Chapter 3 Lena
LENA
My hands shake as I lay out the supplies on the kitchen table. Towels. Rubbing alcohol. The first aid kit my mother insisted I bring when I fled to Montana. Needle-nose pliers I sterilized in boiling water. A sewing kit because I don't have proper surgical thread.
The man is sprawled on my couch, unconscious and bleeding all over the sheet I put there to protect the cushions. I've dragged him inside, stripped off his outer layers, and now I'm staring at a bullet wound in his shoulder that needs to come out before infection sets in.
His head bleeds badly, as most head wounds do. But when I check it, I see that it's a deep graze. The bullet did not go inside his skull. He's very lucky.
After cleaning and bandaging his head, I look at his shoulder with a grimace. The bullet has to come out.
I pour vodka over my hands, then the pliers, then take a long swig straight from the bottle. The burn down my throat steadies me slightly.
The wound is high on his left shoulder, the entry point clean, but the exit… there isn't one. The bullet is still inside. I press around the area gently, feeling for the hard lump of metal beneath torn muscle and skin. He groans but doesn't wake.
"Sorry," I mutter. "This is going to get worse before it gets better."
I cut away his thermal shirt with scissors, revealing a chest that makes my breath catch despite the circumstances. He's built like someone who spends serious time in the gym, all defined muscle and broad shoulders. But it's the scars that make my hands pause.
There are so many of them.
A long, thin line across his ribs that looks like a knife wound. A puckered circle on his abdomen that could only be an old bullet hole. Smaller scars scattered across his torso like a map of violence. This man has been hurt before, badly and often.
Then there are the tattoos.
A bracelet design circles his left wrist, intricate patterns that seem almost tribal. I don't know what they mean, but I know they mean something. These aren't drunken mistakes or youthful rebellion. These are deliberate, significant.
No rainbows. No kitty cats. Just ink that screams Danger.
I force myself to focus on the bullet wound. The pliers feel clumsy in my shaking hands as I probe the entry point, searching for the slug. Blood wells up, hot and slick, and I have to wipe it away with a towel before I can see what I'm doing.
The man's face contorts in pain, and I freeze, terrified he'll wake up and grab me. But he just groans again, his head rolling to the side.
"Stay asleep," I beg. "Please stay asleep."
I find the bullet lodged against bone, and my stomach turns. Getting it out is going to hurt him, possibly damage the surrounding tissue more. But leaving it in will definitely kill him.
I take another swig of vodka and get to work.
It takes twenty minutes that feel like hours. My back aches from hunching over him, and sweat drips down my face despite the cold cabin. When the bullet finally comes free with a wet, sucking sound, I nearly sob with relief.
The slug is deformed, mushroomed from impact. I drop it into a bowl and immediately start packing the wound with clean gauze, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. My mother's voice echoes in my head, calm and professional even in crisis. "Pressure first. Always pressure first."
Once the bleeding slows, I clean the wound thoroughly with alcohol, ignoring how the man's body jerks at the sting.
Then comes the stitching. My hands are steadier now, muscle memory taking over as I make small, careful sutures the way Mom taught me.
The stitches aren't pretty, but they're functional.
I bandage him up and sit back, exhausted. Dawn is breaking outside, gray light filtering through the windows. The storm has finally stopped.
The man sleeps on, his breathing deep and even. I check his pulse and find it strong. He'll live, probably. Unless infection sets in. Unless he has internal injuries I can't see. Unless a dozen other things go wrong.
I should have left him in the snow.
But I didn't, and now he's here, bleeding on my couch, and I have no idea what to do next.
I force myself to catalog the rest of him, looking for clues about who he is. His clothes are expensive. The thermal layers are high-end brands, and his boots are Italian leather, barely broken in.
His watch catches my eye. It's still strapped to his wrist, a heavy piece of metal and crystal that must have cost a fortune. I don't recognize the brand, but I recognize quality when I see it.
This man has money. Serious money.
I remember the gun I took off him before dragging him inside. It's hidden in my bedroom closet now, a sleek black pistol that felt perfectly balanced in my hand. I don't know much about firearms beyond my rifle, but even I could tell that weapon is top-of-the-line.
Everything about him screams dangerous and expensive.
I spend the rest of the morning cleaning up the blood, burning the bloody towels in the wood stove, and checking on my patient every twenty minutes. He doesn't wake, just sleeps the deep sleep of the injured and exhausted.
By afternoon, I'm exhausted myself. I make tea and sit in the armchair across from the couch, watching him breathe.
His face is striking, even pale and drawn with pain.
Strong jaw, straight nose, lips that would probably be sensual if they weren't pressed tight with discomfort.
His hair is dark and longer than I expected, falling across his forehead.
He's handsome. Dangerously so.
I'm contemplating making dinner when his eyes finally open.
