Chapter 13
Nika
The underbrush-hidden driveway materializes out of the white like salvation.
It’s more the shape of the road than the opening on the edge that lets me know where I am. I can barely see through the windshield, the wipers fighting against snow that’s measured in inches per hour.
The chains clack and twist beneath me as I slip and slide down the last single-lane gravel switchback. The brakes strain, and everything clanks with resistance.
Finally, I’m here.
My stiff fingers grapple for the garage door opener. The metal lumbers up, shaking the windthrown snow loose.
I pull in, park, and kill the engine.
After hours of shrieking wind, rattling chains, and the constant white noise of fear in my head, the sudden silence almost shocks me.
I honestly can’t believe I made it.
The realization should bring relief, or at least triumph. I’ve completed my lifelong mission and returned home unharmed.
Instead, I’m hollow.
Worn out and thinned down. For years, I survived on revenge, anger, and hatred. All those emotions that eat you from the inside out. This entire day has been rife with fear, shame, rage, and fighting.
I’ve been running on adrenaline and terror for hours. Now that they’re gone, my body wants to shut down completely.
But I can’t. Not yet.
I shove the door open. Even in the closed garage, the cold snatches my breath away, leaving me coughing in the painfully dry air. The road water that soaked into my dress starts stiffening. It can’t be much warmer than zero degrees.
I’m damn lucky I got back here.
I drag the duffel toward the steel-core door wrapped in wood veneer and fitted into a reinforced frame that leads to the house. I press my thumb to the biometric lock. Thankfully, my print is readable even through the film of white that covers most of my hand.
As soon as the lock disengages, I stumble into the mudroom.
Warmth welcomes me. Blessed, humidity-rich, life-saving warmth.
The heating system, air filtration, and lights all run on timers, maintaining the appearance of a lived-in home regardless of whether someone’s around. The ever-meticulous Dimitri set it all up.
He’s always been so smart. Constantly planning for every imaginable scenario.
The control panel for the whole setup glows green by the door leading into the main house.
I punch in the code and watch the display flash.
The security systems are active. Motion sensors haven’t picked up anything except me.
The outside cameras show the approach roads and the perimeter in a full circle.
Window and door alarms confirm all is clear.
No one has even so much as tried to enter.
I press my forehead against the wall, just for a second, to rest against something solid and unyielding that isn’t trying to kill me.
Peeling off my dress and stockings, I drop them straight into the garbage, along with my ruined shoes.
Then I turn my attention to the bag.
It sits damp and heavy, the nylon dark with melted snow. Lifting it to the table, I yank the zipper open.
You really want it? It’s down my pants.
Lying bastard.
I’d checked, even before he suggested it. After he passed out, I went through his pockets. I even searched around the hotel room in case he lost it during the fight and found nothing.
Which means the necklace was in his bag the whole time.
As I start to dig, I find a gun. Makarov, from the looks of it, though I’m no expert. I set the weapon aside. Then I come across a disassembled rifle, the components wrapped in cloth. It joins the handgun. A revolver. Multiple knives of various sizes, all high quality.
At least those are worth keeping.
Next come boxes and boxes of ammunition. Two first aid kits. Water bottles. Protein bars. Another gun. Brass knuckles. Rope, carabiners, tile cutters, and thin splinters of what might be bamboo.
I keep investigating and discover rolled clothing. Toiletries that I pour down the sink to ensure nothing is hidden. A wallet with several names and the same picture on each card. Stacks of cash.
No locket.
Picking up one of the knives, I cut through the seams, hunting in vain for any concealed pockets in the fabric.
Sharp disbelief rocks through my heart as I stare at the pile of gear surrounding me.
No.
I lunge forward and grab the bag, searching along the interior lining for false bottoms, for the clever spaces that don’t show up in casual investigations. My fingers probe every seam, every corner, every possible nook and cranny.
Still nothing.
White-hot fury floods through my chest, chasing away the shivers and raw despair trying to take root.
That smug asshole.
Damn him. He played me. Convinced me to snatch the bag by telling me there was nothing in it while acting anxious.
