The cold air bit at Anya's cheeks as she moved swiftly through the forest, every footstep deliberate, silent. The world behind her burned with chaos—gunfire echoing faintly, shouts in Russian slashing the silence—but she didn't look back. Alek had told her to go. She didn't want to. She hadn't understood. But his eyes had said what his words didn't: "Trust me."
Her heart pounded not just from exertion, but from something deeper—something raw and unfamiliar. She wasn't used to running from things. She was always the one running into the fire. But now, something told her this wasn't a retreat—it was a shift.
She didn't know what she'd say to Damian when she saw him. Alek had asked her to tell him something, but she still didn't understand why he wanted Damian to know. What connection existed between the two men? Why him? Why now?
The forest thinned. The familiar outline of the cabin came into view, tucked between snow-covered pines. Her breath caught. She moved quickly, still checking over her shoulder—but she wasn't alone. Shadows trailed her, silent figures in black.
She didn't hesitate. Her fist met the wooden frame of Damian's window, not hard, but urgent—sharp enough to pull him from whatever thoughts haunted him inside. For a second, she thought she'd imagined movement. Then, the curtain shifted.
Inside, Damian had already sensed something wrong. His hand went to the gun on the table, eyes narrowing. But when he opened the window and saw her—breathless, flushed, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and something more—he just stepped aside.
"Get in," he said quietly.
She climbed through, landing lightly on the floor. Snow clung to her boots and coat, her breathing shallow as she glanced around, almost as if expecting someone to follow. Damian shut the window behind her, the sharp click echoing louder than it should have.
"What happened?" he asked.
"I…" she faltered. "Alek told me to come here."
Damian's jaw clenched.
---
Meanwhile...
The battle hadn't ended when Anya left. If anything, it had escalated. Alek stood firm, gun drawn, blood staining his sleeve. The enemy came in waves, and he wondered how long he'd last before they overwhelmed him.
But then—shadows moved at his back. Silent. Efficient. Not Russian.
Shots fired—but not at him.
Alek turned, panting, confused. The men who came weren't part of his team. He didn't recognize them. But their precision was unmistakable. They were trained—military, but not local. And they fought for him.
No names. No words. Just the job.
And in that moment, he understood.
Damian had sent them.
Even if he never admitted it.
---
The storm outside had dulled into a quiet whisper of snow, yet inside Damian's cabin, silence roared. He sat at the small desk near the hearth, a half-finished report abandoned in front of him. The scarf—her scarf—lay folded beside it, and the pendant he kept hidden now rested in his palm.
He didn't know why he hadn't turned Anya in yet. He had more than enough reason. More than enough evidence.
But something in his gut, something cold and dangerous, held him back.
She was hiding something—but she was also protecting something. And lately, that something had started to feel like him.
He leaned back, exhaling slowly.
---
Earlier that day…
The room had been dimly lit when Alek walked in. No smile. No greetings. Just two men who had lived too long in shadows to bother with pleasantries.
"I want you to save her," Alek said, sitting across from him with deliberate calm.
Damian didn't blink. "Who?"
"You know who."
A long pause. Damian's gaze sharpened like a blade drawn slowly.
"You're playing with fire," he said finally. "You don't know who you're dealing with."
"I do. And I know you won't let her die."
"You sound so sure."
"I've seen how you look at her."
Damian had looked away after that, saying nothing.
---
Now.
Anya stood inside the room, her arms crossed over her chest, but it wasn't from the cold. Damian was staring at her like she didn't belong here, like she'd just set off something he had tried hard to ignore.
"You shouldn't have come," he said.
"I didn't have a choice."
"You always have a choice."
She didn't respond. The silence between them stretched long and heavy.
Then she turned toward the window, ready to leave—maybe say something, maybe just vanish again.
But his hand shot out.
He grabbed her wrist, pulled her sharply toward him before she could take another step. Her back hit the table beside them, a startled gasp escaping her lips. A glass of whiskey wobbled on the edge, catching the firelight.
Before she could react, he stepped forward—fast, purposeful—his body pressing against hers as he caged her between the table and himself. His hands slid down, one entwining with hers on the wooden surface, the other gripping her waist tightly.
She looked up, shocked. "What are you doing—?"
But the words died on her lips.
Damian didn't wait. He crushed his mouth to hers in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was jealous. Possessive. A storm of emotion and confusion all at once. It didn't feel like a first kiss—but it was.
And still, it didn't stop him.
She tried to push him away at first, caught off guard, her free hand against his chest—but he only tightened his grip on her waist, his body pressing closer, his kiss deepening like he was trying to silence every thought in both their heads.
And slowly, she stopped resisting.
The tension in her shoulders melted. Her lips parted beneath his, responding with a heat she didn't know she had in her. Her legs shifted—parted slightly, unconsciously—as if inviting him closer.
He let go of her hand and moved it behind her neck, pulling her in deeper.
She grabbed the lapel of his coat, clinging to him like she couldn't breathe and didn't care. Her breaths were short, ragged, but she refused to pull away.
Neither of them said a word.
There was only the sound of their breathing, the distant storm, and the crackling fire.
For once, there were no lies.
Just this.
Whatever this was becoming.