I can’t take anyone anywhere. I’m supposed to be invisible out here—no paper trails, no official contact, no attention of any kind. My father made the consequences of drawing attention very clear, and I believe him.
Even calling 911 means answering questions.Where do you live, ma’am? How did you find him? Can we get your name for our records?
This man could be anyone. He could be connected to anyone. He could be the kind of problem that gets me killed.
If my father were here, he wouldn’t hesitate. He’d leave this guy in the sand and let the tide handle it. Problem solved. Classic Anton Kozlov efficiency.
The man tries to sit up again. Makes it halfway before the color drains from his face and he has to catch himself against the sand.
“Shit.” He presses his palm to his forehead.
I look at him. Soaked, bleeding, terrified in a way he’s clearly trying to hide. And I think about what my father would do. What my brother Nikolai would do. What any of them would do.
If I abandon him here, I don’t get to pretend I’m different than they are.
“Can you walk?” The words are out before I can second-guess them. “I have a place nearby. I can check you out there.”
He looks up at me. The fear’s still swimming beneath the surface, but he’s shoving it down. Fighting for control. Even with his brain scrambled, that instinct is intact.
“Why?” Blunt. Suspicious. “You rescue half-dead strangers often, or am I special?”
“First time, actually.” I hold his gaze. “Don’t make me regret it.”
Dark amusement flickers across his face, cutting through the pain for just a second.
“No promises.”
Great. He’s a smartass. Even with amnesia.
He nods, and I help him the rest of the way up. He sways immediately, and I duck under his arm to steady him.
He’s heavier than I expected, the muscle under his soaked shirt dense and hard. His skin is clammy and cold where it presses against mine, but underneath there’s heat. Life.
“Lean on me,” I manage. “Easy.”
We shuffle up the beach like the world’s worst three-legged race. He stumbles every few steps, and every time I brace for his weight. By the time the beach house comes into view, my shoulder is aching and we’re both breathing hard.
The house looks like it always does. Expensive and empty. The kind of place a real estate listing would call “a coastal retreat” and I’d call “a holding cell with nice countertops.”
I guide him inside, deposit him on the couch, and head to the bathroom for my first aid kit.
When I come back, he’s slumped against the cushions with his eyes closed. Pale under the tan. But he’s watching me through slitted lids as I sit on the coffee table across from him.
Taking my measure. Sizing me up.
Fair enough. I’m doing the same thing.
“This is going to sting,” I warn, and press the disinfectant-soaked gauze to his head wound.
He hisses through his teeth but doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t even flinch, really. Stubborn. Apparently that part of his personality survived the memory wipe.
I clean the gash carefully, my fingers working around the matted blood in his hair. It’s dark hair. Thick. The kind you could really grab onto if you wanted to?—
Focus. Not the time.
The laceration on his temple is about two inches long, and the bleeding has mostly stopped on its own. I dig through the first aid kit until I find the butterfly strips and close the edges as carefully as I can, the way I’ve seen it done. It’s not stitches, but it’ll hold. Then I hold his eyelid open and shine my phone’s flashlight into his eye.
He jerks back hard. “Fuck. Warn a guy.”