He let me think I’d won and was running away with my prize. The whole time, he had the locket somewhere else.
It could be anywhere.
No. Max didn’t play me. I played myself. The fury collapses into dread, settling in my stomach like a stone. I ruined both plans. Mine and Dimitri’s.
He’ll be so disappointed.
The thought burns worse than the cold and weighs heavier than the exhaustion.
Dimitri gave me a home when I was weak and broken.
He spent years and thousands upon thousands of dollars to raise me, to train me.
He shaped me from a terrified child into a weapon capable of going up against Roman Kozlov’s entire criminal organization.
At the end, with the finish line in sight, he simply asked me to stay in the safe house.
And I couldn’t even do that.
I failed.
My emotions got the best of me. I let Max get under my skin in the hotel room, allowed the attraction and hatred to tangle together until I couldn’t think straight. Committed rookie mistakes. Snatched the bait. Fled when I should have verified. Assumed when I should have investigated.
Everything Dimitri taught me not to do.
I suck in a painful breath. There’s nothing to do but wait for him to get here and live with the shame, so I may as well get comfortable.
I head for the luxurious shower in my en suite bathroom that features tile walls, glass doors, mirrors everywhere, and even water-heated floors.
The shower’s recessed overhead waterfall converts to rainfall.
A handheld head that massages, twin misters mounted on the wall, and six water jets spaced to fit my body perfectly.
It still takes three lathers before I’m convinced I’m clean.
Worse, the chill lingers.
A bath. That’s what I really need.
I fill the tub with steaming water. My skin screams in pain as I climb in. Blood rushes into chilled flesh until warmth creeps up my body, soothing away the aches. The bruises will bloom faster now, but everything else feels so much better.
I close my eyes.
I just need to rest for a minute while I calculate exactly how ruined we are. How much this screwup will cost us…
After minutes—or maybe hours—I wake up, water sloshing as I flail.
Shit. I didn’t intend to fall asleep. How long was I out?
The bathwater’s cooled, and my skin’s begun to prune.
As I push to my feet, water trails down my back and legs. My muscles protest, my hands still burning with the aftermath of frostbite, my head pounding with dehydration and stress.
I wrap myself in a fluffy black towel.
I need some water, or some tea. Food would also be great.
Outside the bathroom, the light coming in through my bedroom windows shines differently, dim and gray with the unmistakable quality of morning slipping into evening. My neck hurts from dozing in the tub for so long.
I wander through the house, the polished concrete floors of the open living room glistening under my feet.
The French doors that lead to the greenhouse stand to my right, facing east. The west wall is made of floor-to-ceiling windows that normally showcase a stunning mountain view.
Now, nothing but white bleeds through the glass.
Endless, oppressive white continues to fall in heavy blankets.
The industrial kitchen sits tucked in the corner of the same wall. Stainless steel appliances, black granite countertops, and dark, expresso-glazed wooden cabinets. Clean and functional.
I fill a glass with tap water and down it in a few swallows, feeling the refreshing chill trace down my throat and into my stomach. Then I drink another.
The fridge and freezer have subscription ready-to-eat meals.
Dimitri’s work, again. He’s the self-appointed butler who keeps the house supplied even in my absence, rotating perishables on a schedule that ensures I never arrive to empty shelves. Bread, cold cuts, and cheese always stay stocked fresh, but I don’t have the energy to build a sandwich.
Instead, I grab a box at random from the fridge, pull the tab, and toss it in the microwave. As the machine hums, I rest against the counter, staring out the windows at nothing.
The storm’s only getting worse.
The wind screams. Every few minutes, a quiet thump echoes against the outside walls. It could be branches, debris, or entire limbs coming down under the weight of snow and ice.
No one could possibly get up this mountain.
Still, sadness seeps into my chest. I lost my chance at the locket. The only thing I have left of Mom, the only physical proof that she existed, that she loved me, that we were a family before Roman destroyed everything.
I should be grateful to be alive, that I made it to shelter, that the storm trapped me here instead of killing me on the road.
