Page 25 of Dark Promise

“Don’t get comfortable,” Nikolai says, his voice low as he straightens, brushing ash from his hands. “We’re not done yet.”

“Comfortable?” I echo, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “I wasn’t planning to unpack my champagne and caviar.”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t take the bait.

“I’m going to check the generator,” he says. The door creaks as he vanishes into the storm for a moment before returning, brushing snow from his shoulders.

“Generator’s in good shape,” he says, stamping his boots on the threshold before shutting the door behind him.

“Is there a landline here?” I ask.

“No.”

“Satellite phone?” I ask.

“No.”

“Walkie-talkie? Ham radio? CB?” I ask, syrup sweet, just to needle him.

The corners of his mouth curl in a faint smile. “You’re determined to be difficult, aren’t you?”

“You haven’t earned an easier version of me,” I say, refusing to let him get the last word.

He just cuts me a quelling look and heads into the kitchen where he swings open the cupboards to reveal rows of canned goods—soups, beans, vegetables—all stacked with military precision. He tests the tap, which offers a steady stream of clear water.

“It’s a well system,” he says, his tone calm and matter-of-fact. “Water’s clean. Thanks to the generator, we’ll have lights, heat, running water. Enough to cook and shower. No luxury, but it’ll do.”

I’m fixated on the wordshower. Hot water running over my skin, washing away the blood, sweat, and grime of tonight, sounds like salvation.

“Hot water?” I ask, unable to mask the edge of hope in my voice.

His lips twitch in the faintest smirk, like he knows exactly how much I want this.

“Yes, goddess. A hot shower.”

I could kiss him for that, but then I remember who he is—and who I am—and shove the thought aside.

I start to push myself up from the chair, aching for that shower, but a wave of fatigue swamps me, and I let myself fall back in the seat. Maybe I’ll just rest for a bit…

Nikolai glances at me and frowns. “I need to deal with your head.”

He strides to a cabinet and pulls out a small metal first-aid kit. Without a word, he crosses the room, crouching in front of me.

“Let me see,” he says, his tone gentler now. His eyes flick to mine, sharp and assessing.

“I’m fine,” I mumble, shrinking back into the chair. The truth is, I’m not fine. My head is pounding, and the cut on my temple throbs with every beat of my pulse. But I’m wary of admitting weakness.

“Sabina,” he says, his voice low and commanding. “Let me help you.”

His fingers catch my chin, tilting my face toward his. It’s not rough, but there’s power in his touch that makes my breath catch. The firelight flickers over his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the dangerous edge to his gaze.

“Trust me,” he murmurs. “For now.”

Something in his tone cuts through my resistance. I nod, begrudgingly leaning forward.

He tilts my chin with one hand, his touch firm but careful, and inspects the wound. His breath is warm on my skin, a stark contrast to the chill still clinging to my body.

“You’re lucky,” he murmurs, opening the kit and pulling out a small bottle of antiseptic. “It’s shallow.”

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