Svetlana has collapsed just inside the door, sitting in a heap on the wooden floor. She's still shaking, her arms wrapped around herself.
"We need to get you out of those wet clothes." I start to move toward her, but she flinches away from me before I can touch her.
"Don't," she whispers. Her voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, but the word is sharp. Final.
I stop, frustration flaring hot in my chest. "You're soaked through. You need to get dry, or you're going to die of hypothermia."
"I'll do it myself." She's already trying to stand, using the wall for support. Her hands are shaking so badly that she can barely grip the rough wood.
"You can barely stand up."
"I said I'll do it myself." She gets to her feet through sheer force of will, swaying dangerously. "Don't touch me."
The words sting more than they should. I know why she's saying them. I can guess at some of what she's been through, what those men did to her, and it’s probably worse than that. Of course, she doesn't want to be touched.
But I still hate hearing those words from her lips, and I feel a burn of anger and hurt in my chest. I carried her through all that snow, and she won’t let me help her with this.
"Fine," I growl, my voice flat. "Freeze to death if you want. I'm going to get a fire started."
I turn away from her, focusing on the stove. It's old but well-maintained, which means this cabin hasn’t been abandoned for long. Hopefully, the owners don’t decide to show up. A good woodstove can mean the difference between life and death out here in the cold, so I’d hoped it would still work, and I’m rewarded with that, at least. There's even a small stack of wood beside it, dry and ready. Someone's been here within the last year or so.
I can hear Svetlana behind me. There’s the sound of wet fabric peeling away from skin, and then her sharp intake of breath when the cold air hits her damp, bare flesh. I feel a pulse of heat at the thought of her naked behind me, feet away, but I don’t turn around. She deserves her privacy.
I realize there’s nothing for her to put on, and I bite the inside of my cheek, trying not to picture her walking around the cabin naked. “Look for a blanket,” I say after a moment. “Take one off the bed if you need to. I’ll get a fire going and warm us up. This cabin is small enough it should heat the whole place.”
I open the stove and check inside. It’s clean, with no blockages in the chimney pipe. I arrange kindling in the firebox, then pull out my lighter—waterproof, thank fuck—and get itgoing. The kindling catches quickly, and I add small pieces of wood, building it up carefully.
The fire grows, and with it comes light. Warm, flickering light that pushes back the darkness and makes the cabin feel almost welcoming. As if we could be out here camping instead of running for our lives. The flicker of the flame is pleasant and meditative, and I can feel exhaustion tugging at me, reminding me that I’ve been up all night. The vodka has long since worn off, leaving me only tired and drained, with a headache from that and the cold and physical exertion.
I add larger pieces of wood and close the stove door, adjusting the damper. Within minutes, I can feel the heat starting to radiate out.
Only then do I turn around.
Svetlana has managed to get out of her wet clothes. The thin, dirty slip is tossed over one of the chairs, and I feel my throat go tight at the thought of her peeling it off. The snow-soaked blanket is draped over the table, and she must have found another blanket, because she has one that looks like thick wool wrapped around her. She’s holding it tightly closed, her knuckles white, her hair lank around her face.
And even like this—filthy, exhausted, half-frozen, wrapped in a moth-eaten blanket—she's beautiful.
The thought hits me like a fist to the gut.
I tried to force myself to forget how much I wanted her. I spent a long time telling myself it didn’t matter, that she was just a beautiful woman in a world full of them. That I'd never see her again, so it didn't matter what I'd felt.
But I haven’t forgotten. And standing there wrapped in the blanket, in need of a bath and on the verge of passing out, I realize she’s still just as beautiful to me as she was in champagne silk, with her hair done and her lips painted red.
She looked like a queen that night. Like she belonged in that ballroom with all those powerful, dangerous men. And I wanted her.
I can remember clearly how much I wanted her, in a way that I can’t remember some of the women that I’ve actually slept with. But it didn’t matter. Wanting her was impossible and inappropriate. She was going to be Ilya's wife. She was untouchable.
I've had women before. Plenty of them. I knew what desire felt like. But what I felt that night was different.
I watched her all night. I couldn't help it. I watched the way she smiled at Ilya, the way she let him touch her—his hand at the small of her back, his lips brushing her temple as they danced. I watched the way she held herself, that perfect posture that never wavered even as the night wore on. It didn’t matter if she was tired. No one would ever know, I realized. She would be perfect in front of all of them, for as long as she needed to be.
I told myself it meant nothing. That I needed to get my shit together and stop thinking about my boss's future—and then later, actual fiancée—like she was anything other than off-limits.
I thought I'd succeeded. After the engagement fell apart, after she disappeared, I thought I'd buried it. Out of sight, out of mind. I had other things to focus on. Other jobs. Other women.
But I clearly was lying to myself all that time.
Because standing here now, looking at her wrapped in that blanket with her hair hanging in wet tangles around her face, with bruises on her skin and exhaustion in her eyes—I want her just as much as I did then. Maybe more.
