He twisted at the last second before we hit the rocks. I felt it happen, felt his body shift to shield mine, and now blood seeps from a gash above his temple, mixing with the rain that still pelts down in sheets. The sight of it makes my stomach clench with something that feels dangerously close to panic. I press trembling fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse, and relief floods through me so intensely, it makes my knees weak when I find it. Strong. Steady. Alive.
But his skin is cold. Too cold. The kind of cold that speaks of hypothermia and death if I don't act fast.
The storm is already moving on, its fury spent, leaving behind a gray dawn that reveals the full scope of our situation. We're on an island, that much is clear. Rocky outcroppings dominate the shore where we washed up, black volcanic stone worn smooth by centuries of waves. Beyond the narrow beach, scrubby vegetation clusters in defiance of the salt spray, and I can make out the silhouettes of stunted palms inland. No buildings. No boats. No sign of civilization anywhere.
We're alone.
The realization should terrify me more than it does, but shock has wrapped itself around my brain like cotton, muffling everything except the immediate need to survive. I force myself to move, to think past the trembling in my limbs and the way my teeth chatter so hard, my jaw aches. Hypothermia will kill us as surely as drowning if I don't get us warm and dry.
My chef's whites cling to my body like a second skin, heavy and restrictive. I peel them off with shaking hands, wringing out the fabric until water streams onto the stones. The sports bra and underwear beneath are soaked through as well, but I leave them on. There are limits to practicality, lines I'm not ready to cross even in a survival situation.
Nikolai's jacket comes off next, the expensive fabric ruined beyond repair by salt water and violence. I work carefully around the gash on his temple, trying not to jostle him too much, and my fingers brush against the solid warmth of his chest beneath the soaked dress shirt. The contact sends an unwelcome jolt through me, awareness I have no business feeling. I yank my hands back as if burned, then force myself to continue. This is survival. Nothing more.
His shirt is harder to remove, requiring me to lift his torso and maneuver the fabric over his shoulders. That's when I see them. Tattoos cover his right arm from shoulder to wrist, intricate designs that tell stories I can't read. A serpent winds down his neck, disappearing beneath his collar, and I find myself tracing its path with my eyes before catching myself. This is not the time to notice how the ink emphasizes the definition of his muscles, how his body is a study in controlled power, even while unconscious and vulnerable.
I force myself to look away, to focus on wringing out his shirt and laying it across a rock to dry. The morning sun is starting to burn through the storm's remnants, and I send up a silent prayer of gratitude for small mercies.
Fresh water. We need fresh water. The thought cuts through my scattered focus with crystalline clarity. I scan the tree line and spot what I'm looking for, a dark stain on the rocks that suggests seepage. My legs shake as I make my way toward it, exhaustion threatening to pull me down with every step, but I push through. The trickle is small but steady, clean water bubbling up from some underground spring. I cup my hands and drink deeply, the mineral taste strange but not unpleasant, then fill my palms again and carry the precious liquid back to where Nikolai lies.
The gash above his temple has stopped bleeding, but dried blood crusts his skin and mats his hair. I use the water to clean it as gently as I can, my fingers trembling against his face. His bone structure is sharp, all angles and planes that speak of aristocratic heritage mixed with something harder. There's a small scar near his left eyebrow, another along his jaw, evidence of a violent life.
His eyelids flutter as I work, and my breath catches. Those ice-blue eyes open slowly, unfocused and confused, and I watch awareness return in stages. First confusion, then pain, then asharp assessment of our surroundings that speaks to instincts honed by years of survival. He tries to sit up, his body moving with automatic efficiency despite obvious disorientation.
"Don't." My hand presses against his chest before I can think better of it, and the solid warmth of him beneath my palm sends electricity arcing through my nerve endings. His heart beats steady and strong, and I'm suddenly hyperaware of how little clothing separates us, of the intimacy of this moment. "You hit your head. You need to stay still."
His gaze sharpens, focusing on my face with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness. I should move my hand. Should put distance between us. But I don't. I can't seem to make my body obey the commands my brain is frantically issuing.
"The yacht?" His voice is rough, his accent thicker than I remember, each word carefully formed as if his tongue isn't quite cooperating.
"Gone." The single word feels inadequate to describe the violence of what happened, the way the storm swallowed the Tsaritsa like it was nothing. "We washed up here. I don't know where here is."
He processes this information with visible effort, his eyes never leaving mine. There's something in his gaze I can't quite identify. Surprise, maybe. Or confusion. As if I'm a puzzle he can't solve, a variable that doesn't fit his carefully calculated worldview.
"You're hurt." I gesture to his temple, to the gash I just cleaned. "You twisted before we hit the rocks, took the impact."
"To shield you." It's not a question, just a statement of fact, as if protecting me was the only logical choice. As if his body made the decision without consulting his brain.
Heat floods my cheeks, and I'm grateful for the excuse to look away, to focus on checking the rest of him for injuries. My hands move over his arms, his ribs, searching for breaks or bleeding I might have missed. He remains perfectly still beneath my touch, but I feel the tension coiling in his muscles, the way his breath hitches slightly when my fingers brush against his side.
"Why?" The question comes out softer than I intended, almost vulnerable. "Why did you shield me?"
He doesn't answer immediately, and when I risk a glance at his face, I find him studying me with an expression I can't decipher. There's heat in his gaze, yes, but also something deeper. Something that makes my pulse hammer in my throat and my skin flush with awareness that has nothing to do with the tropical sun.
"You jumped in after me." His hand rises slowly, as if he's testing whether his body will obey, and his fingers brush against my cheek with surprising gentleness. The touch sends shivers cascading down my spine despite the warmth. "Into a storm. You could have died."
"You were drowning." The words come out defensive, as if I need to justify my actions to myself as much as to him. "I couldn't just watch you die."
"Why not?" The question is genuine, curious rather than challenging. His thumb traces the line of my jaw, and I should pull away, but I'm frozen, caught in the gravity of his gaze. "You barely know me."
He's right. I Googled his name before the yacht party, saw the articles about alleged organized crime, about violence and territory disputes and a world so far removed from mine, it might as well be another planet. I should have let the ocean take him. Should have stayed safely below deck instead of running into the storm. Should be grateful for the distance his death would have created between me and the dangerous world he inhabits.
But I didn't. I jumped. And now we're here, stranded on an island with nothing but each other and the wreckage of our choices.
"I don't know." The admission costs me something, strips away a layer of the careful control I've maintained since my mother died and left me responsible for everything. "I saw you go under and I just… moved. I didn't think."
"You should have thought." His voice drops to something rough and intimate, his hand still cupping my face like I'm something precious rather than a complication he doesn't need. "You should have let me drown."
"Well, I didn't." I finally find the strength to pull back, to put space between us before I do something stupid like lean into his touch. "So now we're both stuck here, and we need to figure out how to survive."
