Wolff
We’ve been at the safehouse for seven fucking days, and AJ is deteriorating.
She doesn’t eat. Hardly sleeps. Doesn’t stop shaking.
She lives under the bed now—curled up like some dying animal.
Withdrawals leave her sobbing, clawing at the floorboards.
When we dragged her in here, she was barely conscious.
The first night, her body locked up so violently, Savva and I had to pin her down just to get the IV in. She fought like we were killing her.
We stabilized her.
That’s it.
Stabilized.
She’s still nowhere near strong enough to move.
I slam my plate into the sink. Metal cracks against porcelain, the sound sharp enough to make my shoulders twitch. I already know how long it would take someone to cross the clearing outside if they heard it. Twelve seconds from the tree line to the door. Maybe ten if they sprint.
The walls are peeling. Floors stained black with age. The pipes scream when you turn on the faucet. It smells like mold, damp wood, and isolation. Buried in the middle of Siberian nowhere. That’s the only thing it has going for it—it’s a bitch to get to.
When she’s strong enough, we’ll drive out. Can’t take any flights. The Nightshades own too much airspace. A jet lights up every fucking radar from here to Moscow. We’d be dead before the wheels left the ground.
So now we wait, and every day we wait increases exposure.
Every contact Savva makes is another danger. Every supply run is a risk. Every hour she doesn’t recover is another variable I didn’t plan for.
Variables get you killed.
This goddamn mission was supposed to be two weeks. Now it’s months of my life tied to a rescue mission I never should’ve taken. Dragging a half-dead girl across Eastern Europe while every instinct I have urges me to cut the problem loose.
I drag a hand over my beard.
There was a moment—gun in my hand, her pulse barely there—when I measured the angle. Base of the skull. Would be quick and quiet. No more liability.
No more exposure. No more weak link risking my life.
My finger even started to tighten.
My thumb had already eased the safety off. Instinct and Training. Years of surviving by removing the threat before it becomes a problem.
Then I remembered what she’s worth. So I lowered the gun.
She lives. For now.
If she ever becomes more danger than she’s worth, I won’t hesitate again.
I twist open a bottle of water, the plastic crinkling under my grip when a moan fills the cabin. I pause, eyes narrowing.
“I told you to stop watching that shit on my computer,” I snap, heading toward the living room.
Savva isn’t there. My laptop is closed. The room is empty.
Another sound follows. Softer this time. I pivot, moving down the hall.
Her door is cracked open. I push it with two fingers and stop short of the threshold. She isn’t under the bed. She’s on it. Her legs are curled, body tense, her hand shoved between her thighs.
“Stop,” she whimpers. “Please…stop.”
She isn’t awake. Her head jerks from side to side, breath stuttering, hips grinding without any rhythm.
“No,” she moans. “No!”
I step in, then halt again.
“AJ.”
Her breathing fractures, a sob tearing out of her chest. Grabbing the blanket on the bed, I snap it sharply over her legs.
“Wake up.”
She screams and jerks violently as she bolts upright, scrambling backward until she smacks into the headboard. Her eyes are wild, unfocused.
“Get off me! Don’t touch me— Don’t—”
“You were dreaming. That’s it.”
Her eyes finally find mine. Then she lunges. I catch her wrists before she can slam into me, holding her at arm’s length. She breaks down, sobbing, fighting my hold with weak, frantic strength.
“Please,” she chokes. “Please, don’t leave me.”
I release her immediately and step back.
She pitches forward again, reaching out blindly, fingers hooking the hem of my shirt and slipping underneath.
They brush my skin. My stomach muscles seize as a violent jolt shoots through me—skin crawling, every nerve screaming at the unwanted contact.
I push her off. Her breath hitches, hands still clawing for me.
“I need you. Please.”
She stumbles after me, unsteady on her feet and reaching for my neck. My fists curl, and I shove her shoulders. Blinking, dazed, she licks her lips. Her hands slide down her body before she pulls her shirt over her head, exposing her small tits. Her eyes lock on mine.
“Make it stop hurting, Wolff,” she begs me.
Jaw grinding, I turn for the door, and her fingers clamp around my wrist. My body reacts before my brain does. I wrench free so roughly, she stumbles.
“Don’t. Ever.”
She freezes.
I flex my hand. “You don’t grab me.”
“Pl-please…Wolff. I need you. Just one more time.”
She’s a fucking mess. Naked. Half-asleep, half-crazed. Pale. Hair tangled. “I’m done with this shit. Go to sleep.”
Returning to the living room, I drop into a chair, the wood groaning under my weight. Opening my laptop, the screen lights the dark.
Her file fills the screen.
I don’t remember opening it: Autumn Jane Weston, “AJ”, twenty-two. Daughter of Commander Nate Weston. Twin brother Gage, a rookie Sovereign fresh out of recruit training.
I stare at the photo. She’s smiling, head tilted slightly, sunlight catching in her light brown wavy hair and making her hazel eyes glow with warmth. A dimple presses into her left cheek.
The girl in the picture looks nothing like the one in the next room.
I already know this file.
Every timestamp. Every surveillance still. Every lead that went cold. Eleven weeks of chasing ghosts. Until I found her on that fucking stage.
My thumb pauses over her picture.
The door creaks open. Cold air ripples through the cabin. Snow blows in across the floor. Savva steps inside, stomping off his boots, shotgun slung over his shoulder.
“Perimeter sensor batteries are still working. Checked the ones I could reach without the snowmobile. We’re good for now.”
I slam the laptop shut. This mission needs to end.
Standing, I grab my coat. “You’re on watch.”
Savva’s eyes flick to the hallway. Then to me. “What happened?”
I crack my neck, and I take the snowmobile keys off the table. “I’ll check the rest of the sensors. Radio if you need me.”
He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “If we get another storm like this, the truck won’t make the journey. We need to leave soon. Think she can make the trip in the next day or so?”
Fuck.
It’s a six-day drive to the nearest safe zone. Eighteen hours on a plane after that to get her back to Chicago. That’s if everything goes smoothly.
It won’t.
The roads are already shit—ice, snowdrifts, visibility gone to hell—and every storm that rolls in slows us even more.
The Nightshades are moving while the weather does half their job for them.
Every detour adds hours. Every hour turns into another problem.
Another route. Another delay. Another chance for them to close in.
Six days turn into eight.
Eight turns into fuck knows how long.
And the longer we’re out here, the worse this gets.
“We’re not gonna be able to stay here much longer, Wolff. They’re searching the surrounding areas.”
“We’ll leave in a few days,” I grit out.
“And if she’s not strong enough?”
“Then we deal with it.”
He nods, watching as I step outside.
The chilling wind slams into me. I stride through the snow, climb onto the snowmobile, and fire it up. The engine roars, headlights cutting through the black. I gun it hard, tearing away from the cabin, snow spraying behind me as I cut across the frozen landscape.
Distance.
I need fucking distance.