Chapter 29 Lena
LENA
No! That's my first thought.
"You remember," I say, my tone flat.
His gold eyes lock onto mine, and I watch it happen. The exact moment when the fog lifts. When confusion transforms into recognition. His jaw tightens. His shoulders straighten. The gentle slope of his posture hardens into something predatory.
This isn't Sasha looking at me anymore.
This is Aleksandr Romanov, the Bratva Pakhan. The ruthless killer.
I see it in the way his eyes go flat and cold.
I see it in how his hand flexes at his side, muscle memory of a man accustomed to violence.
The warmth that's been there for weeks, the softness he showed me in bed, in the kitchen, in stolen moments by the fire, it all drains away like someone pulled a plug.
He knows who he is.
He knows what he ordered.
He knows I'm the woman he marked for death.
My stomach lurches. Three years. Three years of running, hiding, changing my name, building a life in the middle of nowhere, and then falling in love with a man I thought was safe because he didn't remember being dangerous.
And now those gold eyes are sharp and calculating, assessing me the way a predator assesses prey.
I don't think. Don't hesitate. My body moves on pure survival instinct, even as my heart is breaking. I spin and run for my bedroom, my bare feet slapping against the cold wooden floor.
Behind me, I hear him move. Not running. Not chasing. Just the deliberate sound of footsteps that know exactly where I'm going and how long it will take me to get there.
My emergency bag is hidden in the back of my closet, behind the winter coats. I've kept it packed for three years, always ready, always prepared for the moment I might need to disappear again. Cash, fake ID, burner phone, clean clothes. Everything I need to vanish.
My hands shake as I yank coats aside, reaching for the duffel bag that represents my escape plan. My fingers close around the strap just as his voice cuts through the darkness.
"Lena."
My real name in his mouth makes me freeze. Not Maya. Lena. He knows. He remembers everything.
"Don't." My voice comes out strangled. "Don't come any closer." I'm still wearing my night clothes, but I don't have time to change. I quickly step into the snow boots I left by the door and jerk on my jacket.
"I'm not going to hurt you." His tone is measured, controlled. The voice of a man used to commanding rooms full of dangerous people. "Put down the bag."
"Fuck you." I hoist the duffel over my shoulder and turn to face him.
He's standing in the bedroom doorway, his broad shoulders filling the frame.
I glance over to the couch where Danil was sleeping.
He's sitting up now, looking casual when I know he's anything but.
His eyes switch between me and Sasha. Aleksandr!
Aleksander leans against the doorframe, and the casual posture is somehow more threatening than if he'd pulled a gun. "We need to talk."
I turn and yank the door open and then I'm running. Or trying to. It's dark and the snow is deep, making it hard to move through. I don't even notice the cold, though, as I start running, my only thought to get away from him. Away from Sasha who has become Aleksandr.
My legs pump through the snow, each step sinking almost to my knees. The duffel bag bounces against my hip. The tree line is maybe fifty yards away. If I can just make it to the trees, I can disappear into the forest, follow the trails I've memorized over the past three years.
I'm halfway there when I hear him behind me. Not running. He is walking—and catching up with me! I should have taken Pavel up on his offer and stayed with him. How could I have been so stupid?
"Maya. Stop." This time, he uses the name I'd given, but I don't like hearing him say it now. Maya and Sasha are different people with a different life. I'm Lena and he's Aleksandr. I'm the victim, and he's the predator.
The command in his voice makes something in my spine want to obey, and I hate myself for it. I push harder, my lungs burning in the frigid air.
Twenty yards. Fifteen.
His hand closes around my wrist.
Not rough. Not violent. Just absolutely certain. The grip of a man who knows exactly how much pressure to apply, who's calculated the precise amount of force needed to stop me without hurting me. It's somehow worse than if he'd tackled me.
I spin on him, swinging the duffel bag with my free hand. He catches it easily with his other hand, and suddenly, we're locked together in the snow, both breathing hard, our breath creating clouds between us.
"Let me go." I try to jerk away, but his fingers don't budge.
