The second is a rival's lieutenant who's been making noise about expanding into my territory. I study his face in the photo, memorizing it. "Make it public. I want everyone to see what happens when you challenge me."
The third is a politician who's threatening to investigate my operations. I lean back in my leather chair, considering. This one requires finesse. "Find his weakness. Everyone has one. When you do, apply pressure until he remembers who really runs this city."
My second-in-command nods, gathering the files. No questions. No hesitation. My word is law, and these men will carry out my orders without mercy because that's what I've trained them to do.
I feel nothing as he leaves. No guilt. No satisfaction. Just the cold efficiency of problems being solved, loose ends being tied off. This is who I am. This is what I do. And I'm very, very good at it.
The city lights below seem to pulse with my heartbeat, and I think,This is mine. All of it. And I'll do whatever it takes to keep it.
I jerk out of the memory flash, my heart pounding, sweat cooling on my skin despite the morning chill. Maya stirs beside me, her hand sliding across my chest.
"You okay?" Her voice is rough with sleep, sexy in a way that makes my cock stir despite the darkness churning in my head.
"Fine." The lie tastes bitter. "Just a dream."
She props herself up on one elbow, and the sheet falls away from her breasts. Even disturbed and shaken, I notice. Notice the wayher nipples tighten in the cool air, the soft curve of her waist, the way her hair falls across one shoulder.
"You're a terrible liar, Sasha." She traces a finger down my chest, following the line of a scar. "What did you remember?"
"Nothing important." I catch her hand, bringing it to my lips. "Go back to sleep."
"It's morning." She glances at the window, where pale light is growing stronger. "And you're wound tighter than a spring. What's wrong?"
Everything. I remembered making decisions about people's lives like I was choosing what to have for breakfast. I remembered feeling nothing while ordering violence. I remembered being the kind of man who breaks hands and makes examples and destroys anyone who threatens his power.
And the worst part? It felt natural. Right. Like slipping into a well-worn coat.
"I need to move." I slide out of bed, pulling on jeans and a thermal shirt. "Chop some wood and clear my head."
Maya sits up, the sheet pooling around her waist, and I force myself not to stare at her bare breasts.
"Want company?" she asks.
"No. Stay warm." I lean down and kiss her forehead, breathing in the scent of her hair. "I'll be back soon."
Outside, the cold air hits my face, sharp and almost painful. Good. I need the shock of it, need something to ground me in the present instead of the fragments of a past I'm not sure I want to remember.
The axe feels perfect in my hands. Balanced. Familiar. I position a log on the chopping block and swing, the blade biting through wood with a satisfying crack. The impact reverberates up my arms, and I welcome the burn in my shoulders as I set up another log.
Swing. Crack. Split.
I fall into a rhythm, letting the physical work quiet the noise in my head. But the memory lingers like smoke. The cold efficiency of those decisions. The way I felt nothing while ordering pain and death. The certainty that I was right, that my authority was absolute, and that anyone who challenged me deserved what they got.
Is that who I am? A man who breaks people without hesitation? Who sees violence as just another tool in the toolbox?
The axe comes down harder, faster. Wood splinters and flies. My breath comes in clouds, and sweat dampens my shirt despite the cold.
Maya's voice echoes in my head.Aleksandr Romanov ordered the hit on me himself.
What if I'm like him? What if the man she's sleeping with, the man she's starting to trust, is the same kind of man who would put a price on an innocent young woman's head?
The thought makes my stomach turn. I set down the axe and brace my hands on my knees, breathing hard.
I straighten, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. The pile of split wood has grown considerably, enough to last us another few days, at least. My shoulders ache, and myhands are starting to blister, but the restless energy is finally starting to fade.
I gather an armload of wood and head back toward the cabin. The cold air feels good against my overheated skin, and my muscles burn in that satisfying way that comes from hard physical labor. It's honest work. Simple. Nothing like the complicated mess inside my head.
The cabin door opens before I reach it. Maya stands in the doorway, wrapped in one of the thick blankets, her hair still tousled from sleep. The morning light catches the auburn highlights, making it look like spun copper.