"Pavel." Danil's eyes sharpen. "Who's Pavel?"
"A neighbor," Sasha says flatly. "He checks in sometimes."
"Sounds like a good friend."
"He's helpful." I push eggs around my plate, suddenly not hungry. "Brings supplies here and there."
"Convenient." Danil leans back in his chair, and the movement makes his shirt pull tight across his chest. He's built like a tank, all muscle and controlled power, and I can see why he and Sasha are friends. They're cut from the same dangerous cloth. "And he doesn't ask questions about the mysterious woman living alone in the woods?"
"He minds his business," Sasha says, and there's a warning in his voice now, clear and unmistakable.
Danil raises his hands in mock surrender. "I'm not trying to start anything. Just trying to understand the situation."
"The situation," Sasha says slowly, "is that Maya saved my life. That's all you need to understand."
The tension at the table is thick enough to choke on. I stand abruptly, grabbing my plate even though I've barely touched the food. "I should check the generator. Make sure we have enough fuel to get through the storm."
"I'll do it," Sasha says, already standing.
"No, I've got it." I need space, need air, need to get away from Danil's probing questions and knowing looks. "You two should catch up. Talk about old times."
Before either of them can argue, I'm pulling on my coat and boots. The cold hits me like a wall when I step outside, stealing my breath, but I welcome it. Anything is better than sitting in that kitchen feeling like a bug under a microscope.
The generator shed is only fifty feet from the cabin, but the snow is deep enough that each step is a struggle. By the time I reach it, my legs are burning, and my lungs ache from the frigid air.
I check the fuel levels, top off the tank, and do all the routine maintenance I've done a hundred times before. Anything to delay going back inside. Anything to avoid Danil's questions and the way he looks at me. Suspiciously.
When I finally can't justify staying out any longer, I trudge back through the snow. My fingers are numb despite my gloves, and my face feels like it might crack from the cold.
I stamp snow from my boots on the porch and push open the door. The warmth inside is almost painful after the bitter cold, and I stand there for a moment, letting sensation return to my extremities.
Voices drift from the living room. Sasha and Danil, speaking in rapid Russian. I don't understand most of it, but I catch my fake name. Maya. And then another word that makes my stomach drop. Familiar. He's saying I look familiar.
I clear my throat loudly, and the conversation stops. When I round the corner, both men are sitting by the fire, mugs of coffee in hand, looking for all the world like old friends catching up. Except for the tension in Sasha's shoulders and the calculating look in Danil's eyes.
"Generator's fine," I announce, peeling off my coat. "Should last us through the storm."
"Good." Sasha pats the couch beside him, and I sink down gratefully. His arm comes around my shoulders immediately, pulling me against his side. I can feel the heat of him through his shirt, smell the clean scent of soap and something uniquely him. My body relaxes despite my anxiety, molding against his solid warmth.
"The storm's supposed to last another day, at least," Danil says, staring into the fire. "Looks like we're stuck together for a while."
Lucky us.
The day drags on with painful slowness. Danil is everywhere, filling my small cabin with his presence. He's polite, even helpful, but I can't shake the feeling that he's watching me. Studying me. Trying to figure out where he knows me from.
Around noon, I escape to my bedroom to change into dry socks. That's when I see him.
Danil stands in my doorway, his large frame blocking most of the light from the hallway. He's staring at my nightstand, at the photograph I forgot to hide. The one of me at eighteen, with long hair, darker than what it is now, and a smile that belongs to someone who didn't know the world could be so cruel.
"What are you doing in here?" My voice comes out sharper than I intend, but I don't care. This is my space, my sanctuary, and he's violating it.
He turns slowly, and there's something in his expression I can't read. "Sorry. I was looking for the bathroom. Got turned around."
"The bathroom is the other door." I point down the hall, my hand shaking slightly. "This is my bedroom."
"Right. My mistake." But his eyes drift back to the photograph, lingering for just a second too long before he leaves.
I grab the frame and shove it into my dresser drawer, my heart hammering against my ribs. He saw it. He definitely saw it. And now he's going to put the pieces together, if he hasn't already.