"No." His gold eyes bore into mine, and in the moonlight reflecting off the snow, I can see every detail of his face.
The sharp line of his jaw. The way his dark hair falls across his forehead.
The broad expanse of his chest rising and falling beneath his thin shirt.
He didn't even bother with a jacket. "We're going to talk. "
"There's nothing to talk about." My voice cracks. "You remember. You know what you did. What you ordered."
"Yes." No denial. No excuses. Just that single word, flat and honest.
Something inside me splinters. "Then what the hell are we doing out here? Just get it over with."
His jaw tightens. "I told you. I'm not going to hurt you."
"Why should I believe that?" I'm shaking now, and it's not from the cold. "I've been running from you. From the order you gave. And now you're standing here telling me to trust you?"
"I know what I did." His voice drops lower, rougher. "I remember giving the order. I remember why."
"Because my father stole from you." The words taste like ash. "Because my uncle had debts. Because I was collateral for their betrayal."
His free hand comes up, and I flinch. He freezes, something flickering across his face that looks almost like pain. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reaches up and cups my jaw. His palm is warm against my frozen skin.
"Everything has changed," he says quietly. His thumb brushes across my cheekbone. "Maya."
My body goes rigid. "Don't call me that," I say through gritted teeth. "Don't ever call me that again."
"That's who you are to me." His voice is steel wrapped in velvet. "The woman who saved my life. Who taught me to laugh again. Who made me feel human."
"I'm Lena Orlova." I jerk my chin up, forcing myself to meet those golden eyes. "The girl you sentenced to death. That's who I really am."
"You're both." His grip on my wrist loosens but doesn't release. "And I'm both the man who gave that order and the one standing here swearing on everything I have that I will never let anyone hurt you."
A bitter laugh escapes me. "How convenient. You get amnesia, fall for your victim, and suddenly, all your sins are forgiven?"
"No." The word cracks like a whip. "Nothing is forgiven.
I remember every decision I made. Every order I gave.
I remember your father's face when we confronted him about the missing money.
Your uncle begging for more time to pay his debts.
" His thumb traces my jawline, and I hate how my body responds to his touch.
"I remember signing your death warrant because that's what the code demanded. Blood for betrayal."
He steps closer, and the heat of his body cuts through the cold like a blade. "But somewhere between waking up in that cabin and learning your real name, you became… important to me."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly, it physically hurts. But I know that men like him don't change their minds. What's the old saying, a leopard doesn't change its spots?
The duffel bag is still clutched in my left hand. Heavy with everything I need to disappear. Again. The tree line is so close. I know these trails better than anyone. I've walked them a hundred times, memorizing every turn, every hiding spot, every route that leads deeper into the wilderness.
I could run.
My muscles tense, ready. One good yank and I'd be free of his grip. He's strong, but I'm fast. Desperate. And desperation makes you do impossible things.
But even as I calculate the distance, the angles, the precious seconds I'd need, I know the truth. He'd catch me. Maybe not in the first ten yards, but eventually. Men like Aleksandr Romanov don't let things slip through their fingers. They hunt. They pursue. They win.
And some traitorous part of me doesn't want to run at all.
That's the worst part. Not the fear coursing through my veins or the way my heart hammers against my ribs.
It's the way my body still leans toward him despite everything.
The way his touch sends electricity down my spine instead of revulsion.
The way I want to believe that the man I fell in love with and the monster who ordered my death can somehow coexist in the same skin.
Love and survival shouldn't be at war like this. But they are. And I don't know which one is winning.
I glare up at him, tilting my head to the side. "So, what happens now?"
He doesn't answer right away. His golden eyes meet mine steadily and I can practically see the questions running through his mind. He has a duty, an image to keep as a Pakhan. Maybe he doesn't want me dead any longer, but how can he keep me alive and not look like a weak Mob boss?
He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, footsteps gain our attention.
We turn to see Danil hurrying toward us.
Well, he's hurrying as much as he can through the snow.
When he finally reaches us, he's puffing white clouds through his mouth and nose, his big chest expanding as he catches his breath.
"Some undercover older FBI guy is snooping around the cabin."