Chapter 10

POV ALEJANDRA ZAVALA

One of the first things Ilya did when we arrived at the cabin—or dacha, as he called it—was light the fireplace. I had to sit right in front of it, wrapped in a blanket, because I couldn’t stop trembling.

The car had climbed higher and higher along the road, and the cabin was perched on a hillside. It wasn’t snowing heavily yet, but it hadn’t stopped since it started, and I knew it would only get worse.

There were men’s clothes stored in the closet of the only bedroom we had, but nothing for women. I changed out of the dress I had arrived in and threw on a heavy sweatshirt, but all the pants were enormous. They covered my legs in the worst way possible but wouldn’t stay on my body.

Sitting on the floor, I put them on anyway, but it still wasn’t enough. Not even the socks helped.

I wasn’t used to the cold, so I knew that night would be difficult.

I had been shivering for at least an hour when I started hearing noises outside. My untrained ear made me think it was the sound of a fight—loud thuds, along with growls and grunts, as if someone was making a great effort.

With difficulty, I got up, still wrapped in the blanket and struggling to keep my pants from falling, and made my way to the window, trying to stay as inconspicuous as possible.

I freed my hand from the heavy fabric, reached out, and slightly pulled the curtain aside to take a look outside.

The sight that greeted me was almost indecent.

Ilya stood under the setting sun, wearing only a heavy long-sleeved turtleneck shirt—nothing else—his hair tied back in a samurai bun, holding an axe in his hand. He didn’t seem to feel even half the cold that I did, but then again, he had dedicated himself to a very physical task.

He lifted the axe over his head and brought it down with precision and force onto a log, which I knew would be used for the fireplace.

The man was a perfect display of strength and focus—brutal and violent, rough and fierce. A barbarian in the middle of a snowy, forested landscape, both beautiful and dangerous.

I actually lost my breath looking at him.

He lifted his head, inhaling the fresh air. With his eyes closed, he couldn’t see me watching him, but when he seemed about to open them, I quickly stepped back, rushing to my previous spot. I sat down and made the sign of the cross because this had to be a sin.

Ilya was a mafia man, my protector. The last thing I should be doing was imagining him putting his hands on me and...

The door opened, interrupting my thoughts—thank God!

He came in with his arms full of firewood, which he dumped directly into the fireplace. He adjusted the logs as best as he could and went back outside to get more without saying a single word.

Once again, he had that stern expression, and I was already beginning to understand—even though we had only known each other for a short time—that Ilya had his moments, and they needed to be respected.

"I think this will help," he finally said, rubbing his hands together to clean them.

"Yes, thank you," I replied, curling up.

"Tomorrow, I promise I'll buy you some clothes."

"I don't want you to go through the trouble or spend too much money."

He shrugged.

"It's nothing. Better than you getting sick. We can't afford that."

Ilya moved away again, heading up the stairs to the mezzanine of the cabin, where the bedroom was.

As he spoke, I started wondering whether my shivers were really from the cold or something else.

Ilya didn’t seem uncomfortable at all. Sure, he was huge and always had warm hands—I had felt that when we accidentally touched—but there was something strange happening inside me.

Like an internal fever.

But no... it had to be just in my head.

I heard the sound of a phone ringing, but it stopped quickly when Ilya answered it.

Even though I didn’t want to eavesdrop, it was hard not to listen—especially when he said someone’s name with such affection.

"Mitya, I can’t change my mind. Did Kolya tell you what happened?"

I couldn’t hear the response from the person on the other end, but I could hear Ilya’s breathing grow heavier. He was nervous, upset—and in a way, it was my fault.

"I know... I know that if they catch me with her, I’ll be executed. I don’t..."

Executed?

Because of me?

"That’s why I wasn’t answering you. I can’t talk to you or Tasha. If I get caught, I’ll say you knew nothing about it. That she knew nothing about it. I’ll say I kidnapped her."

Another pause. What the hell was he talking about?

I felt another shiver and had to pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders.

"She’s not to blame for anything. She’s just a girl, Mitya. If you were in my position, you’d do the same."

Ilya’s voice faded as he probably stepped outside through the back door of the cabin. I couldn’t hear the rest of the conversation, but one word was enough to shake me: “executed.”

Ilya couldn’t die because he had saved me. He was a protector, not a traitor.

What a huge mess I had created.

I might be in a better situation than before, but my conscience would never be at peace if he were caught and sentenced.

The call must have shaken him somehow because it took him a while to come back downstairs. When he did, I was lying on the couch, feeling my body heavy but unable to talk about my concern for my health.

He already had enough problems.

Whatever this was, it was probably just a minor illness. It would pass.

"We’ll have to sleep in the same bed again. Is that okay with you?"

I startled at his voice. I hadn’t even noticed I’d dozed off.

I sat up, adjusting myself, running a hand through my hair, and sniffing. My nose felt stuffy too.

"It’s fine, as long as you’re a gentleman like before and don’t decide to handcuff me again."

"Hmmm."

His usual grunt came with firm footsteps as he walked away to the kitchen.

I coughed twice, very softly, and got up, still wrapped in layers.

"You wouldn’t be crazy enough to run away from here. The snow is getting worse, and there’s nothing for at least fifteen kilometers," he warned while opening the fridge.

He was still wearing the same clothes as before, but now he had added a leather jacket over the turtleneck.

"Then how are you going to buy things tomorrow?" I struggled to climb onto a high stool in the kitchen.

"I’ll take the car. I’ll have to swap it again, by the way."

He had already done that on the way to the cabin, and we were now in an SUV—still big and nice but about two years older than the last one.

"I found a resale shop in town."

"Even after swapping it and using a fake name?"

I had no idea how Ilya had gotten those fake documents, but I imagined he had them ready. And probably, no one knew about them.

"Even so. Just to be safe."

I nodded, watching him crack some eggs.

At the same time that the smell of melting butter made my stomach growl—we hadn’t eaten in hours—I also felt slightly nauseous. Not enough to vomit, but just uncomfortable.

"How long are we staying here?"

Ilya didn’t tell me much.

I imagined he couldn’t—not just because he didn’t trust me yet, but also because he probably didn’t have a concrete plan.

He was improvising.

"I don’t know. A few days, at least. Until your documentation is sorted."

Stirring the eggs, he grunted again when a piece of eggshell fell into the pan.

"We’re safe here. Or as safe as we can be. I’ll also withdraw some cash while I’m in town."

"Once again, you’re spending money on me."

"I have plenty of money. Don’t worry."

I raised an eyebrow, but there was no arrogance in his tone.

Where had all this money come from?

What exactly did he do?

Well... he was a mafioso, wasn’t he?

Maybe it was better not to know.