The sound of the engines fades, moving away from us. They're searching in the wrong direction. We have time.
Not much. But enough.
I look at Svetlana. Her face is flushed from the cold and the exertion, her eyes bright. She's breathing hard, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
"You okay?" I ask quietly.
"I'm alive." She manages a shaky smile. "That's something, right?"
"We're not out of this yet." I peer out of the hollow, checking for movement. "They'll figure out where we went eventually. We need to keep moving."
She lets out a slow breath. It frosts in the air in front of her. “There’s no other choice, right?”
"No." I offer her my hand. "But I'll be with you. Every step."
She takes my hand, and I pull her to her feet. For a moment, we're close again, that electric charge crackling between us. Her eyes meet mine, and I can see the question still lingering there.
Why are you doing this?
I don't have an answer. Not one that makes sense.
So I just squeeze her hand once, then let go.
"Let's move.”
The sun is fully up now, bright and cold. The snow glitters like diamonds over the frozen surface of the stream, and behind us, I can still hear the faint sound of engines, searching.
They won't give up. Iosef won't let them.
But neither will I. I made a promise, and I'm going to keep it.
Even if it kills me.
7
SVETLANA
The safe house isn't what I expected.
It's not another hunting cabin, some ramshackle shelter barely holding together. It's a proper house—small, but solid. There’s a stone foundation, a reinforced door, windows with actual curtains. There's a generator humming somewhere, providing electricity and heat.
This is a place meant for exactly what we’re doing. And while the fact that we’ve found another shelter is comforting, it also makes my skin crawl. It feels almost planned. Like Kazimir might have known I was there. Like maybe something else is going on.
"Inside," Kazimir says, his hand on my lower back, guiding me through the door. I'm too exhausted to pull away and too cold to care about the touch. He’s touched me multiple times today—his hand in mine, his arm around me, holding me up, pulling me along, trying to comfort me.
A part of me has liked it more than I should.
The interior of the safe house is surprisingly cozy. There’s a main living room with a small kitchenette off of it, and doors leading to what I assume are a bedroom and bathroom. There’s acomfortable-looking couch, a sideboard with dishes, cupboards that, when Kazimir crosses the room to them, I see are stocked with shelf-stable foods.
It’s clean and organized, like it was just waiting for us to be here. And he knew where it was.
Has he been planning something? The thought comes to me again, making my stomach knot with a feeling of low dread.
"Sit," Kazimir says, gesturing to the couch. "I need to make some calls."
I sink onto the cushions, my body screaming in protest. My feet feel as if they’re broken, my leg muscles on the verge of seizing up from the running and the cold. My hands are scraped raw. Everything hurts.
But my mind won't stop racing.
