We move through the scrubby vegetation in tense silence, and I force myself to focus on the practical tasks that have kept us alive. Identify suitable wood. Check for dryness. Avoid the thorny bushes that leave scratches on our skin. Simple. Methodical. Safe.
But my mind keeps circling back to the way his hand cupped my jaw, the hunger in his gaze, the solid warmth of his body pressed against mine. The way he kissed me like I was air and he was drowning, like nothing else in the world mattered except that moment, that connection.
I know who he is. What he is.
The internet search before the yacht party revealed enough to terrify any rational person. Nikolai Alekseev doesn't just break laws. He operates outside them entirely, in a world where violence is currency and mercy is weakness. The articles painted a picture of a man who built an empire on calculated brutality, who commands absolute loyalty through fear and respect in equal measure.
I should be planning my escape. Should be maintaining distance, protecting myself from the inevitable moment when his true nature surfaces. Should be remembering that the man who quotes Pushkin is the same man whose background check mentioned alleged murders, territory disputes, and a darkness I can barely comprehend.
Except on this island, those distinctions blur like watercolors in rain.
The man who defers to my expertise without ego, who took the impact with the rocks to shield my body, who listens when I teach him about edible plants like my knowledge matters more than his power, doesn't match the monster from those search results. Here, stripped of his empire and his reputation, he's just Nikolai. A man who lost his mother too young. A man who knows poetry and art. A man whose walls are as thick as mine, built from different traumas but serving the same purpose.
Protection. Isolation. Survival.
"Here." Nikolai's voice cuts through my thoughts. He's found a fallen palm frond, dry enough to burn well, and he holds it out to me.
Our fingers brush as I take it, and electricity arcs between us. His breath catches. My pulse hammers. We stand frozen, hands touching over a piece of dead wood, and I feel the careful walls I've built around my heart beginning to crack.
"Aria." My name on his lips sounds like a prayer and a curse all at once. "About what happened before?—"
"We don't have to talk about it." The words come out too quickly, defensive. "It was just… adrenaline. The storm, the stress, being stranded. It didn't mean anything."
His jaw tightens, and something flashes in his eyes that might be hurt or might be anger. "Didn't it?"
I force myself to look away, to focus on the firewood in my arms. "We barely know each other."
"I know you jumped into a storm-tossed ocean to save my life." His voice drops to something rough and intimate. "I know you're stubborn and independent, and you'd rather do everything yourself than ask for help. I know you love your sister even though she disappoints you. I know you taste like salt and smoke and something I can't get enough of."
Heat floods my cheeks, and my traitorous body responds to his words with a hunger that terrifies me. "That's not knowing someone. That's just… observation."
"Then tell me." He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. "Tell me who you are, Aria Levin. Tell me why you work yourself to exhaustion for a business that barely breaks even. Tell me why you sacrifice everything for a sister who keeps breaking your heart."
The questions hit like physical blows, exposing truths I've never spoken aloud. "Because it's mine. The business is mine. I built it from nothing, and it's the one thing in my life that belongs entirely to me. And Maya…" My voice cracks on her name. "Maya is all I have left of my family. I can't give up on her, even when I should."
"That's not weakness." His hand lifts to my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone with devastating gentleness. "That's love."
"Love is complicated." I lean into his touch despite every instinct screaming at me to pull away. "Love makes you vulnerable. Makes you do stupid things." I don't miss how ironic my words are. He'd pretty much said the same thing earlier, and I defended it. Now I'm flipping roles on the topic.
"Yes." His lips curve into something that might be a smile. "It does."
We stand there, caught in the gravity of each other, and I realize we're not talking about Maya anymore. Maybe we never were. The air between us feels charged, heavy with possibilities and dangers in equal measure.
"We should get back," I whisper, but I don't move.
"We should." He doesn't move either.
When we finally return to our shelter, arms full of firewood, the sun has set completely. Stars blaze overhead in impossible numbers, and I lose myself in the familiar rhythm of building up the fire, arranging the wood just so, coaxing flames from embers. Nikolai settles across from me, and I feel his gaze tracking my movements with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
"You're good at this," he says. "Surviving."
"I've had practice." I poke at the fire with a stick, watching sparks spiral into the darkness. "When my mom died, I had to figure out how to keep us afloat. How to pay bills, buy groceries, and ensure Maya gets to school. You learn to be resourceful when failure isn't an option."
"You were seventeen."
"Old enough." But my voice quavers on the words, betraying the lie. I wasn't old enough. Wasn't ready. But I did it anyway because there was no one else.
"That's why you're so independent." It's not a question, just an observation delivered with the same analytical precisionhe probably uses to run his empire. "You learned early that depending on others means disappointment."
