enough that I barely taste it. I hold it out to Svetlana after taking two mouthfuls, and she shakes her head, her lip curling slightly as she looks at the cold can. It occurs to me that she’s probably never been in conditions this rustic.
The idea of eating generic-brand, congealed cold stew is probably as foul an idea to her as she can imagine.
It irritates me a little. It’s food, and we both need the calories. I polish it off, waiting for the rest of the stew to heat so that maybe she’ll deign to eat it.
The cabin is warming up now. The stove is doing its job, pushing heat into the small space, and it feels like fucking heaven after what we endured outside. I can see Svetlana starting to relax slightly, the violent shaking subsiding to occasional tremors.
"How are your feet?" I ask, glancing at her as I stir the stew.
"Fine." She isn’t looking at me.
I huff out a breath, her attitude grating on me. I know she’s lying. "That's bullshit. Let me see them."
"I said they're fine." Her voice is sharp, defensive. She turns her head to glare at me, her jaw set in a stubborn line I'm starting to recognize.
"You were walking through the snow barefoot. And I saw the state of that cell. Those cuts are going to get infected if we don't clean them."
She licks her lips nervously and then winces. They’re swollen and split from the beating Evan gave her, and the thought makes my jaw clench with anger. "I'll deal with it."
My jaw clenches tighter. I need to do something. The cold has decreased the swelling in her face, but it’s bruised and cut, and I can only imagine the state the rest of her is in. She needs to be tended to, and there’s no medical help in sight anytime soon. "When?” I snap. “After gangrene sets in?"
"I said I'll deal with it." She shifts in the chair, pulling her feet up under her. "I don't need you to take care of me."
The frustration that's been building since we got here finally boils over.
"You know what your problem is?" I say, my voice harder than I intend. "You're so used to living rich that you don't know how to survive without everything being handed to you. You don’t even know how to ask for help because you’ve probably never had to in your fucking life.”
Her eyes flash. "Excuse me?"
I turn to face her. "You heard me. You're a spoiled rich girl who's never had to rough it a day in her life.
You probably had a fucking maid to bring you everything you needed.
A servant to wipe your goddamn ass, maybe.
You never had to think about what you needed, and now that you're in a real survival situation, you can't handle it, and you’re too proud to admit it.”
I know I'm being an asshole. I know it even as the words are coming out of my mouth. But I can't seem to stop. I nearly killed myself getting her out of there, getting her here, and we’re nowhere near safe yet. We’re not far enough from the compound to even begin to feel safe.
And yet she’s sitting there, turning her nose up at food after she’s been starving, refusing to let me look at her and determine what kind of care she needs.
I’m exhausted and foggy-headed and still dealing with the fact that the one woman I never thought I’d see again, the one woman I’ve wanted more than anything in my life and can never have, is the one I found here, in the depths of hell itself.
Svetlana shoots to her feet, the blanket falling away from her shoulders. Her hands are clenched into fists at her sides.
"You think I'm spoiled?" Her voice is hoarse, but it drops, her tone vicious. "You think I can't handle this?"
"I think you've been complaining since we got here—"
"I haven't said a word!"
"You don't have to. It's written all over your face. This cabin isn't up to your standards. The clothes aren't designer. The food isn't gourmet. Poor little princess, having to slum it with the common people."
"Fuck you, Kazimir." She spits out the words like bullets, rapid-fire, one after another. "You have no idea what I can handle. You have no idea what I've survived."
"I saw that cell—"
"You saw a cell. You didn't see what happened in it or in the others.
You didn't see the weeks or months before that.
You didn't see me fighting every single day just to stay alive, just to keep some part of myself intact.
" She takes a step toward me, and there's something fierce and wild in her eyes now.
"You want to talk about survival? I survived being locked in a basement and tortured for entertainment.
I survived things that would break most people.
So don't you dare stand there and call me spoiled because I don't want you touching me. "
The last words hang in the air between us.
