"Sasha." He tests it, then nods. "All right. Sasha it is."
"Do you remember anything? Even small things?"
He's quiet, his brow furrowed in concentration. "I remember… cold. Pain. Someone walking away." His jaw clenches. "Betrayal. I remember feeling betrayed."
"Someone shot you and left you to die."
"Yes." The word is flat, emotionless, but I see fury flash in those gold eyes. "Someone I trusted."
We talk as the afternoon fades to evening, careful conversations that dance around the important questions. He asks about the cabin, about Montana, about how I ended up here. I give him the sanitized version, the story I've told the few people I've interacted with over the past three years. City girl seeking solitude. Nothing more.
He doesn't push, but I can see him filing away details, his mind working even through the pain and confusion.
I make dinner, simple pasta with canned sauce, and we eat together as the storm picks up again outside. The cabin feels smaller with him in it, his presence filling the space in a way that makes me hyperaware of every movement, every glance.
He's watching me when he thinks I'm not looking. I catch him studying my face, my body, the way I move through my own space. It should make me uncomfortable, but instead, it makes my skin feel too warm, too tight.
I'm noticing things, too. His broad shoulders. The sharp intelligence in those gold eyes that suggests the amnesia hasn't dulled his mind, just erased his memories.
He's dangerous and beautiful, and I'm an idiot for letting him stay.
But the alternative was leaving him to die, and I couldn't do that. Even knowing what I know about dangerous men, about the Bratva, about the price of mercy.
I'm clearing the dinner dishes when a sound makes us both freeze.
A loud thump against the door. Like something heavy hitting the wood.
Sasha's hand flies to his waistband, his body tensing, his eyes going sharp and focused.
4
ALEKSANDR
The noise at the door turns out to be nothing more than a branch, heavy with snow, finally surrendering to gravity and crashing against the wood. My hand still hovers where my weapon should be, muscle memory screaming at me even though I can't remember why I know exactly how to draw, aim, and fire in one fluid motion.
Maya's watching me with those midnight blue eyes, and I see the calculation there. She's noticed my reaction, filed it away with all the other observations she's been making since I woke up in her cabin.
"Just a branch," she says, her voice carefully neutral. "Happens all the time during storms."
I nod, forcing my body to relax even though every instinct tells me to clear the perimeter, check the sight lines, and secure the exits. The thoughts come automatically, tactical assessments I don't remember learning.
"You moved fast," she observes, settling back onto the couch with her tea. "Like you've had training."
"Did I?" The question tastes bitter. "I don't know what I've had. What I've done. Who I've been."
She's quiet for a moment, studying me over the rim of her mug. The firelight catches in her blonde hair, turning it gold, and I find myself noticing the curve of her neck, the way her thermal shirt clings to full breasts that I definitely shouldn't be thinking about while having an existential crisis.
"You're healing well," she says instead of answering my implied question. "The stitches are holding. No sign of infection."
"Thanks to you." I shift on the couch, testing my shoulder. The pain is manageable now, a dull throb instead of the white-hot agony from before.
She sets down her tea and stands, moving to the bookshelf against the far wall. I watch the sway of her hips in those worn jeans, the way the denim hugs an ass that's both athletic and curved in all the right places.
Christ, I'm a mess. Shot, amnesiac, and apparently still capable of appreciating a beautiful woman.
"Do you like to read?" she asks, running her fingers along the spines of books.
"I don't know." The admission grates.