8. Wolff
My breath steams in the cold air as I scan the ground. Her tracks are fading fast as the snow crunches beneath my boots.
“AJ!” I shout, my voice swallowed by the storm.
I should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve tied her down better. She slipped past me, past Savva, past every precaution I took.
A scream rips through the night.
I break into a sprint, my body plowing through the snow, pushing through the freezing wind. The embankment ahead drops off, a steep slope vanishing into white. And at the bottom—
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I slide down, the powder kicking up around me as I drop next to her. She’s barely breathing. Her skin is frozen when I touch her throat. There’s a weak pulse. Blood mats her hair where she split her head open on something buried beneath the snow.
You stupid fucking girl.
I scoop her up, and her head lolls against my chest. Taking off with her in my arms, I push through the snow, her limp body bouncing with each step. The wind is whipping, snow and ice stinging my face until I get back to the house.
Kicking the front door open, I charge through, straight to the bathroom. She’s ice cold. If I don’t warm her up now, she’s dead. The shower’s on in seconds, water hitting my skin like needles. I don’t wait. I drag her in, fully clothed, both of us under the spray.
“Come on, AJ,” I mutter, shifting her against me.
I yank at her soaked clothes, stripping them off. Her ribs jut from her pale skin. More than before. Bruises overlap along her thighs and hips. Faded bite marks. Track marks along her arm.
I strip my own clothes and pull her back against my chest under the water.
She’s barely responsive, her breaths shallow, skin red and raw. I rub her arms, her legs, anywhere I can to force the warmth back in.
“Wake up,” I plead.
I tilt her chin and breathe into her mouth. Once. Twice.
Her lashes flutter. It’s working.
“Wolff…” She shudders violently as circulation fights its way back in. “Let me go.”
My grip tightens.
“No, solnyshko.” The endearment slips out. I hate that it did.
“I just want to die.”
I don’t give a fuck what you want.
I grab her wrist and shove her hand back under the spray. Her fingers twitch, and her breath catches.
“It hurts,” she chokes out, trying to pull away. I grip tighter, forcing circulation.
I keep rubbing, working the cold out of her limbs. With each passing second, she becomes more aware of where she is. Her head tilts. She’s staring too hard. Like she’s trying to find something in me that isn’t there.
“You could’ve left me.”
“Should’ve.” I grab her chin and turn her head, checking the cut on her temple. “You’d be someone else’s corpse.”
She’s breathing too close to my neck. Close enough that I can see the tiny gold flakes in her hazel eyes.
I twist the knob and kill the water.
Stepping out, I grab a towel off the hook and dry off fast. Cold air ghosts over my skin as I pull on dry sweats and a long sleeve from the dresser.
When I turn back, she’s still in the tub. Barely upright. One hand braced on the tile, a towel wrapped around her, water dripping from her hair.
“I need to stitch your head.” I nod toward the bed.
“What’s wrong with my head?” She reaches up, fingers brushing the cut. The second she steps out of the tub, she sways. My fingers flex at my sides before I stop them.
Slowly, she makes it to the bed on her own and sits, clutching the towel tighter across her chest.
I grab the med kit and rip it open.
She watches me while I clean the blood away. Her eyes stay locked on my face. Even when the antiseptic pours onto the wound and she sucks in a sharp breath.
“Why do you do that?”
I keep working. “Do what.”
“Go quiet. Ignore questions.”
The needle slides through her skin. I tie the stitch tighter than necessary.
She winces.
“I don’t like talking.”
“Why?”
I cut the thread with my teeth and wipe the last of the blood away.
Standing, I grab an oversized thermal and a pair of sweats from the dresser and toss them onto the bed. She studies me for another second before turning away to dress.
My eyes drag down her naked body. Her spine. The sharp edges of her ribs. The curve of her hips. The stage flashes in my head—her back arched under my hands, my cock buried in her tight cunt, my mouth on her throat, her tits against my chest.
Heat crawls up my neck, and I grit my teeth. My fingers twitch like they want something to break.
When she’s done, she stays sitting on the edge of the bed like she’s waiting for something. I cross the room and grab the wooden chair. The legs scrape loudly against the floorboards as I drag it to the door.
“What are you doing?”
I wedge the chair under the handle and shove it tight.
“I’m not going to run again.”
I test the chair once more. The wood creaks.
She shifts on the mattress. “I won’t.”
I drop into the other chair near the window. Back to the wall. Door and bed both in my line of sight.
“You’re not sleeping?” she asks, her voice too soft.
“Go to bed.”
“I said I won’t—”
“Enough,” I bite out.
She lies down slowly, pulling the blanket up to her chin. Her eyes stay on me.
I ignore them.
I lean forward, forearms on my knees, gaze moving through the room. Window. Door. Corners. Shadows. My neck pops when I roll it. Exhaustion presses behind my eyes, but sleep isn’t happening tonight.
Across the room, her breathing finally evens out. I stay where I am. Watching the door. Listening to the storm. Counting the seconds between her breaths. If the rhythm changes, I’ll hear it.
I don’t look at her again.
But I don’t miss a single one