Page 24 of Dark Promise

“Fine,” I mutter, brushing past him. “But if I die of frostbite, I’m haunting you.”

He lets out a low chuckle, more of a rumble than a laugh. “Looking forward to it.” He pauses. “You’re going the wrong way.”

With a huff, I fall in behind him once more.

The banter is a distraction, albeit a small one, from the biting cold and the ache in my limbs. But as the minutes stretch into what feels like hours, the weight of everything that’s happened tonight begins to creep in—the crash, the gunfire, Piotr’s lifeless body sprawled in the snow.

“Nikolai,” I say, my voice quieter now. “What happened back there…your driver…”

“Don’t,” he interrupts, his tone flat.

“You don’t even want to talk about it?” I ask, struggling to match his pace.

“He knew the risks,” Nikolai replies, his voice cold, final.

“That’s it?” I press. “That’s all you have to say?”

He stops again, his broad shoulders stiff. When he turns to face me, his expression is unreadable, but there’s a tension in his jaw that wasn’t there before.

“He was with me for ten years. He wasn’t just my driver, he was my friend. And now he’s dead because of me.” His voice doesn’t crack, but there’s a weight in it that cuts through the freezing air like a blade. “So, no, Sabina, I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to make sure his death wasn’t for nothing.”

“It wasn’t your fau—”

“Keep moving, Sabina.”

The bluntness of his words cuts through me, but there’s something beneath them—a hint of something raw and unguarded. I don’t push him further. Not now.

We trudge on, the forest growing denser, the wind howling through the trees. My breath is shallow, every step heavier than the last. The oversized coat and makeshift boots are warm, but they weigh me down, and the exhaustion from everything—physical, emotional—presses in on me.

“How much farther?” I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper.

“Not far,” he says, his tone softer this time. “We’re close.”

I don’t know if I believe him, but I don’t have the energy to argue. I focus on putting one foot in front of the other, my gaze fixed on the outline of his back.

Then, through the swirling storm, I see it—a faint shape, dark on dark. The cabin emerges from the shadows like a ghost, its dark silhouette outlined against the snow-draped trees. It’s small and unassuming, the kind of place that could vanish into the wilderness if you weren’t looking for it. The windows are dark, no golden glow of warmth spilling out, and the chimney stands cold and lifeless, dusted with snow. The roof sags slightly under the weight of the storm, the wooden porch half-buried in a drift. It looks abandoned, forgotten—just another relic of a harsh, unforgiving landscape. The sight sends a chill through me, not from the cold, but from the realization that we’re on our own. Whatever warmth and safety we find here will have to be made, not given.

“Is this the part where you offer me a warm bed and a cup of tea?” I ask through chattering teeth.

“This is the part where you realize you’re stuck with me, for better or for worse,” Nikolai replies.

His pace quickens, and I force my legs to follow.

Nikolai pushes open the heavy wooden door, stepping aside to let me pass. The inside of the cabin is dark, the cold wind biting as it rushes in. No fire crackles, no warmth or light welcomes us. Just silence, shadows, and the faint scent of cedar.

I hesitate in the doorway. It’s as lifeless inside as the snowy wilderness outside. My makeshift boots skid on the wooden floor as I stumble inside.

“Stay there,” Nikolai says, his voice clipped as he moves past me. He doesn’t even spare me a glance before striding into the darkened cabin like he owns it. He reaches for something on thewall—a lantern—and with a sharp twist, the room is bathed in a dim, golden glow.

The cabin is small but functional, the kind of place built for survival, not luxury. The kitchen is to the right of the main room, separated by a half-wall made of weathered wood. It’s compact but well-equipped—a deep farmhouse sink sits under a window frosted with snow, and there’s an old but sturdy propane stove beside it. Open shelves hold mismatched dishes and a row of basic utensils hang neatly on hooks.

The main room doubles as a living area and dining space, with a wood-burning stove in one corner and a small table with two chairs pushed against the far wall. Above it, a window overlooks the dark expanse of trees, but there’s no hint of anything outside except the storm. The cabin feels secluded, utterly alone in the wilderness.

I collapse into a battered leather armchair near the cold stove, my body sagging under the weight of exhaustion and disbelief. My numb fingers claw at the oversized coat he forced me to wear, but I can’t bring myself to shed it. It’s a dead man’s coat, but it’s warm.

Nikolai moves with purpose, his steps sure despite the flickering light. He grabs a bundle of wood stacked neatly by the stove, then kneels to arrange some kindling with quick, efficient motions. The sound of a match striking cuts through the stillness, followed by the sudden bloom of firelight. After a time, he adds couple of logs.

The cabin starts to warm—slowly—but the tension in my chest doesn’t ease.

---