I turn. John Davis is standing in the doorway of the hardware store, arms crossed over his chest. The afternoon sun is behind him, casting his face in shadow.
"Be careful out there," he calls. "Montana can be dangerous for people who aren't used to it."
Was that a threat?
17
LENA
Sleep won't come. I've been staring at my bedroom ceiling for hours, watching shadows shift across the plaster as moonlight filters through the curtains. Every time I close my eyes, I see John Davis's face, the way he looked at Sasha like he was trying to place a puzzle piece. The way he said "be careful" like it was both warning and threat.
I throw off the covers and pad barefoot through the cabin, my thermal sleep pants and tank top doing little against the chill. The fire in the wood stove has burned down to embers, casting the living room in a warm orange glow.
Sasha sits on the couch, shirtless despite the cold, staring into the dying flames. The firelight catches on the defined muscles of his chest and abs, highlighting every ridge and valley. The dragon wings tattooed across his shoulder blades seem to move with each breath, and I find myself tracing the intricate lines with my eyes before I can stop myself.
"Can't sleep either?" I ask quietly.
He doesn't startle, just turns his head to look at me. Those gold eyes reflect the firelight, making them look almost molten. "Too much thinking."
"About what Davis said?"
"Among other things." He pats the couch beside him. "Come here."
I should go back to bed, should maintain some distance. Instead, I cross the room and sink onto the couch beside him, close enough that our thighs touch.
His gaze drops to my chest, lingering on the way my tank top clings to my breasts in the firelight. When his eyes meet mine again, there's heat there that has nothing to do with the wood stove.
"You're staring," I say, but there's no bite to it.
"You're beautiful." He says it like it's a simple fact, not a compliment. "Hard not to stare."
Heat floods my cheeks. "Even when I'm terrified and exhausted?"
"Especially then." His hand finds mine, fingers lacing through mine. "You want to tell me what's really keeping you awake?"
I take a deep breath, steeling myself. The truth sits heavy on my tongue, three years of secrets begging to be released. "I need to tell you something. About why I'm here. About who I'm running from."
He doesn't speak, just squeezes my hand. Waiting.
"My uncle Orleg." The name tastes bitter. "He has a gambling problem. Not the kind where you lose a few hundred at thecasino and feel bad about it. The kind where you're in debt to people who break bones when you can't pay."
Sasha's thumb strokes circles on the back of my hand, the gesture both soothing and distracting.
"He owed money to loan sharks, bookies, anyone who'd take his bets. And when those sources dried up, he went to worse people. People connected to the Bratva." I pause, watching the fire. "He borrowed from them, and when he couldn't pay, he panicked."
"Let me guess." Sasha's voice is low, controlled. "He convinced someone else to help him."
"My father, Stepan." Saying his name out loud after three years makes my throat tight. "Orleg begged him for help. Said they'd kill him if he didn't pay. And my father, he couldn't say no to family. Even when it meant crossing people he should never have crossed."
I feel Sasha tense beside me, his body going rigid. He knows where this is going.
"They skimmed money. Not much, maybe fifty thousand over six months. They thought they could pay back Orleg's debts and replace what they took before anyone noticed." I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "They were idiots. You don't steal from the Bratva and think you'll get away with it."
"No," Sasha agrees quietly. "You don't."
"Someone noticed. Someone always notices." I pull my hand from his, wrapping my arms around myself. "My father's friend, a man who owed him a favor, came to our house one night. He told me there was a contract out on me. A message, he said. To show what happens when you betray the organization."
The memory crashes over me. My mother's face, pale and terrified. Her hands shaking as she packed my bag. The way she kissed my forehead and whispered, "Don't call. Don't write. Just survive."
