Page 14

Nikolai

The snow’s melting into stubborn patches of slush, pooling in the tracks we left outside the cabin. It’s a sign we’ve stayed here longer than I wanted. The chill’s thinning out, and the air biting less, but the tension’s just as loud. I’ve been restless, caught between watching her limp through those damned stretches of pain and reminding myself why we’re even here.

Katya’s foot is healing nicely, though. The limp is barely noticeable now, but I catch her wincing every time she puts weight on it. She’s stubborn—more than she should be. She doesn’t wince as much, moves around more without clinging to furniture. I know it’s time to leave. And I’m done pretending like this hideout of a cabin can keep us safe. It was never meant to be a sanctuary.

Yet, I can’t help this ominous feeling that’s keeping inside me as to why I suddenly hate that idea.

I glance her way, where she’s frowning at some threadbare map spread over the table. She’s trying to figure out her sister’s last movements, muttering to herself like the pieces will fall into place if she just stares hard enough.

“We need to go soon,” I say.

Her eyes snap to me, irritated but resigned. The cabin turned into some kind of safety net for her. But safety’s an illusion. The minute we walk out, the real hunt begins.

“What? Why? I’m getting close to something.”

“Because,” I snap. “If your sister’s out there, then we’ve wasted enough time here.” That, and I don’t think I can spend another minute cooped up with you here and not touch you. Then I’ve been trying to map out Kirill’s interests, what he wanted from Irina. Talent, sure. But not just anyone’s. He’s got galleries locked down across Moscow, fronts for whatever schemes he’s tangled up in. And Irina... Irina must’ve been the perfect fit.

Artistry. Painting and photography are things that make her stand out to a collector like him. Or worse, someone who needed her skill to forge, to smuggle priceless pieces. Maybe she was even lured by the promise of freedom. More likely, she was dragged into someone else’s game, tossed around for their convenience.

Kirill’s not going to wait forever. He’ll ask me for my lead soon. The bastard wants information about Alina’s death, something that ties me back to that night. That’s why I was supposed to meet Rurik here. An enforcer with a talent for sniffing out secrets. Reliable when sober, but that’s a rare state for him. More often than not, he’s strung out, chasing highs that leave him hollow.

Doesn’t matter. If Rurik’s managed to dig up anything, I need to hear it. And if not... I’ll make him useful another way. He’s been in this business long enough to understand leverage. And if he’s not playing ball, I’ll find out why.

I shouldn’t care about Katya’s sister, but Irina’s death—if it’s even true—feels like a thread tangled up with everything else. And even though I should be on that, I also sort of promised Katya I’d help probe Kirill about her sister. I’m not sure Irina worked directly for Kirill like Katya suspects, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she did either.

“Pack your things,” I say, jerking my chin towards the cramped bedroom. “We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”

Katya narrows her eyes, but doesn’t argue. Maybe she’s learning when to pick her battles. Or maybe she’s just too tired to fight.

I leave her to it, moving to the kitchen to make sure we haven’t left anything behind. We don’t want any evidence to show we were here. Coffee grounds spilled on the counter. A knife carelessly tossed aside. One thing out of place or too in place, and we could have someone we don’t even know on our tail. This place is used for shady deals all the time.

I check the kitchen, rummaging through drawers and cabinets, making sure we haven’t left anything useful behind. Just as I’m about to double back, something catches my eye through the window.

Footprints. Fresh ones. And they’re not mine or hers. Fuck.

My pulse quickens. The crunch of snow, the faint drag of weight. Someone’s out there. Watching.

I move fast, slipping down the hall to find her. She’s shoving clothes into her bag, eyes narrowed like she’s trying to figure out what I haven’t said.

She’s just zipping up her bag when I grab her arm.

“Stay low,” I whisper. “Someone’s out there.”

Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t ask questions. Smart girl.

I dart around the cabin, locking the back door, jamming the windows shut. Double-checking the boards I set up for extra security. My own fault for getting too comfortable. For letting her become a distraction.

I glance out the window again. I hear the footsteps circling the cabin. They’re coming from more than one direction. We’ve got minutes, maybe less, before they break in.

“Don’t make a sound. Hide.”

She stares at me, lips parted like she’s about to argue. I shut her down with a glare. “Under the bed. Now.”

She doesn’t hesitate this time. Crawls under, dragging her bag with her, eyes too wide for her own good.

