Page 8

The whiskey burns, but not enough.

I take another swallow, the glass heavy in my hand, the silence of the room too loud to ignore. The fire in the hearth crackles low—lazy orange light licking across the dark grain of the walls, casting my shadow long behind me. The bottle beside me is half empty, the ice in the glass long melted. I’m not drunk. I don’t get drunk. But I’m chasing it anyway, like I might outrun the way she made me feel.

Elise. Fucking Elise .

I close my eyes and lean back in the chair, the wood creaking beneath my weight, and it’s not her name that grates—it’s how it sounds in my head. Not like a hostage. Not like a liability. But like something sharp and dangerous. Something alive.

She was supposed to be a tool. A temporary necessity. Someone with a steady hand and enough training to keep Yuri breathing until he was useful again. I expected tears. Panic. Quiet compliance. Instead, I got a woman who looks me in the eye when I threaten her, who talks back with a mouth made for more than defiance.

That mouth….

I take another drink, this time slower.

She looked at me tonight like she could see straight through every inch of my control. Like the gun in my hand didn’t matter. Like I was the one exposed.

That little scratch on her finger—barely a wound—and the way she flinched, just for a second. The kind of reflex that makes a man want to reach out, to touch, to reassure. For a heartbeat, I almost did.

I hate that. I hate that her eyes stayed locked on mine, daring me to speak, to move, to do something .

I hate the way her voice slid under my skin when she snapped at me, soft but savage— “At least I don’t need a gun to feel like a man.”

I should’ve silenced her right then. Should’ve let Boris drag her out, reminded her exactly who holds the power here. Instead, I walked away.

If I stayed, I might’ve done something worse, something reckless.

I grip the edge of the glass tighter and let my head fall back, staring at the dark rafters overhead. My thoughts circle her like blood in water, and it’s not just her mouth that haunts me now—it’s the way her hands moved over Yuri’s body with that quiet competence. She didn’t flinch at the smell, at the heat, at the sight of torn flesh. Her fingers were steady, her breathing tight but focused.

She looked good like that. Too good. Bent over, focused, determined. Capable.

Fuck.

I shift in the chair, the heat in my gut deepening, crawling lower. The fire cracks again behind me, casting her face across the walls of my mind—those sharp green eyes, full of fury, lit like embers even when she was terrified. She’s fire under pressure. A controlled burn. The kind of woman who doesn’t break. The kind of woman who’d fight you while she was bleeding.

I wonder how long she’d keep fighting if I had her pinned beneath me.

If I pressed her back against the wall again—not with anger this time, but with hunger. If I slid my hand beneath that bloodstained waistband and found her soft and wet for me. Would she still glare at me with that same defiance? Or would she finally crack? Moan my name, maybe beg a little, just enough for me to taste the difference between hate and want?

I press my palm to my mouth, jaw tight, trying to breathe it out.

She’s everywhere now. In the heat crawling under my skin. In the ache behind my zipper. In the guilt I don’t feel, but know I should.

I want her. Not gentle. Not sweet.

I want her biting, snarling, furious—fighting every inch of it until she forgets how.

I don’t take women I have to tie down. I don’t take what doesn’t want to be taken.

But Elise… Elise wants to fight, and I’m starting to wonder if she wants to lose.

I slam the empty glass down harder than I need to, the sound sharp against the wood. The fire flares behind me, catching fresh fuel, dancing wild for a moment before settling back to its steady burn.

I breathe out, slow and tight, dragging a hand through my hair.

She’s in my blood now, and I don’t know how the fuck to get her out.

The fire hisses as a log shifts, sending sparks curling up into the chimney. I don’t look away. My drink sits untouched now, sweating into the grain of the wooden table. The burn in my chest has nothing to do with the whiskey anymore.

She shouldn’t matter this much. Elise shouldn’t matter this much.

I told myself she was a tool—a necessity, nothing more. A pair of capable hands to keep Yuri alive long enough to get the truth out of him. A name. A betrayal. A target. That’s all I needed. That’s all she was ever meant to be.

Elise Emberly is all flame and fury wrapped in soft skin and a spine made of steel. She should’ve broken by now. Most do. The ones who don’t cry usually crack in other ways. They go quiet. Compliant. They learn the rules and obey.

She learned them. And chose not to follow a single one.

Her words still echo like glass beneath my boots. “At least I don’t need a gun to feel like a man.”

That line. That glare. The way she stood her ground even with my hand around her shirt and a weapon inches from her temple. I wanted her afraid. Hell, I expected it. Wanted to see that defiance collapse. Instead, she stared at me like I was the one who ought to explain myself.

***

She’s sitting on the edge of the mattress when I open the door.

No flinching. No scrambling to her feet. Just… stillness. Her elbows rest on her knees, fingers laced, head slightly tilted like she’s been staring at the same knot in the wooden wall for hours and still hasn’t made peace with it.

