Aj
“Get dressed.”
Wolff’s deep voice cuts through the haze.
I crack my eyes open. He’s already fully geared up—black tactical jacket, boots, weapons clipped everywhere. Ready for war.
Wincing, I sit up slowly. My body is sore in places I don’t want to think about.
“What happened? Did the storm pass?” I ask, pulling on my leggings.
He doesn’t answer. He’s scanning the room like he expects someone to burst through the walls.
I tug my shirt over my head, then reach for my boots. That’s when I notice—my clothes are clean.
“Did you wash my clothes?”
He walks to the door without looking at me. “Hurry up.”
“Jesus, what’s the rush?”
The hallway is freezing and silent. Not a single person in sight. Wolff moves ahead of me. My fingers fumble with my jacket zipper.
“Where is everyone?” I ask, hurrying to keep up. “Is Savva meeting us?”
As we reach the front desk, Wolff slows and matches my pace. His huge frame suddenly crowds me. His hand snaps out, clamping around my upper arm, and yanks me hard against his side.
“Ow! What the hell!” I yelp quietly, trying to pull away.
It’s only when we’re almost at the front door that I catch a glimpse past his body.
A large, dark pool of blood spreads across the floor behind the counter. The front desk woman lies there, head lolled back at an unnatural angle, eyes wide and glassy.
Dead.
I gasp, my body freezing. “What the fuck, Wolff? What the—”
“Keep your goddamn voice down,” he grits out, his arm banding around my waist with iron strength as he drags me outside.
The snow is still piled high, but the sky is clear. Savva is waiting by the truck, a cigarette dangling from his lips, while his men load bags into the truck.
“Move. Now,” Wolff orders.
Savva glances over, smirking. “Not a good morning, my friend?”
Wolff opens the back door and shoves me inside. I stumble onto the seat. He climbs in right after me and slams the door shut.
My heart is still hammering. I keep my voice low.
“Wolff…why was that woman dead? What happened?”
“Savva!” Wolff barks the rest in Russian.
Savva laughs as the rest of the men pile in and the truck lurches forward.
Wolff leans in close, his breath hot against my ear. “If you don’t shut the fuck up right now, you’ll end up just like her.”
I flinch back against the seat, ice sliding down my spine.
“Now. Sit. Silent.”
Asshole.
The sun is sinking behind the mountains, painting the sky in bruised purples and pinks as the truck slows. We’ve stopped in front of a weathered brick building that looks like it’s been abandoned for decades—windows boarded up, the roof sagging under the weight of snow.
Savva cuts the engine and hops out. “Another shithole,” he scoffs, looking at Wolff. “When you said you changed all the stops, I was hoping for better. Not worse.” He whistles sharply, and his men pile out, bags slung over their shoulders.
Wolff grabs his gear from the floor, opens my door, and jerks his chin. “Out.”
I slide off the seat, and my boots crunch into the snow. I hug my jacket tighter and follow him toward the building. Savva and his men are already disappearing inside.
The interior is freezing. Dust hangs thick in the air. A small office sits to the left, a large open warehouse space to the right. Old metal shelves line the walls. A single desk in the corner is covered in scattered papers.
Unease slithers up my spine.
“What is this place?”
“A shithole,” Savva repeats with a groan, kicking a wooden crate apart for firewood.
I take a step forward, eyeing the dark corners. “Are we safe here?”
Wolff nods toward Savva. “We’re in the back.”
He leads me down a narrow hallway with cracked, peeling walls and stops at the last door. Pushing it open, he motions me inside.
It’s a small room with an old cot against the wall. A tiny sink and toilet in the corner. He drops his bag on the floor.
“Stay in here.”
“You’re not staying with me?”
He turns and walks out, shutting the door behind him.
I sigh and sit on the cot. The old springs creak loudly under my weight. Pulling my knees to my chest, I wrap my arms around them, trying not to let my mind wander again.
It doesn’t work.
The feeling of being closed in presses down on me. My stomach twists and skin buzzes with anxiety.
I stand, walk to the door, and hesitate with my hand hovering over the knob. I open it anyway.
And nearly trip over Wolff.
He’s sitting on the floor right outside the door, back against the wall, knife flipping slowly between his fingers.
