But's it's clear to me that I'm looking at a picture of Maya.
15
LENA
Iwake to the weight of his stare.
Not touching me. Not moving. Just watching with an intensity that pulls me from sleep like someone yanked the covers off. My eyes flutter open, and there he is, propped on one elbow, his gold eyes fixed on something on my nightstand.
The photograph.
My stomach drops so fast, I feel it in my toes.
"Morning," I say, my voice rough with sleep. I reach for the frame, but he's faster, his hand closing around it first.
"Who is this?" His tone is casual, but there's steel underneath. The kind of steel that suggests he already knows the answer and is testing me.
"An old friend." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. "From college."
"Really." He tilts the frame, studying it in the morning light streaming through the window. "She looks a lot like you."
"People say that." I sit up, pulling the sheet with me even though we're both fully clothed. The defensive gesture isn't lost on him. His eyes flick to mine, one eyebrow raised. "Can I have that back?"
"In a minute." He traces the edge of the frame with his thumb, his gaze moving between the photo and my face. "Same cheekbones. Same nose. Same mouth." His eyes linger on my lips long enough to make heat pool low in my belly despite the panic clawing at my chest. "But the hair is different. Longer. Darker."
"Lots of people change their hair." I reach for the frame again, and this time he lets me take it. I set it face down on the nightstand, my hands shaking slightly. "It's not a big deal."
"Then why are you nervous?"
"I'm not nervous."
"You're a terrible liar, Maya." He sits up, the movement making his thermal shirt pull tight across his chest. Even terrified, my body notices. Notices the way the fabric stretches over defined muscle, the way his shoulders fill the space beside me. "You've been lying since the moment I woke up in your cabin."
"I saved your life." My voice comes out sharper than I intend. "That should buy me some privacy."
"It does. But it doesn't buy you immunity from questions." He swings his legs over the side of the bed, standing in one fluid motion. The man moves like a predator even doing something as mundane as getting out of bed. "That's you in the photo. Before you came here."
It's not a question.
I don't answer. Can't answer. My throat feels like someone's wrapped barbed wire around it.
He crosses to the window, looking out at the snow-covered landscape. The morning light catches in his dark hair, and I notice the way his jeans hang low on his hips, the way the waistband reveals a strip of tanned skin above the denim. Wrong time to be noticing his ass, but my brain apparently doesn't care about appropriate timing.
"How long have you been here?" He doesn't turn around. His voice is quiet, but there's steel underneath. The kind of tone that probably makes grown men confess to things they didn't even do.
"Three years." The truth slips out before I can stop it.
"And before that?"
"Does it matter?"
Now he turns. The intensity in those dark eyes pins me to the bed more effectively than any physical restraint. "Someone tried to kill me. I wake up in a cabin with a woman who's clearly not who she says she is. So yes, Maya, it fucking matters."
I pull the blanket tighter around myself, suddenly aware that I'm only wearing a tank top and sleep shorts. His gaze flickers down, then back up. The heat in that brief glance makes my stomach flip.
"I'm not a threat to you."
"I didn't say you were." He leans against the window frame, arms crossed. The position makes his biceps strain against the thermal fabric. "But you're hiding from something. Someonedoesn't just disappear to the middle of nowhere, Montana, change their appearance, and live like a hermit for fun."