I head for the boards near the kitchen. Pry them up, fingers digging into the grit until I uncover the stash of weapons I left there months ago. Guns, knives, ammo. Always better to be over-prepared.

The fire’s dead. No smoke to betray us. But the sounds outside are getting closer, creeping along the walls like they know we’re holed up in here. I glance out the window, crouching low, straining to catch any flicker of movement beyond the trees. Nothing.

I pull back, my mind running through the possibilities. More than one person, maybe. The steps I heard—they weren’t just from the ground. Higher. Creaking wood. The goddamn roof.

My stomach knots as I twist the knob on the stove, killing the last bit of warmth and light. Making sure there is no smoke or scent of burning wood to mask their approach. If they’re up there, they’ve already got an advantage. The chimney’s their way in.

I move fast, my feet ghosting over the floor as I position myself by the fireplace. My fingers are steady around the grip of my gun. I can hear the faintest scuffling above, boots scraping against old shingles. Whoever they are, they’ve studied this place. They know where to hit.

My eyes stay trained on the fireplace. If they drop in, it’s over.

But then—

“Nikolai!”

I bolt down the hall, gun drawn and throwing myself into the bedroom just in time to see a masked man with thick gloves clawing her out from under the bed by her ankles. She’s grasping at the floorboards, kicking hard, but he’s got the strength advantage.

I fire. The blast echoes, deafening. He flinches, curses, but doesn’t let go of her.

I fire again. This time, he jerks back, hand snapping to his shoulder. Blood stains his jacket, but he doesn’t quit.

He must’ve slipped through the window. The lock is old, and most people wouldn’t know how to pop it from the outside unless they were familiar with these cabins. Someone who’s been here before.

My chest tightens with a vicious kind of anger. I aim, ready to fire again, but the man’s quicker this time. He shoots first.

Pain burns across my shoulder, but it is a shallow graze. Enough to make me flinch but not enough to stop me. I drop low, squeeze the trigger, and clip him in the leg. He staggers, but he’s still moving. I rush him and slam into him with a force enough to send us both crashing into the wall.

I grab his arm and start twisting until I hear something pop. He howls then swings at me, but I duck and slam the butt of my gun against his skull. His grip on Katya falters, and she scrambles away, breathing hard.

I hit him again with a hard punch. Then again. He’s losing consciousness from my hit, his blood sliding down. Then I shoot twice more and, this time, square in the chest. The thud of his body hitting the floor should’ve been satisfying. It’s not.

“Katya,” I rasp, my throat dry. “You good?”

She crawls out from under the bed, pale and shaking but whole. “Fine. Better than you, apparently.”

I ignore the sting in my shoulder. “Stay here.”

I drop to my knees and pull off the man’s mask, expecting some nameless thug. But his face is unfamiliar. Young. Too young.

“Who—” I start, but I don’t get to finish.

The cold press of metal touches the back of my skull.

“Don’t move,” the new voice grits out. Whoever he is, he’s smart. Kept his distance until now. Let me do all the dirty work before stepping in.

My grip on the pistol tightens, my mind racing. I can’t move or turn in this position. The fucker’s got the upper hand.

The gun clicks, and my body goes still. My mind’s already running through the options and the ways out of this, but nothing feels quick enough, not with her still in the room.

But then, something heavy slams into the side of his head. The gun drops to the floor, clattering against the wood. I spin around

With my gun raised, I’m just in time to see Katya standing there with the rusted iron rod from the fireplace. Her chest is heaving, eyes wide, but there’s a wild glint in them.

“Guess I saved your life.” She smirks, but it’s shaky, breathless.

I want to tear into her for stepping out of her hiding spot. But all that comes out is a snort. “You’re supposed to be hiding. I’m starting to think you enjoy this shit.”

“Yeah, well. You were about to get your head blown off.”

She’s right. And that pisses me off more than anything.

My lips twitch. “Not the worst way to go.”

I crouch beside the man on the floor. With a yank, I pull off his mask, my eyes locking onto his face. A stranger.

But Katya’s already gasping like someone’s cut the air from her lungs.

“Oh my god,” she whispers. Her voice is ragged with something like horror.

Whoever he is, she knows him.

“Who is he?” I press, my words edged with urgency.

Katya swallows hard, her eyes locked on the dead man’s face. “He’s... the bartender who told me about the place.”