"How do you know it's safe?" His voice is low, curious rather than challenging.
"There's a test." I pluck a leaf and demonstrate, my fingers moving through the steps I memorized years ago. "You rub it on your inner wrist first, wait fifteen minutes to see if there's a reaction. Then touch it to your lips, wait again. If there's no burning or swelling, you can try a small piece and wait a few hours."
His hand catches mine, stilling my movements. "You've already done this test?"
I nod, trying to ignore the way his thumb presses against my pulse point, surely feeling the way my heart hammers beneath my skin. "Yesterday, while you were fishing. I tested several plants near the spring."
Something flickers across his face. Concern, maybe, or frustration that I took a risk without telling him. But he doesn't lecture me, doesn't try to assert authority he doesn't have here. Instead, he releases my hand and mimics my movements, plucking a leaf with surprising gentleness.
Those scarred knuckles, evidence of violence I can only imagine, handle the delicate plant with the precision of a surgeon. The contrast makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.
We spend the next hour foraging, and I show him which plants are safe, which are questionable, and which will kill you if you're stupid enough to ingest them. He listens with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness, his full attention focusedon every word I say. This is a man accustomed to command, to having others defer to his expertise and authority. Yet here, he submits to mine without ego, without the need to prove he knows better.
Something about that submission of power makes my pulse quicken in ways that have nothing to do with survival.
"You're good at this," he says as we make our way back toward the beach, our arms full of edible plants. "Teaching."
"I run cooking classes sometimes," I admit. "Or I did, before…" I trail off, not wanting to finish that sentence. Before the yacht party. Before the storm. Before my entire life got turned upside down by this man walking beside me.
"You'll run them again." It's not a question, just a statement of fact delivered with absolute certainty. As if he can see a future I'm not sure exists anymore.
We work side by side to improve our shelter, reinforcing weak points and adding layers of palm fronds to better protect against rain. The work is hot, exhausting, but there's something almost meditative about it. Something that feels dangerously close to domestic.
That's when he starts reciting poetry.
The Russian flows from his lips like music, the words foreign but beautiful, his accent thickening until I can barely hear the English underneath. He weaves palm fronds as he speaks, his hands moving with practiced efficiency, and I find myself mesmerized by the contrast. This cultured man is quoting Pushkin while building a shelter on a deserted island, the serpent tattoo on his neck seeming to move with each breath.
"What does it mean?" I ask when he pauses.
His eyes meet mine, and something in their depths makes my stomach clench. "'I loved you, and perhaps I love you still. The flame, perhaps, is not extinguished; yet it burns so quietly within my soul, no longer should you feel distressed by it.'"
The words hang between us, heavy with meaning I'm not ready to examine. I force myself to look away, to focus on the palm frond in my hands rather than the way his gaze makes my skin flush with heat.
"You know a lot about Russian literature," I say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.
"My mother loved poetry." His voice softens fractionally. "Before she disappeared, she used to recite it while she cooked. Pushkin, Akhmatova, Tsvetaeva. I didn't understand half of it as a child, but the sound of her voice…" He trails off, and I see something vulnerable flicker across his face before his mask slams back into place.
I want to ask about his mother, about the life that created the man beside me, but the moment passes. He shifts the conversation to Repin's paintings, discussing the symbolism inIvan the Terrible and His Sonwith the ease of someone who's spent hours in museums. The cognitive dissonance makes my head spin. This is the same man whose Google search revealed alleged organized crime, violence, and a world so dark I can barely comprehend it. Yet here he is, discussing art and poetry like a professor rather than a predator.
By afternoon, we've established a rhythm that feels almost comfortable. He gathers firewood while I prepare the plants we foraged, and when he makes a dry observation about oursituation, something about how we're living like our ancestors but with worse hygiene, I find myself laughing, actually laughing, the sound startling in its genuineness.
He looks up at the sound, his expression shifting into something I can't quite identify. Surprise, maybe. Or pleasure that he made me laugh. The moment stretches between us, charged with an awareness that makes my pulse hammer in my throat.
I force myself to look away, to focus on the task at hand. This is survival, nothing more. The fact that I'm noticing the play of muscles beneath his skin as he works, the way the tropical sun has bronzed his shoulders, the precise movements of his hands, means nothing. It's just biology, just my body responding to proximity and adrenaline and the strange intimacy of our situation.
I almost believe the lie.
"We should check the tide pools," I say, needing to break the tension crackling between us. "See if we can find shellfish or crabs."
Nikolai nods and follows me toward the rocky outcroppings on the northern shore. The tide is low, exposing pools teeming with life, and I lose myself in the familiar comfort of foraging. This, at least, I understand. The ocean has always made sense to me in ways people never have.
I'm so focused on searching for edible creatures that I don't notice Nikolai has waded into the shallows until I hear the splash.
I look up, and my breath catches in my throat.
He stands knee-deep in the crystal-clear water, his body absolutely still, his eyes fixed on something beneath the surface. The sunlight catches the water droplets on his skin, making him look almost ethereal, but there's nothing soft about his posture. He's coiled tension, a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Then his hands move.
