She makes a small sound in the back of her throat that goes straight to my groin. Her hand comes up to rest on my chest, right over my heart, and I can feel it pounding against her palm.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Her cheeks are flushed, and she won't quite meet my eyes.
"That was…" I start.
"Yeah. That was." She bites her lower lip, and I want to kiss her again just to feel that small gesture.
"I don't even know my own name," I say, the words coming out harsher than I intend. "I could be married. I could be a criminal. I could be anything."
Instead of responding, she disappears into the bathroom and returns with a small mirror, the kind women use for makeup. She hands it to me, and I stare at the reflective surface like it might bite.
"You should see yourself," she says softly. "Maybe it will help."
I don't take it immediately. My hands feel heavy, like they're weighted down with lead. Part of me knows that looking into that mirror means confronting something I've been avoiding since I woke up in this cabin. The face staring back at me will belong to someone. Someone with a past. Someone who was important enough to shoot. I can feel the dread coiling in my chest, a serpent that whispers I won't like what I see. That the man looking back will have cold eyes. Killer's eyes. The kind of eyes that belong to someone who's done terrible things and never lost sleep over them.
I lift the mirror slowly, and a stranger's face looks back at me. Strong jaw covered in several days' worth of dark beard. Straight nose. High cheekbones. And eyes the color of honey or gold, unusual and striking.
I touch my face, watching the reflection do the same, trying to find some spark of recognition. But there's nothing. Just a handsome stranger with a bandage on his temple and questions in his eyes.
"Do you recognize yourself?" Maya asks.
"No." I set down the mirror, my hand trembling slightly. "Nothing. It's like looking at someone else entirely."
She takes my hand, her fingers lacing through mine, and the simple gesture grounds me.
I stare at the stranger in the glass, at the scars and the fear etched into every line of his face. My face. A face that belongs to someone who was shot and left to die. Someone dangerous enough to warrant that kind of violence.
"Did I deserve to be shot?"
5
LENA
Two weeks have gone by and I've watched Sasha move through my cabin like he owns it, his presence filling every corner until I can't remember what silence felt like before him.
I'm chopping vegetables for dinner when he walks past the kitchen window, his shirt off despite the cold, an axe balanced on his good shoulder. My knife pauses mid-slice as I watch the play of muscles across his back, the way the dragon wings tattooed on his shoulder blades seem to move with each swing of the axe. Sweat gleams on his skin even in the frigid air, and I have to force myself to look away before he catches me staring.
Again.
"You're going to cut yourself," I mutter, refocusing on the carrots.
The door opens and he steps inside, bringing the scents of pine and wood smoke with him. "Firewood's stacked. Should last us another week at least."
"Thank you." I don't look up from the cutting board, but I'm acutely aware of him moving behind me, the heat radiating from his body as he reaches past me for a glass.
"You're welcome, Maya." He says my fake name like he knows it's a lie, but he's never pushed, never asked why a woman my age lives alone in the middle of nowhere, Montana, with enough security equipment to guard a small fortress.
I watch from the corner of my eye as he fills the glass with water, his throat working as he drinks. The bandage on his shoulder is smaller now, the stitches healing cleanly. In another week, I'll be able to remove them. And then what? Will he leave? Will I want him to?
"Generator's making that noise again," he says, setting down the glass. "I should take a look at it before it dies completely."
"You don't have to do that."
"I want to." His gold eyes meet mine, and there's something in them that makes my stomach flip. "Let me help, Maya. I'm going crazy with nothing to do."
I nod, not trusting my voice, and he disappears into the bedroom to grab a shirt. I hear him moving around, the rustle of fabric, and I absolutely do not imagine what he looks like pulling that thermal shirt over his head, the way it would cling to his chest and abs.
Liar.