But all I can think about is Max.
He’s out there somewhere. Or, more likely, his body is out there, frozen solid in the blizzard. Did he stay where he first wiped out, or did he continue to drive?
It will likely take days for the snow to stop. Weeks for it to melt, unless it sticks around until spring. Who knows when someone will find the truck or his body.
Not that I care. That jackass can topple off a mountain and rot for eternity. Maybe his dick will even fall off from frostbite before he dies.
If he goes missing, though, so does my mother’s necklace.
I can’t stand the thought of that last piece of her sitting out in the snow for weeks or months on end.
I head down the hall off the main living area to the communications room. Barely larger than a closet, the walls hum and buzz with screens and equipment. Dimitri updates our tech every few years, so we always have the latest top-of-the-line electronics.
Currently, we have satellite uplinks, weather monitoring, and radio systems that can reach anywhere in the world. I power on the weather displays.
The storm system fills the screens. Massive, slow-moving clouds trail down from Canada and even farther north.
Just as I feared.
This is the kind of blizzard that settles in for days, dumping feet of snow and bringing damaging winds that make travel impossible even with the best equipment.
I check the current conditions at my elevation.
Eight degrees Fahrenheit, with the windchill somewhere around negative fifteen.
Warmer than I’d suspected. Visibility under ten feet.
Accumulation rate at three inches per hour.
The storm’s not expected to clear for at least a few days.
Which means I’m stuck here. And Max—or his body—is stuck wherever he is.
The rational part of my brain knows I benefit from this. Knows that the storm protects me and gives me time to recover and plan. On the rare chance he’s even alive, Max can’t reach me as long as the blizzard persists.
But the other part—the part that started screaming the moment I opened that duffel bag and found nothing—keeps insisting that I go and find him.
The idea’s insane.
If I just wait, the snow will stop and visibility will clear. Once Dimitri arrives, we can go out together. We might even be able to use drones to check for crashes.
But I can’t stop thinking about it.
As I leave the communications room, the house feels smaller. With every inch of snow that piles against them, the walls close in.
I’m trapped by the weather and my own failure.
No, not trapped. I have the gear to survive long enough to conduct a necessary search.
I need to get down the mountain before the storm buries Max completely, before whatever slim chance remains of recovering the locket vanishes under ten feet of snow. I’m crazy, I know that, but I’m already moving.
Against my better judgment, I enter my room and open the closet. Dropping the towel, I yank a gray tank top over my head. I find a tie on my nightstand and pull my damp hair up in a high bun.
Then I step into a pair of panties.
I’m reaching for my thermal underwear when I sense the air shift.
Goosebumps rise along the back of my neck.
With dread pooling in my stomach, I spin to face my bedroom door and close the distance to the living room.
A trail of snowy boot prints leads to the hall in front of the garage door.
I find the arctic eyes of Max Belov staring straight at me.
Coated in snow and ice, he sits in my armchair—the one I claimed years ago—with the green throw over the back and the view of the windows and the door.
Like he owns my space or has any right to exist in my sanctuary.
Ice dusts his lashes, and his cheeks are red with cold and windburn. But he lounges like he owns the place, every inch of him a king on his throne.
I trip backward, catching myself on the doorframe. My heart slams against my ribs, panic flooding through every nerve.
I wanted to find him, but he found me first. I thought he’d be dead—or halfway there—before I saw him again. Somehow, despite the storm, he located my safe house, broke in through the garage, and then made it through the door and into the house, somehow bypassing my security system.
Even a fortress like this won’t stop Mad Max. He’s terrifying, unnatural, and unstoppable.
Underneath my fear, rage comes rushing back.
He lifts his hand in a measured movement, like a magician. I keep my eyes on both hands, because this man has truly proven he’s capable of anything.
Then a glint snags my attention.
My mother’s locket dangles from his ring and pinky fingers. The gold chain glistens in the lamplight as the key-shaped pendant spins slowly, showing the ornate front, then the smooth back, then the front again.
His crooks his index finger and beckons me. “Come and get it, Nika.”