I step inside.

She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t move.

“Miss me?” she mutters, voice dry as dust.

It shouldn’t land the way it does. Something in the quiet lilt of it—the rasp in her throat, the edge just under the sarcasm—grates under my skin like a splinter I can’t dig out.

“You’re taking a walk,” I say instead.

That gets her to look at me. Slow and unimpressed. “Excuse me?”

“Fresh air. You’ve been locked in here too long.”

Her brows lift. “Concerned I’ll get bored to death before you have the chance to kill me?”

I don’t answer. I just step aside and nod for her to follow.

She doesn’t move this time, either.

“Up,” I snap, more harshly than I intend. “Let’s go.”

She rises, slow and stiff. I catch the way she favors her right side—either the floor’s gotten to her or she didn’t sleep last night. Or both. But she doesn’t complain. Doesn’t offer me a single word as I lead her down the narrow hallway, out through the back door, and into the cold morning light.

The air bites, sharp and clean, carrying the scent of pine and frost. The sky is a pale, cloudless stretch overhead, and the world beyond the farmhouse is quiet. Empty.

She stands there, eyes closed for a second too long, like the air itself might vanish if she opens them too soon. Her chest rises, slow and deliberate. When she exhales, there’s steam on her breath.

It’s the first time I’ve seen her outside since we took her.

She’s thinner than I remember. The oversized scrubs hang off her frame now, sleeves bunched at the wrists, pants loose at the hips. Her hair’s a mess—wild curls falling from what’s left of a ponytail, a few strands stuck to her lips from the wind. There’s dirt on her knees, a smudge on her jaw, dried blood at the edge of one sleeve she hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care to clean.

She still looks like she could bite through bone if I got too close.

I stand beside her, watching her take it in.

“This doesn’t make you a decent person,” she says suddenly, not looking at me.

I grunt. “You’ll be useless if you lose your mind.”

She turns her head, glancing at me through narrowed eyes. “That why I’m here? To be ‘useful’?”

I shrug. “Why else?”

She scoffs and turns her face back to the wind, eyes on the trees. “Do you ever stop being an asshole, or is it just a full-time job?”

Something in me twitches. Not quite laughter but close.

My lips pull—half an inch, maybe less. It’s not a smile. Not really, but it’s the closest I’ve come in a long time.

“Only when I’m asleep,” I say.

She snorts under her breath, folding her arms across her chest. “Figures.”

I walk away before I say something I’ll regret. Before I stay too long looking at her like this—free for a moment, but still within my reach. Still mine.

I don’t look back, but I know she’s still standing there.

I feel it—like gravity. Like heat. Like the way silence can thicken when someone’s watching you too closely.

My boots crunch across the frozen ground, gravel and frost snapping under the weight of each step. There’s no sound except the wind threading through the trees, the occasional groan of the old barn somewhere behind us, and the faint rustle of her sleeves when she folds her arms tighter around herself.

She doesn’t follow right away. That, I expect. Elise doesn’t do anything the easy way.

I stop near the fence that borders the edge of the clearing. Beyond it, the woods stretch dark and endless. No paths. No lights. No hope of escape unless you know where to put your feet and how not to freeze by sundown. She must know that too. That there’s nowhere to run. Yet I can feel her sizing it up.

She walks up behind me eventually, quiet as a breath, her shoes scuffing lightly in the dirt. Still barefoot in those paper-thin hospital socks we gave her. She hasn’t asked for shoes. Hasn’t asked for anything.

She’s too proud for that.

I let the silence stretch between us for a long moment. Then I say, “If you try to run, you won’t get far.”

“I know.”

Her voice is low. Flat. Not afraid, not angry—just… tired.

I glance at her from the corner of my eye. She’s staring out over the tree line like she wants to memorize every branch, every angle, in case it might matter later. That kind of mind—always calculating, always watching. She doesn’t have a gun or a plan or a prayer out here, but she still thinks like a survivor.

That’s dangerous. That’s why she’s dangerous.

“Why haven’t you killed me yet?” The question comes without warning.

I turn to face her, slowly. Her face doesn’t change. She’s not baiting me. She’s not playing. She’s just asking the thing that’s been gnawing at her since the night we dragged her here.

I should lie.

Tell her she’s still useful. That Yuri might still crash, and we might need her hands again. That she’s leverage, a hostage, just another piece on the board.

She shifts under the weight of it, but not in the way most people do. She doesn’t look away. Her spine straightens. Her chin lifts a fraction.

“You don’t scare me,” she says, but it’s not a challenge. Not exactly. It sounds like the truth.

That heat—low and slow and constant—flares in my chest again.

I step closer, just once.

Her breath catches, barely audible.

“Maybe you should be,” I murmur.

Her eyes flick to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “Maybe you should be,” she fires back.

Fuck me if I don’t feel that everywhere.