“Jesus!” I stumble back. “What are you doing?”
He looks up at me, eyes dark and cold. “I told you to stay in the room.”
“I was just— Why are you sitting out here?”
“Get. Back. Inside.”
I glare at him and cross my arms. “I’m not staying in there by myself. It’s creepy.”
Stepping out, I slide down the wall beside him, ignoring the way he stiffens.
“Move your ass.”
I don’t move. I pull my knees in and look around. The others are in the warehouse, talking in low voices. Viktor glances over and gives me a small smile.
I see Wolff’s face out of the corner of my eye.
“Viktor is nice. You don’t have to scowl at him like that.”
“You don’t know shit about him.”
I roll my eyes. “He’s been nice to me. Unlike someone I know.”
Wolff finally turns his head, his stare intense. “You shouldn’t be talking to any of them. I’ve told you before—”
“I know. Stay away from them.” I huff and look away, my eyes landing on the knife in his hand. “What are you going to do with that? Stab anyone who looks at me for too long?”
“Yes.”
I swallow roughly. “Is that why you killed the woman at the hotel?”
He doesn’t respond.
“Do you ever stop killing? Is there ever a moment when you’re not looking for the next person to kill?”
He flips the knife once, the blade catching the dim light.
Savva walks over with a handful of packaged food. He tosses a bag at me, then at Wolff. “Eat.”
I open the bag and pull out a blueberry muffin. Gross. But it’s the best option. I pick the blueberries out one by one and set them on the wrapper, then nibble on the dry bread.
“What are you doing?” Wolff’s eyes drop to the little pile of blueberries.
“I hate blueberries.”
“Don’t waste food.” He leans over and scoops up the blueberries, popping them into his mouth.
I glare at him, then shove the rest of the muffin into my mouth in one go.
“Were you always this much of a prick?” I ask around the dry crumbs. “Or did the Sovereign make you worse?”
Swallowing the last blueberry, his eyes flick to me. “Finish your food and get back in the room.”
He goes back to watching the others. I go back to hating the taste in my mouth.
The silence stretches for a long time. Just the low murmur of voices from the warehouse, the crackle of their fire, the occasional scrape of boots.
“That thing you did last night…” My cheeks burn at the memory of how gently he handled me. “Where did you learn how to do that? How to stop a panic attack like that?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Did someone teach you?”
“No.”
“Then how did you know what to do?”
His dark green gaze locks onto mine. “I pay attention.”
“To what?”
“Everything,” he says flatly.
“I just…I didn’t expect it. That’s all.” I stare at the side of his face—the hard line of his jaw, the small scar cutting through his eyebrow. “How did you get that scar?”
His hand stills on the knife. “A fight.”
“With who?”
“Christ. You ask too many fucking questions.”
“I’m just trying to make conversation.”
“Don’t.”
I roll my eyes and look away, scanning the warehouse. My legs are starting to cramp from sitting on the hard floor.
“I got in a fight once,” I say.
Nothing.
“I was fourteen. Some girl at school was spreading rumors about me—I don’t even remember what they were about.” I shrug. “I ripped out her nose ring.” A small smile tugs at my mouth. “She lost her shit. We were on the ground, pulling hair, clawing at each other. Gage had to drag me off her.”
I let out a quiet laugh.
“My dad was furious. Apparently, her father was someone important.” I pick at a tear in my leggings. “He had to make a huge donation to keep me from getting expelled.”
I glance at Wolff. Nothing’s changed. Same posture. Same expression. Knife flipping between his fingers like I don’t exist.
I keep going anyway.
“My dad never hit me; he hardly even yelled at me. He wasn’t like that.” I drag my thumb over the fabric again. “But he had this look. Like I disappointed him. Like I wasn’t…what I was supposed to be.”
I clear my throat, feeling emotional.
“That was worse. So, I tried after that. To behave. To not…make things harder.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this. He doesn’t care, and he’s not going to respond. But I keep talking anyway. Because if I stop, it gets too quiet.
I glance at him again. “Your turn.”
“No.” He goes right back to the knife.
I groan, exasperated. “God, you’re impossible.”
Leaning my head back against the wall, I pull my knees tighter to my chest. I’m cold. I’m sore. I should go back to the room. But I don’t move.
I don’t want to be alone.