Page 30 of Dark Promise

He strides to the small bedroom and collapses face-down on the bed. He doesn’t bother with the covers. Within moments, his breathing evens out, and he’s still.

I cross to the doorway and linger for a moment. For the first time, Nikolai Ivanov doesn’t look like a man who could destroy worlds with a single decision. He looks human. Vulnerable, even. Like someone who’s spent his entire life fighting battles no one else can see.

I close the door softly and return to the main room, settling into the armchair by the fire. The gun sits heavy in my lap, a reminder of the man sleeping just feet away. My fingers curl around the grip, but my thoughts drift to Nikolai’s intense blue eyes and the way they see too much. To the way his voice wraps around me like a promise and a threat all at once.

This man is my enemy, I remind myself. But the truth is messier than that. Nikolai Ivanov is a weapon, and he’s pointed right at me.

10

Sabina

It’searly evening when Nikolai wakes up, emerging from the bedroom with tousled hair and clear eyes, the dark bags gone now. He retrieves his gun from me and heads outside again, I assume either to check the generator or walk the perimeter. I head to the bathroom to retrieve my turtleneck and skirt, intending to bundle them with the bloodied coats and set them ablaze. But the clothes aren’t there, and when I open the front door, neither are the coats. Nikolai has already taken care of it.

I go to the kitchen where I put together a makeshift feast. Canned oysters sit alongside three types of crackers and a tin of peaches that I drain into two mugs. There’s a small bowl of mixed nuts and another of dried apricots. I even find a wedge of aged cheddar and a small wheel of wax-sealed gouda buried in a cabinet. It feels absurdly domestic, playing house while the snow piles high outside and danger presses closer. I set the spread out on the low coffee table in front of the fire, arranging it with a precision I tell myself is about presentation and not distraction.

In one cupboard, I find a selection of wines. Expensive, aged ones, worthy of a five-star restaurant. There are also bottles of scotch, vodka, and other spirits. I ponder the options thenretrieve a bottle of vodka and a bottle of chardonnay. I’m settled on the couch and have just poured myself a glass of wine when Nikolai strides in and stomps the snow from his boots.

“You’re back,” I say.

“I’m back,” he replies, his tone unreadable as his gaze flicks from my face to the coffee table then back to my face.

“Generator okay?” I ask.

“For now.” He shrugs off his coat, the movement fluid but heavy, as if the weight of the world doesn’t quite leave him when the fabric does.

“That’s reassuring.” He definitely is not in a conversational mood.

“It’ll be fine,” he says, his tone laced with quiet authority.

I pat the sofa next to me. “Join me. I put together a feast.”

Nikolai raises an eyebrow but steps closer. His gaze moves over the spread, lingering on the vodka. When his eyes meet mine, there’s a flicker of amusement, dark and knowing.

“Oysters and vodka?”

“I figured you for a vodka type of guy.”

He stares at me, the corners of his mouth curling up, and I feel like I’ve missed the punch line to a joke only he knows.

“Vodka works,” he says, his voice low. “It’s a classic. Bold. Uncomplicated.”

A strange sense of déjà vu washed over me. I reach for it, trying to catch a memory, but it slides away.

He sits down on the opposite side of the couch, his big body dominating the space in a way that makes me feel both uneasy and…warm. Too warm. He doesn’t sprawl, but his presence pulls the air from the small cabin.

“I thought we could play a game,” I say, forcing lightness into my tone. When he doesn’t say anything, just stares at me with that pale, piercing gaze, I add, “Truth or drink.”

His brows lift. “Dangerous,” he murmurs. Not a warning. An invitation.

A shiver of awareness passes through me. Everything about Nikolai is dangerous.

I wet my lips. His gaze lingers on my mouth, then snaps back to my eyes.

“What are the rules?” he asks, his voice a low rasp.

I swallow, feeling breathless and restless and out of my depth. “It’s like truth or dare, but no dares. You either answer my question honestly or take a shot of vodka. I’ll drink wine, though. Leveling the playing field.”

“Because I’m twice your size?” There’s a hint of laughter in his tone.

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