“Food will be brought three times a day,” Sokolov continues. “Petrov will come in daily. You will do as he tells you.”

  The door closes behind me. I stand there, heart pounding, and understand I’m alone now. And afraid.

  The room is larger than anything I’ve ever lived in. One wall is all glass, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the grounds. Moonlight spills through the glass and spreads across the floor. I stand there, unsure where to put myself. A king-size bed sits in the center. A single lamp glows on the table beside it.

  Then I see him.

  He lies beneath charcoal linens, bandages wrapped around his torso. Even unconscious, he fills the room. Viktor Morozov. The man everyone said was dead.

  A faint twitch moves across his fingers. A rough sound leaves his throat. My body reacts before my mind does. A flush spreads from my chest to my neck, my skin betraying me with a throb of heat. I’ve seen men torn open by bullets before, but this is different. Looking at him makes my chest tight. It makes my blood turn thick and heavy.

  I spin around, staring at the polished wood of the door. I grab the handle and pull. The lock holds. I try it again, but it doesn't budge. I'm not just here to work. I'm a prisoner locked in a cage with a ghost.

  I force myself to turn away from the door, my heart still knocking against my ribs. I set the medical bag on the nightstand, my hands clumsy as I fumble with the latch.

  Don’t look at him like that.

  But when I glance back, I do anyway. From this angle, Viktor looks younger than I expected. The headlines had painted a monster, but the man lying there has a sharp jawline and skin that looks like bronze against the white fabric. He looks younger than the headlines, but just as dangerous. I touch his skin to check for a fever. He’s solid. Built for violence. The heat coming off him makes my own blood feel heavy. This is the man they warned me about.

  Still, my gaze lingers. I catch it and drag it away, heat crawling up my neck. I’ve treated men torn open by knives, by bullets, by cars. I’ve cleaned blood from places I don't even like to name. None of it ever did this to me. None of it ever made my chest feel tight for no clear reason.

  Get to work.

  I step closer because I have to. Because there’s a bandage to check. Because someone’s life is balanced on what I do next. My fingers lift, then stall above the covers. It shouldn’t matter what they’re made of, but the fabric looks too expensive. Everything in this room feels like it belongs to someone else’s world.

  Stop hesitating.

  I lower my hand and press lightly. I’m feeling for swelling, for anything wrong beneath the surface. But the warmth under my palm is a hum that sinks into my bones. My fingers move bit by bit, mapping what I need to know. I tell myself the quick jump of my pulse means nothing. But then my hand brushes skin instead of fabric, and my thoughts scatter. I’ve spent years training my brain to see bodies as machines, but this young man's heat is a localized fever that my own blood is rising to meet. I’m touching a thigh the size of my torso and my groin is gathering heat. I’m getting hard. It’s dysfunctional and wrong. I’ve spent my life looking at bodies like machines to fix, but this is a man, and the way I’m reacting to him makes me want to hack my own hand off.

  I still my fingers at once. Breathe. Think.

  This is not why you’re here.

  I adjust my grip, but now I’m too aware of the space between my hand and his body. Too aware of the way my own breath has changed. How can a stranger feel this intrusive? I finish the check fast after that. Too fast. And when I step back, my hands feel strange. Like they don't belong to me anymore.

  Viktor’s skin is warm beneath my palm, solid in a way that surprises me. Built to take hits and keep standing. I catch myself wondering how heavy he is, how much space he takes up when he’s not lying still like this. The thought makes my stomach flip, a mix of nausea and a hunger I don't recognize. I don’t want him to look at me.

  Stop.

  My touch drifts lower without me meaning it to. When I brush something unmistakably human beneath the covers, I don't jump. I just freeze. I forget to breathe. I don’t know what I’m doing.

  I’ve spent years training my brain to treat bodies like machines. Parts to fix. This isn't a machine. This is a man, and the heat coming off him is making my head spin.

  Does he know I’m touching him?

  My scrubs itch. My chest feels too tight. I tell myself to look away, but instead I notice the way his scent fills the space between us.

  Get back to work.

