The command in his voice makes something in my spine want to obey, and I hate myself for it. I push harder, my lungs burning in the frigid air.
Twenty yards. Fifteen.
His hand closes around my wrist.
Not rough. Not violent. Just absolutely certain. The grip of a man who knows exactly how much pressure to apply, who's calculated the precise amount of force needed to stop me without hurting me. It's somehow worse than if he'd tackled me.
I spin on him, swinging the duffel bag with my free hand. He catches it easily with his other hand, and suddenly, we're locked together in the snow, both breathing hard, our breath creating clouds between us.
"Let me go." I try to jerk away, but his fingers don't budge.
"No." His gold eyes bore into mine, and in the moonlight reflecting off the snow, I can see every detail of his face. The sharp line of his jaw. The way his dark hair falls across his forehead. The broad expanse of his chest rising and falling beneath his thin shirt. He didn't even bother with a jacket. "We're going to talk."
"There's nothing to talk about." My voice cracks. "You remember. You know what you did. What you ordered."
"Yes." No denial. No excuses. Just that single word, flat and honest.
Something inside me splinters. "Then what the hell are we doing out here? Just get it over with."
His jaw tightens. "I told you. I'm not going to hurt you."
"Why should I believe that?" I'm shaking now, and it's not from the cold. "I've been running from you. From the order you gave. And now you're standing here telling me to trust you?"
"I know what I did." His voice drops lower, rougher. "I remember giving the order. I remember why."
"Because my father stole from you." The words taste like ash. "Because my uncle had debts. Because I was collateral for their betrayal."
His free hand comes up, and I flinch. He freezes, something flickering across his face that looks almost like pain. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reaches up and cups my jaw. His palm is warm against my frozen skin.
"Everything has changed," he says quietly. His thumb brushes across my cheekbone. "Maya."
My body goes rigid. "Don't call me that," I say through gritted teeth. "Don't ever call me that again."
"That's who you are to me." His voice is steel wrapped in velvet. "The woman who saved my life. Who taught me to laugh again. Who made me feel human."
"I'm Lena Orlova." I jerk my chin up, forcing myself to meet those golden eyes. "The girl you sentenced to death. That's who I really am."
"You're both." His grip on my wrist loosens but doesn't release. "And I'm both the man who gave that order and the one standinghere swearing on everything I have that I will never let anyone hurt you."
A bitter laugh escapes me. "How convenient. You get amnesia, fall for yourvictim, and suddenly, all your sins are forgiven?"
"No." The word cracks like a whip. "Nothing is forgiven. I remember every decision I made. Every order I gave. I remember your father's face when we confronted him about the missing money. Your uncle begging for more time to pay his debts." His thumb traces my jawline, and I hate how my body responds to his touch. "I remember signing your death warrant because that's what the code demanded. Blood for betrayal."
He steps closer, and the heat of his body cuts through the cold like a blade. "But somewhere between waking up in that cabin and learning your real name, you became… important to me."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly, it physically hurts. But I know that men like him don't change their minds. What's the old saying, a leopard doesn't change its spots?
The duffel bag is still clutched in my left hand. Heavy with everything I need to disappear. Again. The tree line is so close. I know these trails better than anyone. I've walked them a hundred times, memorizing every turn, every hiding spot, every route that leads deeper into the wilderness.
I could run.
My muscles tense, ready. One good yank and I'd be free of his grip. He's strong, but I'm fast. Desperate. And desperation makes you do impossible things.
But even as I calculate the distance, the angles, the precious seconds I'd need, I know the truth. He'd catch me. Maybe not inthe first ten yards, but eventually. Men like Aleksandr Romanov don't let things slip through their fingers. They hunt. They pursue. They win.
And some traitorous part of me doesn't want to run at all.
That's the worst part. Not the fear coursing through my veins or the way my heart hammers against my ribs. It's the way my body still leans toward him despite everything. The way his touch sends electricity down my spine instead of revulsion. The way I want to believe that the man I fell in love with and the monster who ordered my death can somehow coexist in the same skin.
