Now I’ve seen her when she’s not perfect, when everything is trying to break her down, and she’s still fighting to survive. I’ve seen how strong she is, how much fire there is in her, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"Stop staring at me," she hisses, her voice cutting through my thoughts.
I realize I've been standing here like an idiot, just looking at her. I force myself to focus on something else.
"I'm going to check the cabin. See what supplies we have."
I move to the shelves on the wall, examining what's there as Svetlana sinks onto the edge of the bed. We’re better off than I expected. There’s a decent bit of canned goods—mostly soups and stews, and some vegetables. There are a few jars of preserves, too, and a tin of coffee. I find some dried meat that's probably older than it should be but still edible, as well as matches, candles, and a kerosene lamp with some fuel.
Whoever uses this cabin keeps it stocked for emergencies. There's also a small cache of clothes in a wooden chest—heavy wool shirts, thick socks, a pair of pants that are too big for Svetlana but better than nothing. Hunters' gear.
I pull out a large, long-sleeved wool shirt and some socks and bring them to her. "Here. These will be warmer than that blanket."
She takes them without looking at me, clutching them to her chest. "Turn around."
I do, moving back to the stove to add more wood. I can hear her behind me, the rustle of fabric, her sharp breaths when movement pulls at her injuries. It takes everything I have not to turn around and offer help. Not to close the distance between us and?—
And what? She doesn't want me to touch her. She made that clear.
"You can look now," she says finally.
I turn. She's wearing one of the wool shirts, which hangs on her like a dress, falling almost to her knees. The thick socks make her feet look very small, and they’ve sunk down aroundher ankles, bunching adorably. She's still wrapped in the blanket over it all, huddling down in it.
But at least she's dry and somewhat warm now. That's something.
“I’m going to change, too,” I tell her. “Your turn to turn around.”
I try to say it with some humor, trying to make a joke out of all this, but she doesn’t even crack a smile. She just turns her back on me, staring at the door as I get out of my own wet pants and shirt, pulling on the hunters’ clothes that are slightly bigger than what I wear, but not so much as to be uncomfortable. It’s not my usual style—outdoor pants and a flannel checked wool shirt, but I’m just happy to be dry. I take all our clothes and lay them by the fire to dry out, then clear my throat.
"Sit down," I tell her, gesturing to the chair by the table. "I'll heat up some food."
She moves to the chair slowly, carefully, like every step hurts. Which it probably does. She sits down with a barely suppressed wince, pulling the blanket tighter around herself.
I find a dented pot on one of the shelves and open a can of stew—beef, according to the label, though it's probably more vegetables than meat. I set it on top of the stove to heat, then open another can and eat it cold while I wait. I'm hungry enough that I barely taste it. I hold it out to Svetlana after taking two mouthfuls, and she shakes her head, her lip curling slightly as she looks at the cold can. It occurs to me that she’s probably never been in conditions this rustic. The idea of eating generic-brand, congealed cold stew is probably as foul an idea to her as she can imagine.
It irritates me a little. It’s food, and we both need the calories. I polish it off, waiting for the rest of the stew to heat so that maybe she’ll deign to eat it.
The cabin is warming up now. The stove is doing its job, pushing heat into the small space, and it feels like fucking heaven after what we endured outside. I can see Svetlana starting to relax slightly, the violent shaking subsiding to occasional tremors.
"How are your feet?" I ask, glancing at her as I stir the stew.
"Fine." She isn’t looking at me.
I huff out a breath, her attitude grating on me. I know she’s lying. "That's bullshit. Let me see them."
"I said they're fine." Her voice is sharp, defensive. She turns her head to glare at me, her jaw set in a stubborn line I'm starting to recognize.
"You were walking through the snow barefoot. And I saw the state of that cell. Those cuts are going to get infected if we don't clean them."
She licks her lips nervously and then winces. They’re swollen and split from the beating Evan gave her, and the thought makes my jaw clench with anger. "I'll deal with it."
My jaw clenches tighter. I need to dosomething. The cold has decreased the swelling in her face, but it’s bruised and cut, and I can only imagine the state the rest of her is in. She needs to be tended to, and there’s no medical help in sight anytime soon. "When?” I snap. “After gangrene sets in?"
"I said I'll deal with it." She shifts in the chair, pulling her feet up under her. "I don't need you to take care of me."
The frustration that's been building since we got here finally boils over.
"You know what your problem is?" I say, my voice harder than I intend. "You're so used to living rich that you don't know how to survive without everything being handed to you. You don’t even know how to ask for help because you’ve probably never had to in your fucking life.”