  I force my hands to move. I peel back the gauze. The wound is a jagged mouth against his ribs. I clean the edges, slow and careful, focusing on the scrape of the swab against skin.

  Don’t think about anything else. Don’t think about the heat under your fingers. Don’t think about how your own pulse is racing to keep up with his.

  Dropping into the armchair, I slump back against the wood paneling of the wall. My legs are heavy. The adrenaline is starting to crash, leaving a localized fever in my blood. I yawn into my hand, but I don't stop watching him.

  A sound pulls me out of sleep. My eyes flutter open. Then I hear it again.

  A deeper breath. Viktor’s position has changed. His hand tightens in the blanket. A muscle jumps in his jaw. Then his eyes open—not glassy with fever, but sharp. They cut through the haze of the drugs to find the only threat in the room. I forget how to breathe.

  I flick a look at the door. Locked. Viktor coughs, the sound tearing out of him, rough and wet. I should go to him. I know I should. But fear, and something worse, pins me where I sit.

  Then his gaze finds me. They aren't the eyes of a patient. They're the eyes of a predator. He’s assessing me, weighing my worth, and I’m frozen under the stare. “Where am I?”

  Training kicks in before courage does. I’m moving before I think about it. “At home.”

  His eyes sweep the room once, assessing. Then they return to me. “This is not home. Who are you?”

  My pulse kicks. “I’m Jonah. I’m... your nurse. Do you need anything?”

  Viktor’s eyes narrow. They’re green, edged with gold. The corner of his mouth tightens, like he can hear my heartbeat. Then his eyes slide shut again.

  I don't realize I’ve stopped breathing until my chest burns. I sink back into the chair, then down to the floor, my pulse racing. My palms still feel warm.

  This isn’t good. I scrub my face.

  I just want to go home. Because sooner or later, Viktor will wake up. And he’ll realize we’re locked in together.

  What do I do then? When he’s strong enough to stand? When he realizes I’m the only thing in this room he can break?

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  VIKTOR

  The first thing I feel is pain. So fucking much of it. There’s a sharp strain under my ribs and a pressure in my chest that shouldn’t be there. My mouth parches. The ceiling swims for a moment before it locks into place. I try for a deeper breath and regret it. Something locks under the bandage, sharp enough to keep me still.

  Turning my head, I see him by the wall.

  He’s half out of the chair, caught mid-motion like a deer in the high beams. I recognize him from the shadows of my fever, the one who’s been hovering over me while the world was black.

  He’s younger than I expected. Blond. His hair is longer than it should be for a nurse, messy strands that look soft even from across the room.

  He looks out of place beside my bed, a bird trapped in a room with a bolted window. My gaze settles on the pulse jumping in his neck. It beats fast. He’s terrified, and the sound of his fear is the only thing grounding me to the room.

  He locks up when he realizes I’m awake, crossing the room in two quick steps. “G—good morning, Viktor.” He swallows. “I’m Jonah. I’m your nurse. May I check on you?”

  I take him in. His fingers fidget. His body leans back even as his feet stay planted, like he’s expecting impact. I don't have the strength to reach for him. Instead, I pin him with a look that says I don't need my hands to break him. I should be focused on the threat outside the door, but instead, I choose to watch the way his pulse jumps, deciding exactly how I’ll ruin him. “Carefully, Jonah. That’s not a request. If you hurt me, I’ll make sure you feel it twice as hard.”

  “I’m going to touch you now⁠—”

  I let my mouth curve. “Are you now?”

  “Just to…” He clears his throat. “I need to check the dressing. Make sure it hasn’t bled through.” His hand hovers over my chest.

  “Ne boy’ya,” I murmur. “I don’t bite. Not yet.”

  Jonah blushes. “I’m not sure what that means, but… yeah, I’ll be done before you know.”

  His touch is soft. My mind is still a fucking fog.

  “I’m glad you’re awake,” Jonah breathes as he continues his work. The bandage is removed, then something wet slides over my flesh. I hiss at the sting, my stomach muscles jumping in an involuntary knot beneath his fingertips. “I’m sorry. Nearly done. The wound is healing slowly.”

