I imagine he is too, although he keeps his face carefully blank.
We eat in silence for a while. The stew is bland but warm, and I force myself to eat slowly even though I want to devour it. My stomach has shrunk, and I know if I eat too fast, I'll just throw it up.
“How are your injuries?” he asks finally. “Does anything need to be patched up? Ointment, bandages?—”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine.” I touch my face gingerly. “I guess I should do something about these.” I motion to the injuries on my face. “I don’t want scars on my face if I can avoid it. Some of the others are a lost cause.”
“What about your feet?”
“I don’t think I got frostbite.” I turn sideways in the chair and lift up my leg to show him one foot, keenly aware of both how the shirt slides up my thigh with the motion and the delicate line of my leg and foot. It hasn’t been long enough for me to lose the muscle tone from years of dancing, yoga, and Pilates, but…
Then I remember the scars, as the firelight glints off my skin, scars that are so new that I sometimes still forget that my body is no longer the one I had before I was sold. They’re ugly, deep divots and twists of flesh across my otherwise beautiful limb, where the dogs tore at me before Grigory called them off and Iosef brought me back into the compound.
I jerk my leg back, self-consciously tucking it back under the table. But when I look at Kazimir, he doesn’t look disgusted. His pupils have blown dark, his jaw tight, his expression one of mingled hunger and rage that sends a buzzing of awareness through me.
“No,” he says finally, his voice low and rough. “It doesn’t look like you have frostbite.”
We finish eating in silence. Kazimir sets down his spoon and looks at me, our eyes meeting, and for a moment, neither of us moves. The air between us feels charged, heavy with everything we're not saying. With the past, and the present, with the sins he’s committed and the horrors that have happened to me, and the awareness of the fact that we’re alone here together until the storm passes.
He stands abruptly, turning away with the dishes in his hands. "You should rest more. We're not going anywhere until this storm clears." He walks back over to the woodstove, pouringsome water into a cup. “It’s just going to have to blow itself out eventually.”
I nod, swallowing hard. I could try to tease him more, push and flirt a little, but I’m too tired. I go back to the bed and lie down, pulling the blankets around me. My body is exhausted, and I close my eyes, wanting more sleep. More uninterrupted rest where no one will hurt me, wake me, or want anything from me.
Kazimir might want me, but right now, all I want is peace.
—
When I wake again,it's late afternoon. The light coming through the window is gray and dim, and the storm is still raging outside. Kazimir is back, sitting in his chair by the window, watching the snow fall.
"How long was I asleep?" I ask, my voice still rough with sleep.
"A few hours." He doesn't look at me. "The storm's not letting up. We're stuck here for at least another day."
Another day. Another day trapped in this small cabin with him, with this tension between us.
I sit up, trying not to wince at how badly it all hurts, and he finally looks at me. His expression is carefully neutral, but I can see the way he’s trying not to let his eyes linger on any one part of me for too long.
"Are you hungry?" he asks.
"A little."
He heats up more of the canned stew, and we eat together again. I watch him as he eats. He's attractive. I can admit that to myself. There's something compelling about him… the danger he represents, the violence he keeps leashed until it’s needed. He'sthe kind of man who could protect me or destroy me, and right now, I need his protection.
I don’t trust him, and I haven’t forgiven him, but I can admit I need him right now. And I can admit that flirting with him is far from the most terrible thing in the world.
After we eat, the afternoon stretches out with nothing to do but wait for the storm to pass. Kazimir maintains the fire, then, while I’m awake, finally lets himself doze off in one of the chairs, his gun in his lap. I watch him from the bed, wrapped in blankets, thinking about how to make sure my plan works.
I need to keep him interested. But I also need to be careful not to push too hard or too fast. If I'm too obvious, he'll see through it. If I'm too aggressive, he might pull back entirely. It's a delicate balance, and one I used to be skilled at… enticing men without ever letting them too close. I’m afraid I might have lost the trick of it.
When he goes to add wood to the fire, I let the blanket slip off my shoulder when I see him glance over. Just a little, enough to let him see the line of my collarbone where the top of the shirt is open. I see him notice. His eyes flicker to my exposed skin, then away.
"Cold?" His voice is flat as he looks back toward the fire.
"A little." I pull the blanket back up, slowly. "Thank you for keeping the fire going."
"It's nothing,” he repeats.
“It means a lot that you’re doing all this for me,” I say quietly, and he grunts, still staring at the fire and not at me.
