6
KAZIMIR
The storm is dying.
I watch through the space in the boarded-up window as the wind goes from a howl to a whisper, and the snow that's been falling in thick curtains thins to scattered flakes. The sky is lightening too—not dawn quite yet, but the gray that comes just before it. In another hour, maybe less, visibility will be good enough that if Iosef and his men are out, they’ll be able to see the smoke from our woodstove.
I check my watch. It’s almost four a.m. Svetlana is sleeping soundly on the bed; despite her distaste for the rusticness of all of it, she’s slept well since we’ve been here. I’m not sure her body would let her do anything else. She desperately needed the rest and to heal.
She looks softer like this, curled up on her side with one hand tucked under her cheek. I know I shouldn’t be sitting here just watching her sleep, but it’s hard not to. The hard edges she's developed—the wariness, the calculation—all of it smooths away when she’s like this, leaving behind the woman I remember from that party two years ago.
The woman I couldn't stop thinking about, even when I should have been focused on the job.
I'm still not focused on the job. Which is a problem.
I should be thinking tactically. Planning our route to the safehouse, calculating the risks, preparing for contingencies. Instead, I'm thinking about the way she looked at me earlier, wearing that oversized shirt with the top buttons undone that could have been one of mine. The way she'd positioned herself, all that pale skin on display, testing me. Trying to figure out if she could use my attraction to her as leverage.
She could. That's what pisses me off.
I'm not some green kid who can't control himself around a beautiful woman. I've been doing this work for all of my adult life. I've seduced targets, extracted information, and played whatever roles Ilya needed me to. I know how to separate what I want from what I need to do.
But with Svetlana, those lines keep blurring.
Maybe it's because I knew her before, because I wanted her when she was Ilya's, when touching her would have been the ultimate betrayal. Maybe it's because I left her behind once, and I'm trying to make up for it. Or maybe it's simpler than that—maybe I just want her, and all these rationalizations are bullshit.
It doesn’t matter. I still can’t have her. I can’teverhave her.
And I shouldn’t want her.
I busy myself by checking my gun, counting how much ammo I have left. Not as much as I’d like, given what we’re up against, but it’ll have to do. I have my knife, strapped to my thigh, and what’s left in the emergency pack from the SUV—a first aid kit, some protein bars, a thermal blanket, and matches. I can take some of what’s in the cabin, but I won’t be able to fit much in there.
I glance toward the window again as I pull the chamber back on my gun, and what I see makes my blood freeze in my veins despite the warmth of the cabin.
Lights. Small, flickering lights, coming through the filtered haze of the slowing snow.
Fuck.
I cross the room in three strides, shaking Svetlana awake with my hand on her shoulder. She bolts upright, eyes wide and frightened, and I press my hand over her mouth before she can make a sound.
"They're close," I say quietly. "We need to move. Now."
She nods, and I take my hand away. She climbs out of bed as quickly as she can, wincing in pain, and I push a pair of the hunters’ boots over to her with three pairs of thick wool socks.
“They’re too big for you, but the socks will help. You can’t go out there barefoot again. Put on some of the pants too, and we’ll find something to keep them up with. And layer a sweater over that shirt.
Svetlana grabs more clothes out of the chest, and I quickly avert my eyes as she pulls the pants on, pushing the shirt up around her waist. She shoves it down into the pants, yanks a belt through the loops, and ties it off, then rolls the waistband around it until the pants seem like they might stay up. When I look at her again, she looks like a fucking model wearing some designer’s attempt at fashion via oversized men’s clothing.
God, if only she weren’t so fucking gorgeous.We’re on the verge of discovery, and all I can think about for a split second is how hard my cock is the moment I look at her.
Fucking hell, Kaz, get it together.
She’s moving as quickly as she can, yanking on pair after pair of socks and shoving her feet into the boots, lacing them up tightly and wrapping the laces around the ankles. I look ather quizzically. She hasn’t shown the slightest inclination toward survival skills before this.
“How on earth do you know how to?—”
“Fashion,” she says bluntly, and yanks a sweater over her head, her groan of pain muffled by the wool.
By the time I’ve gathered our things, she has my jacket on, the throw blanket we pulled out of the car bundled around her neck and down into it like an oversized scarf, gloves on, and a thick beanie pulled down over her ears. I find another pair of gloves, a beanie, and a sweater in the chest, and yank them all on, then my parka, before shouldering the pack and looking at her, my gun in my hand.
