But the door closes behind him with a soft click that feels louder than a slam.
I sink onto the bed, pressing my palms against my eyes. The urge to call him back wars with the need to protect myself.
Except he's already in. Somehow, in just a short time, he's wormed his way past defenses I thought were impenetrable.
I should tell him to leave. The moment the roads clear, I should send him away.
But the thought of this cabin without him in it feels wrong in a way I can't explain.
He's dangerous. I know that. I can see it in the way he moves, in the cold calculation that sometimes flashes through his eyes. He's exactly the kind of man I should be running from.
So why do I feel safer with him here than I have in years?
I give him twenty minutes before I go looking. Time to let us both cool down, to figure out what the hell I'm going to say.
He's on the porch, leaning against the railing with his back to the door. The moonlight highlights his dark hair, turns his profile into something carved from stone. He's not wearing a jacket, and I can see the tension in his shoulders, the rigid set of his spine.
"It's cold out here," I say quietly, stepping onto the porch. The boards creak under my feet.
"I've been colder." His voice is flat, emotionless.
I wrap my arms around myself, the night air biting through my sweater. My breath fogs in front of me. "I'm sorry."
"For what? Being honest?" He still doesn't look at me. "Don't apologize for that."
"I'm not apologizing for what I said." I move to stand beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. "I'm apologizing for how I said it. You didn't deserve that."
"Didn't I?" Now he turns, and the pain in his eyes steals my breath. It's raw and real and so unlike the controlled mask he usually wears. "You're right. I am dangerous. I have hurt people."
"How do you know?" I ask as a chill works its way up my spine.
"I remember a man in a chair," he says, his voice low and rough. "He was tied down. Blood was everywhere, and he was terrified." His jaw clenches. "I stood there and watched as he begged for mercy, and I felt nothing." He looks at me, and there's something broken in his eyes. "That's what scares me. Not that I was there. But that I felt nothing at all."
"You don't remember everything?" I ask carefully, even though ice has formed throughout my veins.
"No." His voice turns hard. "I only have pieces. I know what I'm capable of. I looked at that man's fear like it was data. His suffering meant nothing to me. It was clinical. It was cold." He runs a hand through his hair. "What kind of person does that? What kind of monster watches someone suffer and feels absolutely nothing?"
I cup his face with my hands and stare into his eyes. "You don't know how real those flashes are or the context of them," I say sternly.
"But—"
"No, Sasha," I interrupt. "Even if they are glimpses of your past, you are not that man now. Losing your memory gives you a fresh start to be the kind of man you want to be."
His mouth finds mine suddenly, startling me. His other hand slides into my hair, angling my head as he deepens the almost desperate kiss. I press against him, feeling the hard planes of his chest through his shirt, the strength in his arms as they wrap around me.
"Inside," I murmur against his lips. "Before we freeze."
He lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his waist. The muscles in his arms flex as he carries me through the door, kicking it shut behind us. We barely make it to the bedroom before he's laying me on the bed, his body covering mine.
His shirt comes off first, and I run my hands over the defined ridges of his abdomen, the broad expanse of his chest marked with scars. My sweater follows, then everything else, until there's nothing between us.
We move together in the darkness, his mouth on my neck, my breasts, everywhere. I dig my fingers into the solid muscle of his back as pleasure builds between us. He whispers my name almost reverently, almost like he's silently asking for forgiveness for whatever he's done in his past life.
I know I should be concerned. What if he was part of the Russian mob? What if he was one of the hitmen sent to kill me?
But I can't force myself to worry about that, no matter how dangerous that may be. This man, Sasha, is not whoever he was. I feel safe with him.
After, we lie tangled together, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear. His arm wraps around me, and I trace the scars on his chest with my fingertips.