Page 45 of His Hold

We’re animals now, clawing, rutting, drowning in each other’s filth. He groans my name, a broken prayer, as he spills into me again.

Chapter 14

Nikolai

The snow’s melting into stubborn patches of slush, pooling in the tracks we left outside the cabin. It’s a sign we’ve stayed here longer than I wanted. The chill’s thinning out, and the air biting less, but the tension’s just as loud. I’ve been restless, caught between watching her limp through those damned stretches of pain and reminding myself why we’re even here.

Katya’s foot is healing nicely, though. The limp is barely noticeable now, but I catch her wincing every time she puts weight on it. She’s stubborn—more than she should be. She doesn’t wince as much, moves around more without clinging to furniture. I know it’s time to leave. And I’m done pretending like this hideout of a cabin can keep us safe. It was never meant to be a sanctuary.

Yet, I can’t help this ominous feeling that’s keeping inside me as to why I suddenly hate that idea.

I glance her way, where she’s frowning at some threadbare map spread over the table. She’s trying to figure out her sister’s last movements, muttering to herself like the pieces will fall into place if she just stares hard enough.

“We need to go soon,” I say.

Her eyes snap to me, irritated but resigned. The cabin turned into some kind of safety net for her. But safety’s an illusion. The minute we walk out, the real hunt begins.

“What? Why? I’m getting close to something.”

“Because,” I snap. “If your sister’s out there, then we’ve wasted enough time here.” That, and I don’t think I can spend another minute cooped up with you here and not touch you. Then I’ve been trying to map out Kirill’s interests, what he wanted from Irina. Talent, sure. But not just anyone’s. He’s got galleries locked down across Moscow, fronts for whatever schemes he’s tangled up in. And Irina... Irina must’ve been the perfect fit.

Artistry. Painting and photography are things that make her stand out to a collector like him. Or worse, someone who needed her skill to forge, to smuggle priceless pieces. Maybe she was even lured by the promise of freedom. More likely, she was dragged into someone else’s game, tossed around for their convenience.

Kirill’s not going to wait forever. He’ll ask me for my lead soon. The bastard wants information about Alina’s death, something that ties me back to that night. That’s why I was supposed to meet Rurik here. An enforcer with a talent for sniffing out secrets. Reliable when sober, but that’s a rare state for him. More often than not, he’s strung out, chasing highs that leave him hollow.

Doesn’t matter. If Rurik’s managed to dig up anything, I need to hear it. And if not... I’ll make him useful another way. He’s been in this business long enough to understand leverage. And if he’s not playing ball, I’ll find out why.

I shouldn’t care about Katya’s sister, but Irina’s death—if it’s even true—feels like a thread tangled up with everything else. And even though I should be on that, I also sort of promised Katya I’d help probe Kirill about her sister. I’m not sure Irina worked directly for Kirill like Katya suspects, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she did either.

“Pack your things,” I say, jerking my chin towards the cramped bedroom. “We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”

Katya narrows her eyes, but doesn’t argue. Maybe she’s learning when to pick her battles. Or maybe she’s just too tired to fight.

I leave her to it, moving to the kitchen to make sure we haven’t left anything behind. We don’t want any evidence to show we were here. Coffee grounds spilled on the counter. A knife carelessly tossed aside. One thing out of place or too in place, and we could have someone we don’t even know on our tail. This place is used for shady deals all the time.

I check the kitchen, rummaging through drawers and cabinets, making sure we haven’t left anything useful behind. Just as I’m about to double back, something catches my eye through the window.

Footprints. Fresh ones. And they’re not mine or hers. Fuck.

My pulse quickens. The crunch of snow, the faint drag of weight. Someone’s out there. Watching.

I move fast, slipping down the hall to find her. She’s shoving clothes into her bag, eyes narrowed like she’s trying to figure out what I haven’t said.

She’s just zipping up her bag when I grab her arm.

“Stay low,” I whisper. “Someone’s out there.”

Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t ask questions. Smart girl.

I dart around the cabin, locking the back door, jamming the windows shut. Double-checking the boards I set up for extra security. My own fault for getting too comfortable. For letting her become a distraction.

I glance out the window again. I hear the footsteps circling the cabin. They’re coming from more than one direction. We’ve got minutes, maybe less, before they break in.

“Don’t make a sound. Hide.”

She stares at me, lips parted like she’s about to argue. I shut her down with a glare. “Under the bed. Now.”

She doesn’t hesitate this time. Crawls under, dragging her bag with her, eyes too wide for her own good.

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