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He could have tethered us, but he didn’t. He knew the pull of it would exacerbate the pain flooding my body.

I wished I could tell him I wouldn’t feel it.

That I couldn’t feel anything.

I desperately wished I could feel it, that I could cling to the pain and use it as an anchor to keep me tied to reality.

“Stay with me, Ataliia.Please, just stay with me,” he murmured, his words a desperate prayer against my skin.

Even as I fought, I could feel my strength waning, my grip on life slipping. Peeling my eyes open, I realized we were no longer on the snow covered ground, but pounding up wooden steps.

Dukovich shouldered through a door and suddenly the night was replaced by blinding light.

Urgent voices swirled around me and I felt myself being lowered onto something soft.

“. . . severe lacerations . . . blood loss . . .” The words faded in and out as I teetered on the brink of unconsciousness. “. . . need to warm . . . now . . .”

As the last of my strength slipped from me, a single thought echoed through my mind:Those fucking men would not get the honor of killing me.

I wasn’t ready to die.

Not yet.

Not when there was still so much left undone.

With a final surge of determination, I clung to that thought like a lifeline.

Then, oblivion rose up and dragged me under.

Sensationreturnedslowly,asif my mind was trudging through a thick fog. The first thing I became aware of was the pain that seemed to radiate through every inch of my body. The second was the feeling of something warm and solid gripping my hand.

The acrid scent of medicinal herbs flooded my nostrils as I struggled to open my eyes, the effort monumental. When I finally managed to crack them open, the world was a blur of muted colors and shapes. I blinked once, twice, trying to bring everything into focus.

That’s when I saw him.

Dukovich was sitting beside me, his large frame hunched over in a chair that seemed far too small. His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed as his hand engulfed mine, his thumb rubbing soothing circles against my skin. For the first time, I did not recoil from his touch—I welcomed it.

I tried to speak, to say his name, but all that came out was a weak rasp.

It was enough.

Dukovich’s eyes flew open, his gaze locking with mine. “Ataliia,” he breathed, his voice rough and full of worry. “You’re awake.”

I managed a small nod, my throat too dry, too torn to form words. He seemed to understand, immediately reaching for a cup on the bedside table. Gently, he lifted my head and pressedthe rim to my chapped lips. Cool water trickled down my throat, soothing the raw flesh.

“How . . . long?” I croaked out after a few sips. My tongue felt thick and clumsy in my mouth.

“Only a couple hours,” he said softly, turning to set the cup back on the table.

I pulled my hand from his, trying to push myself from the bed and gasped at the pain that shot from my abdomen.

“Careful,” Dukovich commanded, his hand sliding around the back of my head as I collapsed back on the bed.

The creak of a door made me flinch, my body tensing for a threat as more pain rippled through my limbs and my teeth clenched together. Cin stood in the doorway, drenched in crimson, and my eyes dragged over her as I forced myself not to recoil from her presence.

She’d had blood on her the last few times I’d seen her. Never my own, but always the product of my decisions.

Our eyes locked, and my heart shot to my throat.