Chapter 4 Aleksandr
ALEKSANDR
The noise at the door turns out to be nothing more than a branch, heavy with snow, finally surrendering to gravity and crashing against the wood.
My hand still hovers where my weapon should be, muscle memory screaming at me even though I can't remember why I know exactly how to draw, aim, and fire in one fluid motion.
Maya's watching me with those midnight blue eyes, and I see the calculation there. She's noticed my reaction, filed it away with all the other observations she's been making since I woke up in her cabin.
"Just a branch," she says, her voice carefully neutral. "Happens all the time during storms."
I nod, forcing my body to relax even though every instinct tells me to clear the perimeter, check the sight lines, and secure the exits. The thoughts come automatically, tactical assessments I don't remember learning.
"You moved fast," she observes, settling back onto the couch with her tea. "Like you've had training."
"Did I?" The question tastes bitter. "I don't know what I've had. What I've done. Who I've been."
She's quiet for a moment, studying me over the rim of her mug.
The firelight catches in her blonde hair, turning it gold, and I find myself noticing the curve of her neck, the way her thermal shirt clings to full breasts that I definitely shouldn't be thinking about while having an existential crisis.
"You're healing well," she says instead of answering my implied question. "The stitches are holding. No sign of infection."
"Thanks to you." I shift on the couch, testing my shoulder. The pain is manageable now, a dull throb instead of the white-hot agony from before.
She sets down her tea and stands, moving to the bookshelf against the far wall. I watch the sway of her hips in those worn jeans, the way the denim hugs an ass that's both athletic and curved in all the right places.
Christ, I'm a mess. Shot, amnesiac, and apparently still capable of appreciating a beautiful woman.
"Do you like to read?" she asks, running her fingers along the spines of books.
"I don't know." The admission grates.
She pulls out a worn paperback and returns to the couch, this time sitting closer. Close enough that I can smell her, something clean and floral beneath the wood smoke that permeates everything in the cabin.
"Want me to read to you? Might help you relax."
I nod, and she opens the book to a marked page.
Her voice is soft and melodic as she begins, reading about a detective tracking a killer through rain-soaked streets.
I find myself less interested in the plot and more captivated by the sound of her voice, the way her lips form words, the occasional smile when she reaches a particularly clever line.
"You have a beautiful voice," I say when she pauses to turn the page.
Color rises in her cheeks, and she looks away, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "Thank you," she murmurs, her voice suddenly shy.
I watch as she settles back into the couch, her fingers finding her place in the book again. She's flustered, and it's impossibly attractive.
"So, this detective," I say when she pauses. "He's hunting someone dangerous."
"Very dangerous." She marks her place with her finger. "Why? Does it bother you?"
"No. I'm just wondering if he's smart enough to catch him."
She tilts her head, amused. "You're already invested. That's good. Most people would be bored by now."
"I'm not most people." The words come out rougher than I intend, and she laughs, a real laugh that lights up her entire face.
"Keep reading," I say, and I mean it. Not because of the book, but because I want to hear her voice for hours. "I want to know if he catches the killer."
"Patience," she teases. "Good things come to those who wait."
I meet her eyes, and something electric passes between us. "I've never been good at patience." I frown. "At least, I don't think I have."
She closes the book, her fingers tracing the cover.
"What else do I need to know about myself? You've been observing me. What have you noticed?"
She considers this, her gaze traveling over me in a way that makes my skin feel too warm.
"You're left-handed. You sleep on your right side, probably to keep your injured shoulder elevated.
You check the exits every time you enter a room.
You count things—steps, windows, and doors. And you speak Russian in your sleep."
"Russian?" Something flickers in my mind, words I know but can't place. "What do I say?"
"I don't speak much Russian. Just a few words here and there. But you sound angry and your words are muffled, so I couldn't understand them."
The fire pops, sending sparks up the chimney, and Maya shivers despite the heat.
"Are you cold?" I ask.
"The temperature's dropping. We're running low on firewood, and I can't get more until the storm passes." She glances at the wood stove. "We'll need to conserve what we have."
"Come here." The command comes naturally, and I see her hesitate before moving closer. I lift my good arm, and she settles against my side, her body fitting against mine like we've done this a thousand times before.
The contact sends heat through me that has nothing to do with shared body warmth. She's soft and curved in all the right places, and I'm acutely aware of every point where we touch. Her head rests on my chest, and I can feel her breath through my thermal shirt.
She tilts her head up, and suddenly, her face is inches from mine. Those dark blue eyes are wide, pupils dilated, and I can see the pulse fluttering in her throat.
I should pull back. I should remember that I'm a stranger to myself, that I could be anyone, anything. That someone shot me and left me to die, which suggests I'm probably not a good man.
But her lips are right there, slightly parted, and the way she's looking at me makes every rational thought evaporate.
"Maya," I murmur, and it sounds like a question.
She answers by closing the distance between us.
The kiss is soft at first, tentative, like we're both testing boundaries. Her lips are warm and taste faintly of tea and honey. My hand slides up to cup the back of her neck, fingers threading through her short blonde hair, and the kiss deepens.
She makes a small sound in the back of her throat that goes straight to my groin. Her hand comes up to rest on my chest, right over my heart, and I can feel it pounding against her palm.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Her cheeks are flushed, and she won't quite meet my eyes.
"That was…" I start.
"Yeah. That was." She bites her lower lip, and I want to kiss her again just to feel that small gesture.
"I don't even know my own name," I say, the words coming out harsher than I intend. "I could be married. I could be a criminal. I could be anything."
Instead of responding, she disappears into the bathroom and returns with a small mirror, the kind women use for makeup. She hands it to me, and I stare at the reflective surface like it might bite.
"You should see yourself," she says softly. "Maybe it will help."
I don't take it immediately. My hands feel heavy, like they're weighted down with lead.
Part of me knows that looking into that mirror means confronting something I've been avoiding since I woke up in this cabin.
The face staring back at me will belong to someone.
Someone with a past. Someone who was important enough to shoot.
I can feel the dread coiling in my chest, a serpent that whispers I won't like what I see.
That the man looking back will have cold eyes.
Killer's eyes. The kind of eyes that belong to someone who's done terrible things and never lost sleep over them.
I lift the mirror slowly, and a stranger's face looks back at me. Strong jaw covered in several days' worth of dark beard. Straight nose. High cheekbones. And eyes the color of honey or gold, unusual and striking.
I touch my face, watching the reflection do the same, trying to find some spark of recognition. But there's nothing. Just a handsome stranger with a bandage on his temple and questions in his eyes.
"Do you recognize yourself?" Maya asks.
"No." I set down the mirror, my hand trembling slightly. "Nothing. It's like looking at someone else entirely."
She takes my hand, her fingers lacing through mine, and the simple gesture grounds me.
I stare at the stranger in the glass, at the scars and the fear etched into every line of his face. My face. A face that belongs to someone who was shot and left to die. Someone dangerous enough to warrant that kind of violence.
"Did I deserve to be shot?"