Page 29 of Dark Promise

“He brought me here when I was younger. He taught me to fish, one of his favorite things to do in the world. Just him and me and the lake. I caught a trout my first time out. It was no bigger than my hand, but he was so damn proud.” He nods at the photo in my hand.

I set down the photo and say, “Your first kill,” knowing very well that it’s an unkind response to what must have been a happy memory for him.

A muscle in his cheek twitches. “No. Uncle Vlasta preferred catch and release. My first kill came several years later and was most definitely of the human species. Sorry, but I don’t have a picture of that one.”

I almost ask him who he killed, and why, but bite my tongue at the last second, not certain I want to know. I don’t want to learn Nikolai Ivanov’s secrets. I just want to get as far away from his as I can, as soon as possible.

He shrugs off his coat and hangs it on a hook near the door, running a hand through his dark hair, the strands falling messily over his forehead. The gesture is almost boyish, but there’s nothing soft about him, not the set of his jaw or the tension coiled in his muscled frame. His face is etched with exhaustion, dark shadows underlining his piercing blue eyes.

He looks like a man who hasn’t slept in days, but the sheer force of his presence fills the cabin, crowding the air between us.

“You look like hell,” I say, settling into the armchair and pulling a blanket around me.

“Good morning to you too,” he replies, his tone as dry as winter air.

“Did you sleep at all?” I ask. I don’t know why I care.

“No.” He crouches by the stove, pokes at the embers and adds wood. The orange glow illuminates the curve of his cheekbone, the muscled lines of his tattooed forearms. “I kept watch.”

“Are we still in danger?” The words betray more vulnerability than I want him to see.

“There’s always a possibility,” he says without looking at me. “I wasn’t taking any chances.”

I bite my lip, watching him as he adds a log. There’s something about the way he moves, controlled, deliberate, likeevery action is part of a larger strategy. He’s a man who holds the world in his hands and doesn’t let anyone see how much it costs him.

“Go rest,” I say, surprising myself with the softness in my voice. “I’ll keep an eye on things.”

That gets his attention. He glances up, his pale blue eyes locking on mine with a sharpness that makes my pulse stutter. There’s something dangerous in his gaze, something that warns me he’s not the kind of man who trusts anyone.

“You?” he asks.

I’m not sure if that single words carries skepticism or amusement. Maybe curiosity.

“Yes, me.” I lift my chin. “I’m perfectly capable of staring out a window and listening for suspicious noises.”

Nikolai stands, his full height dwarfing me. He doesn’t say anything at first, just studies me with that too-perceptive gaze, like he’s peeling back layers I didn’t even know I have. Then, without a word, he reaches for the waistband of his jeans and pulls his gun. The movement is smooth, casual, but there’s nothing casual about the way he holds it, firm, steady, like the weapon is an extension of himself.

“If there’s even a hint of trouble,” he says, “wake me.” He holds the gun out to me, the polished steel catching the firelight.

I take it, the weight familiar in my hands. But the gesture is anything but. It feels like a challenge…or a test.

“You’re trusting me with this?” I ask, raising my brows. “Given that you’ve kidnapped me, aren’t you worried I might turn it on you?”

Even saying those words make me feel ill. But he doesn’t know that. He knows nothing about me, least of all my secrets and my weaknesses.

He leans in, close enough that I catch the faint scent of snow and smoke clinging to him. Close enough that his presencepresses against me, heavy and inescapable. His voice drops, low and intimate.

“Don’t make me regret it,” he says.

For a moment, we’re frozen like that, the air between us crackling with unspoken tension, his nearness making it impossible to think straight.

“Go to bed, Nikolai,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “You look like you’re about to drop.”

“Bossy,” he murmurs, and his lips twitch in the ghost of a smile. Without another word, he turns and heads to the bathroom. The sound of running water follows.

Less than five minutes later, Nikolai emerges, his hair damp, his torso bare. He’s all hard muscle and smooth, tattooed skin—roses, thorns, skulls, a dagger. His jeans hang low on his hips, and my traitorous gaze dips before I can stop myself.

He doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does and he’s just too infuriatingly self-assured to care. He pulls a t-shirt over his head, the fabric clinging to the still-damp planes of his chest.

---