I slumped as far as the chair allowed.Exhaustion settled across my limbs, heavy and unforgiving.My head throbbed with rhythm.My wrists burned.Fear clawed at my ribs.Anger burned beneath it—hotter, sharper, cleaner.And under that, a quieter thing I hated as much as the ropes.
Curiosity.
Gabriel Russo took everything from me.He killed my father, my mother, my brother.He dragged me away from the only life I had left.Yet here I sat in front of a fire he built, inside a shelter he checked, breathing air he ensured stayed warm enough to keep me alive.
I needed to know why.Understanding him—even a piece of him—might be the difference between living and dying.
So I watched him, memorized him, studied the cracks under the armor.Maxwell Grant didn’t raise meek children.He raised survivors—whether he meant to or not.And survival demanded answers.
Gabriel turned from the window.His gaze locked on mine without hesitation.I didn’t look away.Neither did he.
Outside, the storm raged.Inside, we stared at each other, two people bound together by a night that already couldn’t be undone.
I didn’t know how the next hour would go.I didn’t know if I’d live long enough to see morning.
But I remained alive.
And as long as I stayed alive, the game wasn’t over.
Chapter Four
Mia
The staring match ended when Gabriel’s jaw tightened and he turned away.He crossed to the corner where he’d stacked supplies, his boots leaving dark impressions across the dusty planks.Every movement carried precision—no wasted steps, no hesitation—like he followed instructions burned into his bones.I shifted to release pressure on my wrists, but the rope dug into already raw skin.The burning flared, sharp enough to make my breath stutter.Outside, the wind screamed around the cabin, snow pelting the shutters hard enough to sound like gravel thrown by an angry hand.
He pulled a green canvas bag from a container and set it near his feet.The zipper rasped open, revealing a first-aid kit.The faded red cross should have suggested safety.Here, it only confirmed he planned to touch me.Gauze, tape, alcohol.Latex gloves.My pulse spiked.If he intended to hurt me, he didn’t need medical supplies first.If he intended to help me, he didn’t get to call that mercy.
He stood and walked toward me, bag in hand, expression unreadable.His attention dropped to my wrists, to the angry marks circling my skin.A flicker moved across his features—unease, maybe—gone before I could confirm it.
“Don’t,” I rasped.The words came rough from dehydration and fear.“Don’t touch me.”
No answer.He knelt at my side and slid on the gloves.The sound of latex snapping against skin made me flinch.His hands paused for half a second.Then he resumed.
Up close, I noticed things that didn’t belong on a killer.Exhaustion etched under his eyes.A pale scar cut through his eyebrow.Shadowed stubble across his jaw.Nothing monstrous.Nothing dramatic.He looked human—ordinary even—and the dissonance turned my stomach.
He reached for my left wrist.I jerked instinctively.The rope bit deeper.Pain flashed bright behind my eyes.I sucked in air through clenched teeth.
“Stop moving.”The tone didn’t rise or sharpen.“You’ll tear the skin worse.”
A laugh clawed its way up my throat but died before reaching air.He killed my family and warned me about damaged skin.I stared at him hard enough to make my vision wobble, but his expression didn’t shift.He didn’t tighten his grip or force the contact.He waited.Patient.Immovable.Eventually my muscles stopped fighting—not from agreement, but because gravity and rope left me nowhere to go.
His fingers closed around my wrist, steady, clinical.The antiseptic hit raw tissue and heat lanced through the abrasion.I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste iron and kept my body still.His other hand held my forearm in place, guiding rather than forcing.He worked like someone trained to keep a wound from turning septic.Efficient.Focused.Detached.
A tremor passed through his fingers when he began wrapping the gauze—small, but there.I memorized it.
He finished the left side, moved to the right, repeated the process step by step—no improvisation, no hesitation, no sign of conflict except the faint tremble he shut down as fast as it surfaced.When both wrists were wrapped, he leaned back on his heels and studied the bandages.The tremor returned for a breath before he yanked off the gloves and stuffed them into his pocket.He stood and turned away without a word.
He checked the windows next.One by one, he tested the shutters, confirmed each latch, brushed frost from the sill where snow sneaked through the cracks.The wind howled as if trying to claw inside, rattling the shutters hard enough that the entire wall shuddered.Snow piled against the glass, sealing us further from the world outside.
He inventoried food after that.Cans lined up by type.MREs stacked with labels forward.Water bottles counted and ordered in rows.He handled rations the same way he handled firearms—every item in its place, nothing assumed safe without confirmation.The cabin contained everything survival required and nothing else—rough table, mismatched chairs, a single cot, wood stacked near the hearth.No photographs, no personal objects, nothing that said anyone lived here by choice.
A safe house.Or a prison.
He crossed to a locked cabinet and withdrew a key from his pocket.Steel glinted when the door swung open.Rifles, handguns, ammunition boxes.He checked each weapon with deliberate care before locking the cabinet again.He didn’t glance at me during the process, but I felt surveillance anyway—like he tracked my every breath without needing to turn.
I tested the ropes again while his back faced the fire.The fabric bit into gauze and heat ignited under the bandages, but I kept pulling.The knots didn’t shift.He’d tied them with grim competence—tight enough to hold me, loose enough to preserve circulation.A functional restraint.A long-term restraint.
I let my hands settle and lifted my head.Gabriel stood across the room watching me.He hadn’t made a sound when he turned.I didn’t know how long he’d been looking.I didn’t know what he saw.
