"Wrong tread pattern." He finally turns, and the intensity in his gaze pins me in place. "I memorized his tire marks when he left. These are different. Wider base, deeper grooves. Probably an SUV."
Of course he memorized Pavel's tire tracks. Because that's what normal people do.
Except Sasha isn't normal. The way he's moving through my cabin right now, checking sight lines and angles, his body coiled and ready for violence, proves that beyond any doubt.
"How many visitors do you get out here?" he asks, his tone making it clear this isn't casual conversation.
"Just Pavel. And occasionally a delivery driver if I order something I can't get in town." I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the fire crackling in the wood stove. "But I haven't ordered anything in months."
"So whoever was out there shouldn't have been." He crosses to the kitchen, his thermal shirt pulling tight across his broad shoulders as he reaches for something on the counter. When he turns back, he's holding the hunting knife I keep in the drawer. He tests the weight, flips it once with practiced ease, then sets it on the table within easy reach. "We need to assume they're coming back."
The casual way he handles the blade, like it's an extension of his hand, sends ice through my veins. "You think those men Pavel warned us about found us already?"
"I think someone knows we're here." He moves to the gun cabinet I keep locked in the corner. "Do you have more ammunition for that rifle than just this one box?"
"Yes. Top shelf of the closet in my bedroom."
He's already moving, his long legs eating up the distance. I follow, watching as he retrieves the several boxes of ammunition with the same efficiency he does everything else. His hands are steady as he loads the rifle, checking the action, the safety, every movement speaking of familiarity that goes beyond casual gun ownership.
"You've done this before," I say quietly.
"Apparently," he says wryly and sets the loaded rifle against the wall near the front door, positioned for quick access. "A lot."
The admission should terrify me. Maybe it does. But watching him secure my cabin, seeing the cold competence in every action, I feel something else too. Something that feels dangerously close to relief.
Because whoever is out there, whatever is coming, Sasha knows how to handle it.
The question is whether that makes me safer or puts me in more danger.
He catches me staring and raises an eyebrow. "What?"
"Nothing." I look away, but not before my gaze drops to his chest, to the way his thermal shirt clings to defined muscle. Eventerrified, my body responds to him. To the raw masculinity he projects, the barely contained violence that should repel me but doesn't.
"You're thinking something." He crosses to me, and suddenly, we're too close. I can smell him, wood smoke and cold air and something uniquely male. "I can see it on your face."
"I'm thinking you're very good at this." I force myself to meet his eyes. "At preparing for violence. At knowing exactly what to do when someone's hunting you."
"Is that a problem?"
"I don't know yet." Honesty feels dangerous, but lies feel worse. "Part of me is grateful. The other part is wondering what kind of man has these skills."
His jaw tightens. "The kind who survives."
"Or the kind who makes other people need to survive him."
The words hang between us like smoke. Sasha's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in those gold eyes. Acknowledgment, maybe. Or resignation.
"You're probably right." He steps back, putting distance between us. "I'm probably exactly the kind of man you should be running from."
"Except I can't run." My voice comes out sharper than I intend. "Because whoever was circling my cabin knows we're here. And if those men from town are looking for you, then I'm already involved, whether I like it or not."
"I could leave." But he doesn't sound like he means it. "Draw them away from you."
"In the middle of the night? With no vehicle and no memory of who you are?" I shake my head. "That's suicide. Plus, who's to say they aren't after me, so your leaving could end up putting me in more danger?"
He studies me for a long moment. Whatever instincts he has, they're sharp. Calculating.
"You have a point," he finally says. "If they wanted you, specifically, they would have made a move already. The tracks suggest surveillance."