She pulls out a worn paperback and returns to the couch, this time sitting closer. Close enough that I can smell her, something clean and floral beneath the wood smoke that permeates everything in the cabin.
"Want me to read to you? Might help you relax."
I nod, and she opens the book to a marked page. Her voice is soft and melodic as she begins, reading about a detective tracking a killer through rain-soaked streets. I find myself less interested in the plot and more captivated by the sound of her voice, the way her lips form words, the occasional smile when she reaches a particularly clever line.
"You have a beautiful voice," I say when she pauses to turn the page.
Color rises in her cheeks, and she looks away, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "Thank you," she murmurs, her voice suddenly shy.
I watch as she settles back into the couch, her fingers finding her place in the book again. She's flustered, and it's impossibly attractive.
"So, this detective," I say when she pauses. "He's hunting someone dangerous."
"Very dangerous." She marks her place with her finger. "Why? Does it bother you?"
"No. I'm just wondering if he's smart enough to catch him."
She tilts her head, amused. "You're already invested. That's good. Most people would be bored by now."
"I'm not most people." The words come out rougher than I intend, and she laughs, a real laugh that lights up her entire face.
"Keep reading," I say, and I mean it. Not because of the book, but because I want to hear her voice for hours. "I want to know if he catches the killer."
"Patience," she teases. "Good things come to those who wait."
I meet her eyes, and something electric passes between us. "I've never been good at patience." I frown. "At least, I don't think I have."
She closes the book, her fingers tracing the cover.
"What else do I need to know about myself? You've been observing me. What have you noticed?"
She considers this, her gaze traveling over me in a way that makes my skin feel too warm. "You're left-handed. You sleep on your right side, probably to keep your injured shoulder elevated. You check the exits every time you enter a room. You count things—steps, windows, and doors. And you speak Russian in your sleep."
"Russian?" Something flickers in my mind, words I know but can't place. "What do I say?"
"I don't speak much Russian. Just a few words here and there. But you sound angry and your words are muffled, so I couldn't understand them."
The fire pops, sending sparks up the chimney, and Maya shivers despite the heat.
"Are you cold?" I ask.
"The temperature's dropping. We're running low on firewood, and I can't get more until the storm passes." She glances at the wood stove. "We'll need to conserve what we have."
"Come here." The command comes naturally, and I see her hesitate before moving closer. I lift my good arm, and she settles against my side, her body fitting against mine like we've done this a thousand times before.
The contact sends heat through me that has nothing to do with shared body warmth. She's soft and curved in all the right places, and I'm acutely aware of every point where we touch. Her head rests on my chest, and I can feel her breath through my thermal shirt.
She tilts her head up, and suddenly, her face is inches from mine. Those dark blue eyes are wide, pupils dilated, and I can see the pulse fluttering in her throat.
I should pull back. I should remember that I'm a stranger to myself, that I could be anyone, anything. That someone shot me and left me to die, which suggests I'm probably not a good man.
But her lips are right there, slightly parted, and the way she's looking at me makes every rational thought evaporate.
"Maya," I murmur, and it sounds like a question.
She answers by closing the distance between us.
The kiss is soft at first, tentative, like we're both testing boundaries. Her lips are warm and taste faintly of tea and honey. My hand slides up to cup the back of her neck, fingers threading through her short blonde hair, and the kiss deepens.
