Kolya pulls his gun out.
I hold my breath.
Above us, someone mentions character development.
Another person references a title I recognize, thatNYTbestseller everyone’s been gushing about that’s currently gathering dust on my nightstand.
I exhale. “They’re having a book club meeting. Though it’s going a little late, so they’re probably mostly drinking by now.” On a holiday weekend, no less. I guess book club stops for nothing.
Kolya doesn’t respond, but tension leaves his body. He remains vigilant, prowling the edges of the basement like a caged predator. His eyes reflect tiny pinpricks of light from somewhere, giving him an almost supernatural appearance in the gloom.
“Sit.” He gestures to a discarded weight bench.
My limbs obey of their own accord. The metal is cold even through my jeans. Overhead, Brenda laughs again and suggests more wine.
Kolya crouches in front of me. “Are you hurt?”
The words are so ingrained, they come out before I can think. “I’m fine.”
“No. You’re not.” His hands inspect me, clinically and thoroughly. He squeezes my arms gently while examining my face in the semidarkness. His fingers trail down my legs to my bare feet.
The basement is cramped and forgotten. Old furniture draped in sheets. Cardboard boxes labeled in neat handwriting.CHRISTMAS. HALLOWEEN. FAMILY PHOTOS.
An iron fist crushes my ribs. “We’re trapped down here.”
“We’re hidden. There’s a difference.”
“What if they find us?” I hate how small and weak I sound. “What if?—”
Kolya cups my face. “They won’t.” His thumbs caress my cheekbones, smudging away tears. “I won’t let them.”
His confidence soothes the ragged edges inside me, filling the spaces torn open by bullets and fear.
I shiver. “I don’t understand any of this. I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“You don’t need to.” His warm breath ghosts my lips. “Just trust me.”
Trust him. The man who lied and hurt others to protect me. The man whose hands are the only real thing left in a world gone mad.
“I—”
I swallow the rest when footsteps thump overhead. Voices filter down through the ceiling. Brenda’s friends and probablyfamily move around the home, completely unaware of the fugitives hiding beneath their feet.
Kolya’s body tenses. His head tilts upward as he listens. One hand slides from my face to my waist and tugs me closer to him. A protective—or maybe possessive—gesture.
We remain frozen in the dim light. His heart pumps strong and steady beneath my palm resting on his chest. Mine races like a frightened rabbit’s.
His hand strokes my back, the soothing rhythm at odds with the danger surrounding us. “Breathe. Slowly. Like me.”
The gentle tone startles me.
This isn’t the man who broke bones at the farmers market and Hobby Hut.
I focus on the rise and fall of his chest, striving to match my breathing to his. The panic recedes a tiny bit. Just enough. I lift my face to his, seeking…what? Reassurance? Understanding?
His glittering eyes meet mine. “I’ll keep you safe.”
And then he’s kissing me.
