Chapter 25
The fever lived behind his eyes, a hot, persistent pressure that turned the forest unreliable—edges blurring, depth flickering, the tactical overlay he normally laid across terrain arriving a fraction too late—as if the system was lagging behind the world.
Pav adjusted without breaking stride.
Harper moved beside him now, matching his pace with a quiet determination that would have annoyed him under any other circumstances.
Her attention was fixed on him with a clinical focus that missed nothing—the sweat sheening his skin, the slight deviation in his line, the moments where his focus slipped and then locked back into place.
She was tracking his deterioration in real time, and he didn’t like it. But he also couldn’t stop her, and he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to.
The route to the town sat clean in his head. Five miles through descending forest, a valley road, then the settlement. Terrain, elevation, choke points—all laid out with the same clarity they always had.
That was something.
The fever could take his balance, his timing, his ability to process fast enough to stay ahead of the environment. But it couldn’t take the map.
Not yet.
“We cut east here, then—”
The rest of the sentence didn’t come. For a second, the map in his head went blank. Not gone—just out of reach, consumed by static and heat.
He blinked. The world snapped back into place.
“—then we hit the road,” he finished, like there hadn’t been a gap at all.
Harper stared at him. Her eyes narrowed. She’d seen the breach.
He avoided her gaze and kept walking, forcing his attention forward, away from the drift—the way the light fractured through the canopy, the rhythm of her breathing—
Memory surfaced. Uninvited. Her mouth on his—slicing through the noise with a clarity the forest no longer had. The softness of it. The hesitation that hadn’t lasted. The moment it had shifted into something deeper—
He shut it down.
Too late.
His foot caught on uneven ground, and he stumbled, catching himself against a tree trunk. Bark bit into his palm as the world swam then righted. He pulled in a controlled breath.
“Pav.” Her hand closed around his arm. “Let me—”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You nearly—”
“I know where we’re going.” He pushed off the tree and drove his pace harder, forcing his body back into line through sheer will. “Stay close.”
Behind him, a sharp exhale—frustration compressed into a single breath.
He knew her sounds now. He’d been logging them since the helicopter—the sharp intake of fear, the controlled rhythm she forced into herself when things got bad, the quiet, involuntary sound she’d made against his mouth.
None of it was relevant. Except it kept resurfacing, disrupting everything else, refusing to stay where he’d put it.
Unacceptable.
The trees thinned gradually, the density breaking until the ground leveled and the forest gave way to a rough track—frozen mud and ice, rutted and ugly.
Beyond it, the town.
It was small, only around thirty buildings. Soviet concrete and corrugated metal, built for function and never updated for anything else. A scattering of wooden houses leaned into the cold, paint long since faded, smoke lifting from chimneys in scrappy trails.
A vehicle was parked near what looked like a shop—a Produkty, a general store that sold everything from bread to bootlaces.
“Wait.” He stretched out an arm to stop her.
He held at the treeline, assessing.
One road in. One road out. A handful of commercial structures.
The shop. A building that might be an Apteka—pharmacy—the faded green cross just visible above the door.
A low structure that read as a Stolovaya—a workers’ canteen.
He counted three vehicles in a small central square—a rusted Lada, a flatbed truck, and a UAZ-469 that set every alarm in his system ringing.
The UAZ was military-grade and way too clean for this town. Fresh mud on the wheel arches, hood clear of snow, exhaust pipe still breathing faintly in the cold. Recently driven. Maybe still warm.
His fever-addled brain ran the math and arrived at the same result. The hunters had been here. Might still be.
“Stay in the trees,” he said. “Don’t move until—”
“No.” Her voice was certain. “You can barely stand. You’re not going down there.”
She followed his gaze to the town. The UAZ. The pharmacy. Then she looked back at him. “Look at you.”
His eyes flicked to hers.
“Stitches in your head. Blood on your shirt. You’re wearing tactical gear. You scream military.” Her gaze swept over him. “You walk in there, every head turns.”
He gave a small shrug. “I’ll manage.”
“No.” She stepped in front of him, forcing him to focus on her. “You won’t. You look like trouble, Pav. The kind people remember.”
He exhaled, concentrating on standing still.
She pressed a hand to her sternum. “Me? I look like a woman grabbing supplies before the weather turns. No one looks twice.”
“That’s not—”
“I’m not a threat to anyone.” A beat. “You are. Even when you look like shit.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” A flicker of a smile touched her mouth—caught in her storm-gray eyes.
Fuck. Now he was noticing the color of her eyes.
She was right and he hated it.
Her voice softened, just a fraction. “I can get in and out without anyone clocking me. You can’t.”
He blew out a breath. He was out of arguments.
“The pharmacy.” He pointed at the green cross. “Antibiotics. Amoxicillin, cephalexin, doxy—”
“I think I know what antibiotics are.” Her hands hit her hips, and her eyebrows cranked upward.
Shit. He huffed a breath. “Yeah. Fine. I have cash…”
He glanced down, his brain derailing. Which pocket?
“Here. Let me.” She stepped in, reaching into his cargo pockets. Left, then right. Her hand brushed his hip through the fabric—brief, practical—
So not practical.
Fucking fuck.
He breathed through his nose, fixed his gaze on the horizon until her hand was gone.
“In and out,” he said. “Five minutes. I’ll be watching.”
She gave him a nod and turned toward the town.
He positioned himself with clear sightlines to the pharmacy door and the UAZ.
Weapon up. One eye on the door, one on the street.
The buildings wobbled for half a second.
But his hands were steady despite the heat burning through his system, his body running hot enough to blur the margins of his vision.
Some things the fever couldn’t touch—muscle memory sat deeper than the infection.
She descended into the town. He tracked her automatically, and the feeling that settled in his chest wasn’t operational.
Every instinct he had said, go with her.
Override. Take point. Clear the structure. Control the variables.
Instead, he stayed where he was. Because if he went in there, he might not make it back out. And if he didn’t—
She was alone.
Restraint. He fucking hated it.
She walked with a confidence that was genuine or performed so well the difference didn’t matter. Head up. Pace steady. The jacket—his jacket—making her look like a local in bulky winter layers. He tracked every step she took across the open ground.
His grip shifted on the weapon. Too tight. He forced it loose.
She reached the Apteka, opened the door and went inside. She didn’t look back. If she had, he would have gone after her. The door swung shut behind her, and his world narrowed to that point.
The count started.
One minute.
He scanned the street. The UAZ remained unattended. No movement around it.
Two minutes.
The Stolovaya door opened. A man stepped out, lighting a cigarette as he moved. Heavy jacket. Local posture. No immediate threat signature. He crossed to the Lada, got in, and drove away.
Four minutes.
The pharmacy door stayed closed.
He re-seated his hold on his rifle. Heat crawled relentlessly under his skin. The buildings shimmered, then settled.
Five.
The door opened, and Harper stepped out. A tiny shake of her head.
No antibiotics.
Her expression was controlled, held together by force. But underneath—
Fear.