They're gold. Actual gold, like honey in sunlight, and they fix on me with an intensity that makes my heart stutter.
His eyes narrow into dangerous slits and he grabs my arm. "Predatel!"
I shriek and pull back. Luckily, he's weak from blood loss and can't keep his grip on me. Traitor. He'd called me traitor. I don't speak Russian very well, just enough to get by. If it isn't spoken too quickly. I recognize the word "predatel", though.
Suddenly, he blinks and the unfocused, lost look disappears from his eyes. He looks at me as if seeing me for the first time.
"Where…" His voice is rough, barely above a whisper. He tries to sit up and immediately gasps, his hand going to his bandaged shoulder.
"Don't move," I say quickly, setting down my tea. "You were shot. I removed the bullet, but you need to stay still or you'll tear the stitches."
He stares at me, those gold eyes moving over my face like he's trying to place me. "Who are you?"
"Maya." The lie comes easily after three years of practice. "You collapsed near my cabin during the storm. I brought you inside."
"Maya," he repeats slowly, like he's testing the name. Then his brow furrows. "Who am I?"
My stomach drops. "What?"
"I don't…" He closes his eyes, his jaw clenching. "I don't remember. My name. Where I'm from. Why I was…" He opens his eyes again, and there's panic in them now. "I don't remember anything."
Oh, God. Amnesia. Of course. Because this situation isn't complicated enough already.
"It's okay," I say, trying to sound calm even though my mind is racing. "You hit your head. There's a nasty bump, but the memory loss is probably temporary."
"Probably?" His voice sharpens despite its weakness.
"I'm not a doctor. But head injuries can cause temporary amnesia. It might come back."
He's quiet for a long moment, his eyes never leaving my face. I feel exposed under that stare, like he's reading things I don't want him to see.
"You saved my life," he finally says.
"I couldn't leave you to die in the snow."
"Some people would have."
The certainty in his voice makes me wonder what kind of life he's lived that he assumes people would leave him to freeze. Even though he doesn't remember his life.
"Are you hungry?" I ask, changing the subject. "You should eat something. Keep your strength up."
He nods slowly, and I escape to the kitchen to heat up soup. My hands shake as I work. A man with amnesia. A dangerous man, if his scars and tattoos are any indication. And, of course, the gun I took off him. A man who was shot and left for dead.
And I just invited him into my home.
I bring him soup and help him sit up enough to eat, propping pillows behind him. He winces with every movement but doesn't complain. His eyes track my movements as I settle back in the armchair with my own bowl.
"Thank you," he says after a few spoonfuls.
"You're welcome."
"Maya." He says my fake name like he's memorizing it.
I nod.
We eat in silence for a while, the only sound the wind outside and the crackle of the fire. The storm might have stopped, but the temperature has dropped even further.
"What should I call you?" I ask finally. "Since you don't remember your name."
He considers this, his gold eyes distant. "I don't know. What do you think?"
"You look like a Sasha," I say without thinking. It's a common Russian nickname, and something about him seems Russian. Maybe it's the bone structure, or the way he holds himself even while injured.
Of course, it could be the obvious—his Russian accent, slight though it is.
"Sasha." He tests it, then nods. "All right. Sasha it is."
"Do you remember anything? Even small things?"
He's quiet, his brow furrowed in concentration. "I remember… cold. Pain. Someone walking away." His jaw clenches. "Betrayal. I remember feeling betrayed."
"Someone shot you and left you to die."
"Yes." The word is flat, emotionless, but I see fury flash in those gold eyes. "Someone I trusted."
We talk as the afternoon fades to evening, careful conversations that dance around the important questions.
He asks about the cabin, about Montana, about how I ended up here.
I give him the sanitized version, the story I've told the few people I've interacted with over the past three years.
City girl seeking solitude. Nothing more.
He doesn't push, but I can see him filing away details, his mind working even through the pain and confusion.
I make dinner, simple pasta with canned sauce, and we eat together as the storm picks up again outside. The cabin feels smaller with him in it, his presence filling the space in a way that makes me hyperaware of every movement, every glance.
He's watching me when he thinks I'm not looking. I catch him studying my face, my body, the way I move through my own space. It should make me uncomfortable, but instead, it makes my skin feel too warm, too tight.
I'm noticing things, too. His broad shoulders. The sharp intelligence in those gold eyes that suggests the amnesia hasn't dulled his mind, just erased his memories.
He's dangerous and beautiful, and I'm an idiot for letting him stay.
But the alternative was leaving him to die, and I couldn't do that. Even knowing what I know about dangerous men, about the Bratva, about the price of mercy.
I'm clearing the dinner dishes when a sound makes us both freeze.
A loud thump against the door. Like something heavy hitting the wood.
Sasha's hand flies to his waistband, his body tensing, his eyes going sharp and focused.