Chapter 3
NEVE
The descent feels endless. My stomach lurches with every air pocket, every adjustment Magnus makes to the controls. I'm back on the seat near where I landed earlier, too focused on breathing through the adrenaline crash to care about dignity or appearances.
Through the window I catch glimpses of wilderness scrolling beneath us. Endless white interrupted by dark patches of forest and the occasional frozen lake. No roads. No houses. No signs of human habitation at all. Just emptiness stretching in every direction, beautiful and terrifying.
The clouds are lower now, heavier, pressing down on the landscape with the weight of the storm Magnus promised.
Wind buffets the plane, making it shudder and dip.
My hands grip the base of the seat, knuckles white, even though the rational part of my brain knows he's in complete control.
Has been this entire time. Cold, competent, utterly unshaken by bullets or blood or the woman currently bleeding on his floor.
The plane banks and I see it. A cabin perched on the shore of a frozen lake, so remote it looks like it belongs to another century.
Smoke rises from a chimney, which means someone maintains it, keeps it heated, uses it regularly.
The lake stretches before it, smooth ice perfect for landing if you've got pontoons instead of wheels.
Which he does.
Of course he does. Because Magnus prepares for every contingency, builds his life around them, probably has backup plans for his backup plans.
The pontoons kiss the ice with barely a jolt. He's that good. That precise. The plane glides across the frozen surface with a sound like metal on glass, slowing gradually until we come to rest maybe a stone's throw from the cabin's small dock.
The engine cuts. Silence settles over us, broken only by the wind starting to howl and my own ragged breathing.
"We're here." His voice is flat, stating the obvious. "Stay put until I tell you to move."
He's out of his seat and opening the door before I can respond, cold air rushing in to steal what little warmth the cabin held.
He drops to the ice with easy confidence, boots finding purchase on the slick surface like he's done this a thousand times.
Probably has. This is his world. His element.
And I'm a stranger in it, dependent on him for survival whether I like it or not.
The rational part of my brain acknowledges that he saved my life. The terrified part remembers his cold eyes and colder words. 'That makes you mine now.' Like I'm property. Cargo. Something to be claimed and controlled.
"Out." He's back at the door, looking up at me with no patience in his expression. "Storm's moving fast. We need to get inside."
I try to stand. My legs don't cooperate immediately, still shaking from terror and exertion and the bone-deep exhaustion that follows adrenaline flooding out of your system. I have to use the seats to pull myself up, and even then I sway when I reach the door.
Magnus doesn't offer to help. Just watches with those ice-blue eyes that miss nothing and reveal nothing. Waiting to see if I can manage on my own or if I'm going to be dead weight he has to carry.
I manage. Barely. The drop to the ice is longer than it looks and my ankle protests when I land, sending a sharp reminder of the injury I sustained during the chase. I bite back the gasp, refuse to show weakness, and straighten despite the pain.
"This way." He's already moving toward the cabin, carrying his go-bag like it weighs nothing. Expecting me to follow. Not checking to see if I am.
I follow. What else can I do? The wilderness stretches in every direction, white and empty and deadly. The storm is building, wind picking up, first flakes of snow already starting to fall. And I have nowhere else to go.
The cabin is sparse and functional. Built for survival, not comfort. A single main room with a kitchenette along one wall, a small wood stove radiating heat, a table with two chairs. Shelves lined with supplies. And weapons. So many weapons.
Rifles mounted on the wall. Handguns in a locked case. Knives of various sizes displayed with care that speaks of regular use and maintenance. This isn't a hunting cabin. This is an armory.
My eyes move to the other details. Radio equipment on a desk in the corner, professional grade. Maps tacked to the wall, marked with symbols I don't recognize. Coded notations. Flight paths, maybe. Or drop points. Or places he needs to avoid.
He's not just a pilot. He's deep into something criminal.
"Sit." Magnus gestures to one of the chairs at the table. Command, not request. "We need to talk."
I don't sit. Some stubborn part of me refuses to obey just because he issued an order. "About what?"
"About what you saw. What evidence you have.
Who's chasing you and how badly they want you dead.