  Wound. I close my eyes and try to remember. Vesper’s. My birthday. Lev⁠—

  “Lev.” My voice is a ghost of what it should be, but it stops him.

  His eyes widen. “W—what?”

  “Where the fuck is he?”

  “I…don’t know. Your grandmother sent me. I wasn’t meant to be here. I mean, I—” He falters.

  “Hm.” I turn that over as I push myself up, the world tilting. I recognize the molding on the ceiling. My breath hitches. I haven't set foot in this room since Lev and I fled eight years ago, the night the air in this estate turned to poison. Now, Sergei has dragged me back to my childhood bed like a disobedient toy. I could break the IV and use the pole to find a way out, but I’m too weak to make it past the door. For now, the nurse is the only leverage I have.

  “Hang on… wait.” Jonah’s already moving. “You shouldn’t walk alone. You need the bathroom? Let me help you.” He slips my arm over his shoulder and pulls me upright. “Here, lean on me.”

  Every muscle in my back screams as he pulls me upright. My knees are a joke, but I force my weight onto them, refusing to let my body betray the name I carry. I lock my jaw, refusing to collapse against him, but the heat of his body is an intrusion I can't ignore. He’s too close. I can smell the antiseptic on his skin and the faint, sharp scent of his sweat. It makes my stomach knot with a hunger that isn't about food.

  The IV pole stands beside the bed, the line taped to my hand. I curl my fingers around the tubing and start to pull, growling, “I can go by my fucking self.”

  “Stop.” His hand closes around my wrist. “Please. You’ll tear it out and I’ll have to redo it. It might hurt.” I look at his hand. Then at him. “If you pull it loose, you’ll bleed all over your sheets. And then I’ll have to explain it to your grandmother. I’d rather not.”

  He offers his arm again. I grind my jaw and let him take more of my weight than I want to give. Pain flares under my ribs as we move toward the bathroom. Whatever the fuck happened to me, it hurts. I won’t fucking fall in front of him.

  “If you need anything, just tell me.” Jonah adjusts his grip, then steps back fast. “I’ll be right outside.” He swallows, his cheeks flushed.

  “Get the fuck out of the bathroom.”

  “Sure. Yes. Sorry.” He backs toward the door.

  I brace a hand on the cold tile and piss. Every muscle in my back aches. I wash my hands and splash cold water on my face until my vision steadies. Someone tried to kill me. The gown clings to my chest, damp with cold sweat. A reminder of how close the bullet came to my heart. I don’t know who pulled the trigger yet, but the list is long. Whoever it was made a mistake. They left me breathing.

  By the time I’ve dried my hands, my knees are wobbling. I leave the bathroom slowly, jaw locked, determined to make it back on my own. Then the room sways.

  “Don’t,” I bark as Jonah grabs my arm. “I’ve got it.”

  “You don’t. And that’s okay.” He works fast, sliding my arm over his shoulder.

  I want to tell him to shut the fuck up, but my throat is too dry and the pain too sharp. Instead, I let him help me back to the bed and against the pillows, breathing through the agony and hating how much I need the support.

  “Okay,” Jonah says softly. “One final check before I let you rest.” His hand settles at my waist, careful around the bandage.

  He’s close enough now that I get a proper look at him. He’s too clean for this place. Blond hair, blue eyes, and skin that looks like it’s never seen a day of real violence. Faint freckles dust the bridge of his nose and his cheeks, looking like a map I want to crush under my thumb. He keeps his focus on the bandage, but I can feel his hands shaking. He’s a lamb standing in a slaughterhouse, and he doesn’t even know the blade is already at his throat.

  “Do you need something?” When Jonah finally looks up, he pinches his eyebrows when he catches me already staring. “Water, medicine, anything. I can get it… well, that’s what I’m here for. To help you survive.”

  He looks innocent, but I’m still deciding what he is. If Babushka put him here, he isn't safe. I don’t trust anyone in this house, especially not a stranger with access to my IV line while I sleep. I watch his lips as he speaks, and the heat in my groin is an arrogant throb. He’s mine to break. I want to see how long he can look me in the eye before he realizes he’s already been claimed.

