The night air tastes like iron. Even in the cold, the forest smells of smoke and blood, echoes of gunfire still ricocheting inside my skull. We abandoned the car half a mile back after the tires couldn’t take the ice.
Now we walk, boots crunching through snow and dirt, the world around us silent except for the faint hiss of wind through the trees.
I keep a few paces ahead of Alexei. The space feels necessary, even after everything. My thoughts are a storm: Igor’s sneer before Alexei pulled the trigger, the way the elders scattered like rats, the sight of Misha bleeding in the backseat.
He’s fine now, probably, receiving medical attention.
Still, every detail clings to me like smoke.
I want to say something—anything—to cut through the silence. A sharp remark, a plan for what comes next, maybe even some scrap of relief that Igor is gone. The words form in my mouth as I turn my head, ready to throw them back at Alexei.
Then the crack splits the night.
The sound is unmistakable, louder than the memory of all the shots that came before. A single gun, close. My body jerks as if struck by lightning, heat blooming sudden and violent in my side. The force knocks the air from my lungs, and for a heartbeat I don’t understand. My voice catches, breaks, but no scream comes.
Pain floods in slow, sickening waves. Fire burning outward from the point of impact, ripping through nerves, seizing my muscles until I stagger. My knees buckle. The snow rushes up toward me, the cold shocking against my palms as I hit the ground.
My ears are ringing, my breath sharp and uneven. I raise my hand to my shoulder instinctively, and it comes away slick, warm, red even in the darkness.
I’ve been shot.
The realization crashes through me with the same brutality as the bullet. A sob rips from my throat, half pain, half fury. My body trembles, vision narrowing. I can hear movement behind us, boots on ice. One of Igor’s men, not dead, not finished. He’s here, and he’s still firing.
Another shot cracks against the trees. Bark explodes inches from my face, showering me with splinters. I try to push myself up, to crawl, but my body won’t obey. My side screams with every breath, blood spilling faster through my fingers no matter how hard I press.
Through the haze, I see Alexei.
He’s already moving, a shadow breaking into full speed. His gun flashes in his hand, his voice rough, guttural, shouting words I can’t process. He fires into the trees, each shot reverberating through the ground beneath me. I can hear him roar, raw and violent, the sound more animal than human.
I try to call out to him, to tell him I’m here, I’m bleeding, I’m slipping away.
The words choke in my throat. My mouth opens, no sound comes. My vision swims, doubling, black at the edges.
The snow is so cold beneath me, but my body burns. Pain is everywhere, so sharp I can’t separate it from myself. My heart beats erratic, too fast, then too weak.
I see Alexei’s face finally: close now, his eyes wide, gray and wild with panic. He drops to his knees beside me, one hand shoving against my wound, the other still gripping his gun.His mouth moves, shouting my name, curses, promises, maybe prayers, but the sound is muffled, distant, like water in my ears.
I want to tell him not to let go. I want to tell him I’m not afraid.
But the darkness presses harder, heavier.
Gunfire still cracks somewhere close, the battle unfinished, the forest alive with chaos. Yet all I can see is Alexei above me, his bloodied hands on my body, his mouth forming words I can’t hear.
The world narrows to nothing but his face—and then it slips away.
The darkness takes me before I can fight it.
***
I wake to pain. It’s sharp, hot, and all-consuming, pulling me from the dark like claws dragging me up from the depths. My first breath rattles, too shallow, and the second burns all the way down. I try to move, but the fire in my shoulder makes me gasp and freeze.
The air smells of smoke and wood, but stronger still is the sterile sting of vodka-soaked bandages. My lashes flutter open, and the world swims into focus. I’m in a small room: bare walls, a single lamp throwing yellow light, curtains drawn tight against the night outside. The mattress beneath me is thin, covered with old sheets, but it’s a bed, not the snow.
And beside me, Alexei.
He kneels on the floor, one knee pressed to the worn rug, his sleeves rolled high. His hands—broad, scarred, lethal—move with a care that unsettles me more than any violence ever could. He’s unwrapping the bandage, checking the wound with a focus so absolute it makes my chest ache.
The bullet didn’t tear through me as I’d thought in the blur of agony. It grazed my shoulder, a clean shot but deep enough to drain every ounce of strength from me. Still, it could have been worse.
