29
Harper hesitated,her hand hovering just above the wood.
This was where Pav had told her to go. To someone he trusted.
She knocked.
The door opened three inches and snagged against a chain. Behind it, the warmth of the house breathed out—fresh bread and herbs.
The woman on the other side didn’t look at Harper.
Her gaze went past her—over her shoulder, down the road. A quick sweep. Satisfied, her gaze snapped to Harper.
She was tall. Lean and angular, a woman who worked physically and didn't sit down much. Red hair—a proper copper-red, pulled back in a messy knot. Early forties. Defined cheekbones. No makeup. A dishcloth was slung over her shoulder. Her sweater sleeves were pushed up, forearms dusted with flour. Slate-colored eyes assessed Harper with flat, measured hostility.
"Da?" One word.Who are you? What do you want? Why are you at my door?
Harper's Russian surfaced through the exhaustion. “Are you Katya?”
The slate eyes narrowed. "Who's asking?"
“I’m Harper Fox.” She gestured to the UAZ. “I have a man who's badly injured. He said you'd help."
Nothing changed in the woman's face. The door held at its three-inch gap.
"What man?"
"Pav." Harper's voice cracked on his name and she hated it. “His name is Pav.”
Something flickered across the woman’s features.
Recognition.
Color drained from her face and the chain came off the door so fast the metal sang against the frame.
"Where?"
"The car. He's unconscious. He has a fever and an infected wound and he needs IV antibiotics or he's going to?—"
Katya shoved bare feet into the wellingtons by the step and was past Harper before the second boot was fully on. She wrenched open the passenger door.
Harper followed as Katya's hands went to his face. Both hands, cupping his jaw, tilting his head, and checking his eyes. The gesture was intimate in a way that made Harper's stomach clench with something ugly and unwelcome.
“Pasha.” Katya’s voice dropped, softer now.
Harper stilled.
Pasha.
Not Pav. Pasha. Familiar and affectionate.
Katya’s hands moved through his hair without hesitation, finding the wound immediately. She’d done this before.
Harper’s gut twisted, catching her off guard.
Pav was unconscious, dying of infection. The priority was antibiotics not territorial feelings about a man she'd known fordays and kissed once. She rammed her hands in her pockets and gritted her teeth.
Shut it down, Harper.
