Page 20

Iwake up cold. The fire died hours ago and the old cabin is bathed in shadows and gray morning light. I lie naked under a blanket, sprawled on a couch that's too small for two people, which explains why I'm alone now. He must've gotten up at some point last night, or maybe this morning. I don't hear any sounds, but it's early.

My clothes are everywhere. Sweater by the hearth. Bra hanging off the armrest. Jeans somewhere on the floor where I kicked them off in my hurry to get his hands on me. I don't remember falling asleep. I just remember his mouth on me and the way he looked at me like I was something he wanted to worship. I'll never forget that expression. No man has ever wanted to please me so much.

I want to believe having sex with him was due to stress and isolation, a bit of the blame placed on the vodka too. And two people trapped in a cabin with a fire and enough vodka would always end up fucking on the sofa. But my body's sore in places that remind me that it wasn't just anyone. It was Dimitri Sokolov—the last person on earth I should have let inside me.

I'm not sure how I’m ever going to explain that one to anyone. I, Alana Volskaya, who wants to crash a wedding and derail it to keep her sister from marrying into the Sokolov name, has slept with one of those creeps? No one forced me this time. I chose it of my own free will, and it was actually pretty amazing.

The door opens and I pull the blanket higher, but it's just Dimitri carrying two mugs. He's dressed already, dark jeans and a sweater, and he looks unfairly awake for someone who got as little sleep as I did. His hair's damp and there's stubble along his jaw, which I find attractive. It makes warmth swell in my chest as I squirm at the thought of having nasty sex with him right here on this couch.

"You're awake," he says casually, like we didn't spend last night with his fingers inside me and my name on his lips. He crosses the room and holds out a mug. "I didn't know how you took it, so I guessed. Two sugars, splash of cream."

I take it and stare because he's wrong, but he's also exactly right. "It's perfect." Why would I say that? Alana would not say that. I would tell them precisely how I like it and have it remade—that's my personality. But as I struggle to a seated position with the blanket tucked to my armpits and have a sip, my desire to please this man overrules my sense of taste and I smile as I sip the nasty, bitter brew.

"Thanks," I tell him, inwardly shrinking away. It's strange how in the moment of sheer lust everything seems perfect and nothing matters at all except sexual peak. But following that moment, you start to remember every flaw, see every glaringly obvious reason this is a horrible mistake.

I don't even know what I'm doing or what I want. One second, he's the hottest thing since sliced bread, and the next moment, I'm remembering everything I hate about his family and reminding myself not to let him get close. The yo-yo makes my stomach flip.

He drinks his coffee and sits in silence, staring at the cold hearth. There's something about him that makes the silence feel safe, like he's not rushing to fill it with useless words. He's just present with me, and it makes me want to lean into him and seek comfort, but I can't. I've been parroting the same thing for five years, how horribly evil the Sokolovs are. Now I don’t know what to think except that if I turn on a dime and change my mind, my father will wonder what's going on.

"We can't let this happen again," I say, tasting the bitterness of those words. "And no one can know about this." I force myself to look at him, meet those dark eyes that see too much. "Last night was the storm and the stress and everything building up. It didn't mean anything."

Dimitri sets his coffee down on the side table and turns to face me. I see a flash of discouragement, then doubt. "You really think that's what it was?" he asks, gently, and he doesn't push. Strangely, that makes me upset with him. He's just too nice. He should be pissed or something. "You think we'd have ended up here if it was just circumstances?"

"I don't know," I admit. The roiling emotions inside my chest won’t let me think straight right now. When I hear his voice, I want to melt. But lying to him feels impossible when he's looking at me like that. "But we have a job to do. We have to stop this wedding. We can't afford to be distracted."

"Distracted," he repeats, turning back to the cold fireplace. "Is that what you're calling it?"

"I'm calling it what it is," I insist, even as my resolve wavers. "We're from families that've been destroying each other for years. My father killed your brother. Your father covered up what Ivan did to me. There's too much blood between us, Dimitri. Whatever this is…" I gesture between us with my free hand, sloshing coffee on the old wool blanket. "It can't go anywhere. It shouldn't have happened."

He's quiet for a moment, and I watch his jaw muscle flexing while he processes what I've said. When he speaks, his voice is steady. "I don't believe that," he says. "I don't believe what happened last night was just the storm or exhaustion or whatever you're selling yourself. But I'm not gonna push you, Alana. If you need to believe it was nothing so you can get through the day, then that's what you'll believe. I'm not going to force you to feel something you don't want to feel."

His words feel like a load of shit. He's giving me permission to deny this, but his eyes are telling me he knows I'm lying, and worse, that he knows I know. It feels toxic, like some game of musical chairs where any second the seat gets ripped out from under you and you fall on your ass. I've not dealt with a man who doesn't play games or manipulate. Before Ivan, I dated losers and users, never a man who stood back and spoke the truth. It's confusing, but I double down on my resolve. Facing what I'm wrestling with is too much right now.

"We need to focus on the investigation," I tell him, wishing I were dressed so I didn't have to feel embarrassed getting up to find my clothes. "The wedding's in just over a month. If we're gonna stop it, we need something concrete that will prove it shouldn't happen before the council."

I can tell he isn't fond of my wanting to hyperfocus, but he isn't pushing me. That's how I get through things that are uncomfortable, which I otherwise might hide from and allow to continue. He might call that a trauma defense mechanism, but I call it just surviving.

After finishing coffee in relative silence, we pack up, working around each other with an ease that feels dangerous. He hands me my sweater. I find his jacket on a chair and give it to him. There's a familiarity to it that scares me more than the sex, this domestic rhythm of two people who know each other's spaces. We've known each other for such a short time, but something here feels older, deeper, like we've been moving toward each other our whole lives.

The drive back is tense. Neither of us says much. Dimitri keeps his eyes on the road, hands on the wheel, but I see how tense he is. I know he wants to protest my position and tell me I'm being a fool, but he holds back. I should be grateful for his restraint, but I find myself wishing he'd push me, force me to admit that last night meant something and that for the first time since Ivan, I felt safe in a man's arms.

But he doesn't push, and I'm too cowardly to volunteer the truth after setting such a hard boundary. So we ride in silence until he pulls up and stops a few blocks south of the Volskaya estate.

"I'll contact you when I have something from my father's safe," he says, not looking at me. "Then we'll figure out our next move."

"Dimitri," I start, but I don't know what to say, don't know how to bridge the gap between what I feel and what's safe. He's on the wrong side of this, despite wanting to fight for me. He can't change the blood coursing through his veins.

He turns then, and his eyes are dark and serious and full of desire that steals my breath. "I meant what I said. You can pretend this was nothing, but that doesn't make it true. I'm not gonna force you to admit something you aren't ready to admit, but I'm also not going to pretend I don't want you. I do. I want you in ways that don't make sense, given who we are, but I can't change who I am or who you are."

"Dimitri—"

"Go inside," he says gently. "Natalia's probably worried sick about you. I'll be in touch."

I want to argue, but I also want to kiss him—or run back to the lodge and hide there with him another day, long enough to figure out if what I'm feeling is real or just a reaction to trauma. But I nod and open the door, stepping out into cold air that feels like a slap after being so warm.

I don't look back as I walk toward the house, but I feel his eyes on me until I turn the corner and open the gate.

Natalia finds me the minute I step into the main house. She's in the kitchen preparing brunch, hair pulled back in a severe bun. She takes one look at me and knows, which makes my stomach clench with nausea.