Chapter 20 Aleksandr
ALEKSANDR
The man across the street shifts his weight, and something in the movement triggers a cascade of images in my mind.
We're sitting in a dimly lit bar, shot glasses lined up between us. His laugh is deep and genuine as he slaps the table, nearly knocking over the vodka bottle. "You're full of shit," he says. "That story gets bigger every time you tell it."
I'm grinning, relaxed in a way I haven't felt in the memories that have surfaced so far. "Just because you weren't there doesn't mean it didn't happen."
"I was there, you bastard. And it was three guys, not five."
We're both laughing now, the kind of laughter that comes from years of friendship, from shared history and inside jokes.
The memory fragments, and I'm back in the diner booth with Maya watching me with concern in those midnight blue eyes.
"Sasha?" Her hand finds mine across the table. "You okay?"
"I know him." The words come out rough. "Or I did. I just can't remember how."
Another flash hits before I can stop it.
A boardroom. Long table, expensive chairs, and men in suits who defer to me with every word.
But he's there too, sitting to my right, his presence solid and reassuring.
When I speak, he nods. When someone questions my decision, his expression hardens in a way that makes them reconsider.
He's not just present. He's my second, my right hand, the person I trust to have my back.
"We need to leave." I stand abruptly, throwing cash on the table. "Now."
Maya doesn't argue, grabs her coat, and follows me out. I keep my body between her and the man across the street, using the angle of the building to shield us as we move toward the truck.
"Don't look at him," I murmur, my hand finding the small of her back. Even through her coat, the contact grounds me. "Just walk normally."
"Normal," she mutters. "Right. Because this is totally normal."
Despite everything, I almost smile. Her sarcasm in the face of danger is oddly attractive.
We're almost to the truck when another memory slams into me.
Fists flying, blood on my knuckles. We're back to back in an alley, surrounded by men who made the mistake of thinking numbers would be enough. He takes down two while I handle three, our movements synchronized like we've done this a hundred times before. And maybe we have.
"On your left," he shouts, and I duck just as a pipe swings through the space where my head was.
"Thanks."
"Buy me a drink later, and we'll call it even."
I stumble slightly, catching myself on the truck's door. Maya's there immediately, her hand on my arm, steadying me.
"Another memory?" she asks quietly.
"Several." I help her into the passenger seat, my eyes still tracking the man across the street. He hasn't moved, hasn't looked our way, but every instinct I have screams that he's aware of us. "He's important. Someone I trusted."
"Then maybe we should talk to him." She doesn't argue when I take the keys and climb into the driver's seat. I've never driven her truck before, but I didn't bother asking now and she didn't tell me no.
"Not yet." I start the engine. "Not until I know if he's the one who put bullets in me."
We pull away from the curb, and I watch in the rearview mirror as the man finally looks up. For just a second, our eyes meet across the distance, and I see recognition flash across his face.
Then we're around the corner, and he's gone.
"Well, that was subtle," Maya says, her voice tight with tension.
"Subtle wasn't the goal. Alive was the goal."
She's quiet for a moment, then reaches over and turns on the radio. The local weather report crackles through the speakers, and what I hear makes my jaw clench.
"Major storm system moving in tonight," the announcer says. "Expecting twelve to eighteen inches of snow with winds up to forty miles per hour. Residents in mountain areas should prepare for possible power outages and road closures. This could rival the blizzard we had three weeks ago."
Maya and I exchange a look.
"The one where I almost died in your yard?" I ask.
"That would be the one." She chews her bottom lip, and I have to force myself to focus on the road instead of how much I want to pull over and kiss her.
The drive back up the mountain is quiet, both of us lost in our own thoughts. The sky is already darkening, clouds rolling in thick and heavy. By the time we reach the cabin, the first flakes are starting to fall.
"All right," Maya says, climbing out of the truck. "Let's get this place ready."
We spend the next couple of hours fortifying the cabin. I check every window seal while Maya organizes supplies. The work is familiar and comfortable, and I find myself relaxing into it despite the tension of the day.
"Hand me that hammer," I call from where I'm reinforcing the back door frame.
She tosses it to me, and I catch it one-handed. When I look up, she's watching me with an expression that makes heat pool in my gut. Her gaze travels over my shoulders, down to where my thermal shirt pulls tight across my chest, and lower still.
"See something you like?" I ask, unable to resist.
Color floods her cheeks, but she doesn't look away. "Maybe. You're very distracting when you're being all handy and competent."
"Am I?" I set down the hammer and move toward her, backing her against the kitchen counter. "How distracting?"
"Very." Her hands come up to rest on my chest, and even through the fabric, her touch burns. "We should probably focus on the storm preparations."
