“You really think they’ll find us in this storm?” My chest clenches with anxiety. I just want to feel safe again. It’s been so long since I felt even a little bit safe.
“Probably not. There was nothing all night.” He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck, avoiding meeting my gaze entirely. "But I'm not taking chances with your life."
Your life.Notour lives.As if his doesn't matter as much.
I encourage myself to sit up slowly, the blanket falling to my waist. I'm still wearing the wool shirt, and it's ridden up during the night, exposing my thighs. I see his gaze flicker down, just for a second, before he looks away.
Interesting.
“Do you want a bath?” he asks abruptly. “If you don’t want me to help clean your wounds, you need to at least bathe, so that nothing gets infected. Or to lessen the chance, at least,” he adds, his gaze sweeping over me.
My face warms, and I feel a flush of embarrassment. It’s not as if Iwantto be dirty, as if Ichoseto be kept in squalor, and hisattitude irritates me. “Am I supposed to take a cold bath?” I fire back, and he raises an eyebrow.
“No,” he says simply. “I’ll heat up water. There’s a tub behind that curtain over there. Just an old clawfoot, but it’ll do. But first, breakfast.”
He stands up, a little stiffly, and goes to the woodstove. I watch him move, noting how tired he is. He needs to rest, but I wonder if he’ll allow himself to. How long he could stay awake before sleep took him instead of the other way around. He gets water, tears open a couple of packets, and pours them into the pot, then stirs it wordlessly as I sit there, feeling an odd tension in the air.
After a few minutes, he brings me a mug and a spoon with what looks like overly thick oatmeal in it. I take it from him without saying anything, keeping my thoughts to myself. It’s not something I would have ever eaten in my past life, but it’s food, and Iamgrateful for it, even if I’m not particularly enjoying the… rustic nature of all of this.
He walks to the table, still silent, and leans against it as he shovels his own oatmeal into his mouth efficiently, sets his mug down, and heads outside without a word.
I realize a few minutes later that he’s bringing in buckets of snow to melt for a bath.
“I…” I clear my throat, trying to think of a way to say this that doesn’t make me sound like aprincess. “You’re melting snow for me to take a bath?”
Kazimir straightens and looks at me, his expression so flat that I have no idea what he’s thinking. “I’m not sure how long we’re going to be stuck here,” he says finally. “We need the other water for drinking and cooking. Can’t use it for a bath. We can melt snow to drink and boil it if we have to, but it’s not the best idea.”
Oh.That makes sense. I nod, shifting uncomfortably in the bed. “I was just… curious.”
He makes a noncommittal grunt and goes back to what he was doing before.
Despite everything I’ve been through in the past months, I feel sheltered and silly, watching him. I don’t know anything about surviving like this, and I suddenly feel woefully unprepared for, well… everything.
But it’s not my fault. None of this is. I grew up in fucking Boston. I’m not supposed to know that we shouldn’t melt snow to drink unless we absolutely have to.
I watch him, feeling irritated and uncomfortable, but despite how put out I am, I’m finding it hard to look away.
It’s clear he’s done this before—survived in places like this, taken care of himself in harsh conditions. The way he moves, his competence, even his ruggedness, is oddly compelling.
Kazimir has always been handsome. I noticed that the first time I met him was at the engagement party. Ilya was beautiful in a refined way—strong, elegant features, a lean body wrapped in expensive suits, with a demeanor that always oozed both danger and money. But Kazimir was always different. Rougher. More dangerous.
I remember watching him that night, while I danced with Ilya, seeing the way he watched the room, cataloging everyone there for possible threats. He practically hummed with danger. He looked as if he’d feel hot to the touch. As if putting a hand on him might mean you’d get bitten.
I thought I’d caught him looking at me that night… and other nights, too, the longer I was with Ilya. I always told myself I was imagining it.
But I wasn’t. I can see it now, in the way he won't quite meet my eyes, the tension in his shoulders when he's near me, that hungry look he can't quite hide.
Kazimir Orlov wants me.
And I hate him for abandoning me in that warehouse, for walking away when Ilya told him to, and leaving me to the fate that eventually found me. But I'm also smart enough to recognize an opportunity when I see one.
If he wants me, I can use that. I can make sure he doesn't abandon me again. I can string him along, keep him invested in keeping me alive, and getting me to safety.
I don't have to actually give him anything. I just have to make him think I might.
It's manipulative. From a certain point of view, some might even say it’s cruel, depending on whether his desire has emotion behind it or is purely lustful. But after what I've been through, after what men have taken from me, I don't particularly care about being kind. Kazimir made his choices. Now he can live with the consequences.
One of those consequences is that I’ll never trust him again. But I can use him.