" He crosses his arms, leaning against the counter with deceptive casualness.
But there's nothing casual about the way he's watching me.
Clinical. Analytical. Assessing threat level and calculating outcomes.
"Start from the beginning. Don't leave anything out. "
"Why should I tell you anything?" The words come out sharper than I intend, defensive and scared and confused.
"Because I'm the only thing standing between you and a bullet." His voice doesn't rise. Doesn't need to. The certainty in it is enough. "Because those men back there aren't going to stop looking. And because if I'm going to keep you alive, I need to know what we're facing."
My hand moves automatically to the pocket of my jacket, feeling the SD card through the fabric. Such a small thing. But it contains proof that makes me a target.
"I'm a wildlife biologist." I force the words out, trying to maintain some semblance of control over this conversation. "I was studying wolf pack behavior. I had trail cameras set up along their territory corridors."
"And you caught something else on those cameras." Not a question. He already knows.
"Women. Being moved. Herded." The memory makes my stomach turn. "Hands bound. Men with rifles pushing them toward a plane. It was at night. The infrared picked up everything. Their faces. The terror. The way those men handled them like they were cargo instead of people."
His expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his eyes. Something dark and dangerous. "When?"
"Three days ago. The timestamp was clear."
"And you kept the footage."
"Of course I kept it. It's evidence. Proof. Those women need help, they need—"
"They need to be saved, yeah I get it. But the traffickers need you dead.
" He cuts through my righteous anger with brutal efficiency.
"The second you saw that footage, you became a witness.
The second you kept it, you became a target.
And the people running that operation? They'll burn the world down to get that evidence back and eliminate the person who captured it. "
"You keep saying that." My voice rises despite my attempt to stay calm. "But maybe if we just contact the authorities—"
"No."
The word is absolute. Final. No room for argument or negotiation.
"You can't just—"
"I can and I am." He pushes off the counter, taking a step closer.
Not threatening, exactly, but reminding me he's bigger, stronger, dangerous in ways I'm not.
"No one's coming until the storm clears.
And when it does, they'll be waiting. Those men saw my plane.
They got a look at the tail number before we were out of range.
They know what direction we flew. They'll be watching every airport, every airstrip, every place we might try to land within range of that location. "
"But I have evidence." I pull the SD card from my pocket, holding it up like it's a weapon instead of just data. "This could save those women. Could shut down the entire operation. People are being hurt while we sit here arguing about—"
"You'll be dead before that evidence matters."
The words hit like a slap. Cold. Brutal. True.
"They're professionals, Neve." He says my name for the first time, and somehow that makes this worse.
Makes it personal. "Well-funded. Connected.
They have resources you can't imagine and zero hesitation about using them.
You think you can just walk into a police station and hand over that card?
They'll have people watching for that. You won't make it through the door. "
"So what, I just do nothing?" Anger burns through the fear, hot and sharp. "I just let them keep trafficking women because it's too dangerous to try to stop them?"
"You stay alive." His voice drops lower. "You let me figure out how to use that evidence without getting us both killed in the process. And you accept that survival takes priority over justice until I say otherwise."
The unfairness of it chokes me. The helplessness. I survived the chase, survived the bullets, survived getting into a plane with a dangerous stranger, and now I'm being told to just sit here and wait while women suffer.
"I hate this." The words are barely a whisper.
"Good. Hate is useful. Hate keeps you sharp." He turns away, moving to a cabinet. "Now, let me see your injuries."
The subject change throws me. "What?"
"You're injured. You were bleeding when you got in my plane." He pulls out what looks like a comprehensive medical kit, sets it on the table. "I need to assess the damage and treat what needs treating before infection sets in."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're scraped, bruised, possibly concussed from that fall during the chase, and definitely in shock." He opens the kit with practiced efficiency. "Strip down to your underwear so I can check for wounds you might not have noticed in the adrenaline rush."
My face burns. "Absolutely not."
"This isn't negotiable."
"The hell it isn't." I back up a step, putting the table between us. "You don't get to order me to strip just because you decided I'm yours now."