  I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I feel is pressure at my wrist. My eyes snap open, hand searching for my dagger under the pillow. Nothing. Of fucking course.

  “What the hell’s going on?” I grunt. My voice sounds wrecked.

  “Nothing,” Jonah says quickly. His fingers are already on my pulse. Then his hand moves to my forehead. “You’re burning up again. I’m going to push something through your line. It’ll help bring the fever down.”

  “Mmh,” I mutter. My eyes slide shut again. Cool spreads through my arm, dragging my body down with it. I’m aware of Jonah staying close. Too close. His hand rests at my upper arm. Then higher. Fingers at my throat. Down toward my chest.

  “Don’t fall asleep, Viktor. Your body needs to strengthen up. Let’s get you something to eat, then you can sleep again. Here.”

  The rim of a cup presses to my lips. I swallow. The water burns going down. Jonah pulls it back, his eyes flicking to the door before settling on me.

  “Why are we locked in?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper.

  My jaw tightens. “Because I should have been dead.” The lock keeps the world out as much as it keeps us in. It buys me the time I need to stop being a target and start being a hunter again.

  He lets out a dry, nervous chuckle. “Ah, so they wanted you dead⁠—”

  “But I didn’t,” I grate out. “Apparently.”

  “No—that’s… that’s good. Please don’t die.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You sound awfully hopeful.”

  “Yes, well, I have my own reasons. Anyway, they brought food, so let’s dig in.”

  “Who did?”

  He shrugs. “The blond guard. She’s the only one who actually looks at me.”

  “Hm.” I don’t recall Sergei having any female guards. “She’s probably new. Another piece my uncle has moved onto the board while he thinks I’m too weak to notice.”

  Jonah looks toward the door. “Is that bad?”

  “Not necessarily. New just means the game has changed. Bring the food.”

  He does what I say, placing the tray on the bed before shifting me up. His stomach growls. My gaze drops to the name on his scrubs. Jonah Rader.

  “You work in the ER?”

  He nods.

  “Let me guess. Shifts without breaks. They keep you running.”

  Jonah stares at me. He doesn't answer. He shifts his weight, his eyes darting to the tray and then back to my face. He waits for a reaction I haven't given him yet. His silence is a wall, one he uses to hide the hunger I saw in his eyes earlier.

  “Taste the food, Jonah." It isn't a request. I want to see the slide of his throat when he swallows. I want to know if he’s been fed by the same hand that tried to kill me.

  His gaze clouds with confusion. He obeys regardless. “Oh, okay.”

  His stomach growls again. His face thins like he wants to apologize, but instead he lifts the lid. Steam rises. I watch his lips close around the fork. His throat works as he swallows, and the sight triggers a throb in my groin that the morphine can't touch. It’s dysfunctional. I’m riddled with bullet holes and barely conscious, but the proximity of this stranger is making me hard.

  “And?”

  “Good?”

  “Hm… yes.” A soft sound slips out before he can stop it. He sits at the edge of my bed with the plate balanced on his lap. For a moment, he looks like he belongs there. The thought unsettles me more than the bullet hole in my ribs.

  “When did you eat last?”

  He blinks at me, confused. “What?”

  “Food. When did you eat?”

  He tenses. “Um, yesterday morning, before heading to the hospital.”

  I hum. “And what did you eat?”

  Color creeps into his cheeks. “Just… toast. Nothing special.” He looks away and doesn't finish. He doesn't need to. He was waiting for a paycheck that never came.

  I shift against the pillows and tap the edge of the tray. “We’ll eat together. Help me. You already started.”

  “I, okay. Just… hold still.” He brings the fork toward my mouth. I open slowly, letting my tongue curl around the metal. His breath hitches. Watching him hesitate, eyes fixed on my mouth, is better than the food. A pulse thrashes in my groin.

  By the time he sets the fork down, the plate is nearly empty.

  “Well, that was fast.” He clears his throat. “It seems you were hungry too.”