I should apologize, and for more than just this. I have plenty to apologize for when it comes to her. And maybe that’s part of what’s making me so angry, because I know how much I’ve failed her, and how likely it is that I’ll still fail her again.
Instead, I just look at her.
Her chest is heaving with emotion. Her hair is a mess around her face. She's wearing clothes that don't fit, and she's covered in bruises, barely able to stand. She’s weaving on her feet, pale as death, and she’s the most magnificent, beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
That fire, that refusal to back down even now—she's not broken. They tried to break her, and they failed.
And I want her so badly it's like a physical ache.
"You're right," I say finally, forcing myself to push the desire down, even as I can feel myself stiffening, throbbing. "I'm sorry."
She blinks, clearly not expecting that. "What?"
"You're right. I don't know what you've been through. And I was out of line."
Some of the fight goes out of her. She sways slightly, and I move without thinking, reaching out to steady her.
She jerks away from my touch. "Don't."
I hold up my hands, backing off. "The stew's ready. You should eat."
I turn back to the stove, using a rag to protect my hand as I take the pot off the heat. I pour the stew into two tin cups I found on the shelf—there are no bowls—and bring one to her, with a spoon for each of us.
She takes it, wrapping both hands around it like she's trying to absorb the warmth.
She doesn't eat right away, just holds it, staring down into the mug.
I lean against the wall and eat my portion, watching her.
Finally, she starts to eat, and as the minutes pass, I can see some color coming back into her face. The food and the warmth are helping.
Svetlana looks up at me after a moment. “You shouldn’t have gotten me out of there,” she says quietly. “They’re going to do terrible things to you if they catch us. I was… very expensive.”
I suck my teeth briefly, shrugging. “I know.”
"Now you're stuck here with me. In a cabin in the middle of nowhere. Iosef and his men are going to come looking for me.”
“I know that, too.”
"You could die because of me." There’s a challenge in her voice as she says it.
I laugh grimly. "I could die because of a lot of things. I live a very dangerous life, Svetlana. At least this way I'll die knowing I did the right thing."
She blinks at me. "The right thing. Is that what this is?"
I shrug again. “It seemed like it at the time.”
She finishes her stew and sets the cup down on the table. She's still shivering slightly, but it's better than before. She’s pulled the blanket back around herself.
"You should sleep," I tell her. "You need rest. I’ll find the rest of the blankets and make up the bed for you.”
"What about you?" She peers at me. “You’ve been up all night, haven’t you?”
I nod. "I need to keep watch, though. We can’t both sleep. I need to make sure no one followed us."
She winces. "They won't find us in this storm."
“Probably not,” I agree. “But I'm not taking chances. I’ve been awake longer than this before."
She looks at me for a long moment, then nods.
I take our cups and spoons and set them aside to clean out later.
The hunters left some jugs of water here, and I set one next to the stove to thaw earlier.
I pour some out in a cup and hand it to her as I go to a cupboard and find sheets, blankets, and pillows to make up the bed.
A few minutes later, it looks surprisingly comfortable, despite the simplicity.
Svetlana makes her way over to it shakily, then lowers herself onto the mattress, curling up beneath the layers of blankets.
She shifts, as if sinking down into what’s probably the first semi-comfortable bed she’s slept in in quite some time, and her eyes drift closed.
She’s asleep within seconds, exhaustion claiming her as her breathing evens out, and I see her relax.
I add more wood to the stove, then move to the window.
It’s boarded over, but there's a gap where I can see out. There’s nothing but white.
The storm is still raging, showing no signs of letting up.
As far as I’m concerned, that’s fine right now. We have water and food and heat, and it’ll be nearly impossible for them to get to us in this. Svetlana can rest, then I can rest, and then I can figure out how the hell I’m going to get us out of here.
I settle into the chair, positioning it so I can see both the door and the window and keep my gun in my hand, safety off. If anyone comes through that door, they'll be dead before they take two steps.
But no one comes.
And for a little while, it feels like we might actually have made it out of this.