"Probably." But I'm leaning down anyway, my mouth finding hers in a kiss that starts soft and quickly turns hungry.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"Okay," she says, her voice rough. "Maybe a small break from storm prep."
I grin and kiss her again, slower this time, savoring it. My hands slide down to grip her hips, and she makes this small sound in the back of her throat that goes straight to my cock.
"Sasha," she murmurs against my lips, I guess coming to her senses. "The storm."
"Right. The storm." I force myself to step back, putting distance between us before I say to hell with preparations and carry her to bed. "We should finish."
We get back to work, but the atmosphere has shifted. There's a playfulness now, a lightness that wasn't there before. She steals glances at my ass when she thinks I'm not looking. I catch her staring at my arms when I'm carrying firewood.
"You know," I say, stacking wood by the fireplace, "if you want to touch, you don't have to ask."
"I'm not touching anything." But she's smiling that full, genuine smile that transforms her face.
She throws a dish towel at me, and I catch it, laughing. The sound surprises me. When was the last time I laughed like this? Before the amnesia? Ever?
By late afternoon, the cabin is as ready as we can make it. The snow is falling heavily now, thick flakes that stick to everything they touch. The wind has picked up, howling through the trees with a sound that's almost alive.
Maya stands at the window, watching the storm build. I move up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her back against my chest. She fits there perfectly, all soft curves against hard muscle.
"Tell me about the man in town," she says quietly. "What did you remember?"
"Drinking with him. Laughing. Like we were friends." I rest my chin on top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair. "And fighting. Back-to-back against multiple opponents. Moving like we'd done it before."
"So he's someone you trusted."
"Was. Past tense." The distinction feels important. "I don't know if I can trust him now."
She turns in my arms, looking up at me with those dark blue eyes. "What if he's looking for you because he's worried? What if he's trying to help?"
"Or what if he's the one who shot me?" I cup her face, my thumb stroking her cheekbone. "I can't risk it. Not with you here."
"I can take care of myself."
"I know you can." And I do. "But I'd rather you didn't have to."
She opens her mouth to respond, but I kiss her instead, swallowing whatever argument she was about to make. When I pull back, she's smiling again.
"You can't just kiss me every time you want to win an argument."
"Watch me."
The snow is really coming down now, the world outside the windows turning white. Maya pulls away from me and grabs her coat.
"Where are you going?" I ask.
"Outside. Come on." She's already pulling on boots, her eyes bright with mischief. "When was the last time you had a snowball fight?"
"I have no idea."
"Exactly. So let's make a new memory."
I follow her out into the storm, and the cold hits me like a wall. But she's already scooping up snow, packing it into a ball, and the look on her face is pure mischievous joy.
The snowball hits me square in the chest.
"Oh, you're going to regret that," I say, bending to gather my own ammunition.
What follows is chaos. We chase each other around the cabin, throwing snowballs and laughing like children. She's fast, darting between trees, using the terrain to her advantage. But I'm faster, and when I finally catch her, we both go down in a tangle of limbs and snow.
She's beneath me, her blonde hair spread across the white ground, her cheeks flushed from cold and exertion. Snow clings to her eyelashes, and she's laughing, breathless and beautiful.
"I win," I say, bracing myself above her.
"You cheated."
"How did I cheat?"
"You're bigger and stronger. That's cheating."
"That's called having an advantage." I lean down and kiss her, tasting snow and Maya and something that feels dangerously close to happiness.
We stay out until we're both shivering, then stumble back inside, shedding wet clothes and boots. I build up the fire while Maya makes hot chocolate, and we end up on the couch, wrapped in blankets, watching the flames dance.
"Thank you," I say quietly.
"For what?"
"For this. For making me feel human instead of just dangerous."
She shifts, curling closer against my side. "You're both. And that's okay."
The storm rages outside, but inside we're warm and safe. Her head rests on my chest, and I can feel her breathing slow as she starts to drift off. My own eyes are getting heavy when a sound cuts through the howl of the wind.
A knock at the door.
Maya starts to sit up, but I hold her back, every muscle in my body going taut. Nobody should be out in this storm. Nobody should be able to find this cabin in these conditions.
Unless they knew exactly where to look.
I move to the door, positioning myself to the side of the frame. Another knock, more insistent this time.
"Hello?" A male voice, muffled by the wind. "Is anyone there? My car got stuck down the hill. I need help."
I don't answer. Instead, I reach for the door handle, keeping my body shielded behind the frame. I crack it open just enough to see out into the snow-blurred darkness.
A figure stands on the porch, shoulders hunched against the wind, face half-obscured by the storm. But as my eyes adjust, the features become clear.
My breath catches.
It's him. The man from town and from my memory flashes.