Page 31 of His Hold

I nod slowly, digesting her words. The question now isn’t whether it was, in fact deliveries or not. It was what was being delivered. I know my kind enough that once they needed a woman to move stuff for them, it was never anything good. I never saw her with anything, like a bag or package the two times I escorted her. And even if I did, it wasn’t my business to find out what was in it.

“You’re betting a lot on the chance I know something useful,” I say, leaning back in my chair.

“I have no choice,” she says simply. “Everywhere else I’ve turned has been a dead end. You’re the last thread.”

I move to the window, peering out at the raging storm. It’s a white prison. Turning back to her, I see she’s already huddled by the fire, exhaustion finally overtaking her stubborn will.

“Get some rest,” I say gruffly. “We’ll finish the conversation tomorrow.”

It takes a moment, but she nods, wrapping herself in the threadbare blanket I toss her way. I settle into the chair by the door with my gun resting on my lap. Sleep is a luxury I can’t afford. Not now.

As the firelight flickers, casting shadows on the walls, I let my thoughts drift. Who would have thought I’d end up playing nursemaid in some forsaken cabin, catering to the sister of a potential traitor? Life’s funny like that, always throwing you in directions you don’t expect.

But there’s something about her, something that keeps me from tossing her out. Maybe it’s the fire in her eyes, the insistent pursuit of truth, no matter the cost. Or maybe it’s because, deep down, I know what it’s like to lose someone. To be desperate for answers.

We’re both seeking something, but in this web of lies and power plays, it’s survival that’ll be the ultimate test. And I aim to be the one who comes out on top.

Despite the uncertainty, there’s a strange sense of camaraderie. We may be stuck in a blizzard, driven by conflicting goals, but right now, survival is all that matters.

She breaks the silence first. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not being what I expected.”

I meet her eyes, the sparkle of the fire reflecting in her eyes. “Don’t thank me yet.”

Chapter 9

Katya

I wake up, and it’s still dark. My ankle hurts a little less, and the dull throb has eased just enough for me to notice. But I’m not out of the woods yet. That much I know.

He moves around the cabin like he’s been here before, his steps too sure, his actions too deliberate for a place that’s supposed to be abandoned. The fire he lit before has gone out, but he doesn’t leave me in the cold for long. He crouches by the fireplace, striking a match and tossing it into the new logs he’s arranged with practiced ease.

The flames catch quickly and rise, licking at the air. Causing shadows to flicker over his face, perfecting his features into something I can’t seem to take my eyes off.

I’ve always thought his features are a cruel kind of flawless, and they make my pulse stutter in ways I don’t want to admit.

He’s preparing dinner, using those rough hands and working with a precision that sets something restless under my skin. I imagine those hands on me, those calloused fingers digging into my hips, pinning me down, unraveling me with that same fierce focus.

I almost moan as I watch the muscles in his forearms flex, the way his shirt pulls tightly across his back. I wonder how it would feel to have that strength coiled around me, his whole weight pressing me into the floor, his mouth claiming every inch of me he wants.

Damn it. Why is he so good-looking without trying? This isn’t a man used to comfort or routine. Everything about him screams harsh edges and brutal efficiency. Yet the way he moves now makes it seem like he’s the gentlest person who wouldn’t hurt a fly.

I don’t mean to speak, but the sentences leave my mouth anyway. “You know your way around here. Too well.”

He doesn’t answer, and his eyes stay fixed on whatever he’s cutting. Quiet stretches between us, and for a moment, I find myself nervous.

“So, you’ve been here before,” I press, irritation lacing my voice, though it’s more at myself—how I’m aching to know him, to feel him. “Is this some kind of a safehouse? Or do you just haunt random cabins for kicks?”

He still doesn’t glance at me. “Wasn’t random.”

“Then whose is it?”

He slams the knife down harder than necessary, the thud echoing through the room. “It used to belong to someone else. Not anymore. What’s with all the questions?”

“Just trying to know my new roommate better.” I don’t drop it. “Was this someone important?”

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