Chapter Twelve: Ashes Between Us
The snow had stopped falling, but the silence outside clung like a second skin. Anna stood at the window, her arms folded tight across her chest, watching the frost gather along the glass. The trees stood still—tall, black-boned sentinels against the pale dawn. Nothing moved. Not yet.
Behind her, the room was warm, but it felt fragile. Like the heat only existed because she refused to let the cold in.
Ivan was still asleep, sprawled half-under the thick quilt on the worn leather couch. His fever had broken sometime during the night, sweat soaking the collar of his shirt. She had woken before him—again—not because she needed to, but because her body refused rest. Not when everything felt like it might vanish with the next knock at the door.
Anna hadn't meant to stay this long. That had never been the plan. But then again, she hadn't planned on him bleeding out in her arms either. Or on the way he'd looked at her after—like she was something he didn't know how to hold without breaking.
She turned from the window when she heard him stir.
Ivan groaned softly, his hand coming up to scrub at his face. The scruff along his jaw had darkened into a rough shadow, and his hair was pushed back messily, as if he'd been fighting something even in his sleep.
"Still alive," he muttered hoarsely.
"That's debatable," Anna replied, stepping closer. "How do you feel?"
"Like I got shot. Twice." His eyes flicked open, landing on her. "How long was I out?"
"A while. Fever broke sometime before dawn."
He pushed himself upright with effort, wincing as he shifted. The bandage along his side was dark with blood, but dry. For now. She had changed it twice overnight. Watched the way his breath caught. Watched the way he didn't ask her to stop.
"You should've run," he said.
She didn't answer. Instead, she handed him the mug of water she'd set on the stove earlier.
Ivan drank, eyes narrowing at her silence. "You're still here."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Anna tilted her head, studying him. "You want the honest answer?"
"That'd be a change."
She sat across from him on the edge of the low table, elbows resting on her knees. "Because every time I look at you, I see a different man than the one who took me. And I want to know which version survives."
His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes flinched. Just for a second.
"You shouldn't want anything from me," he said quietly.
"And yet."
And yet, here they were. A captive and her captor. A killer and the woman who hadn't run when she could have.
She looked away first.
They moved around each other that morning like ghosts sharing the same shell. Ivan tried to make coffee, his movements stiff and deliberate. She took over halfway through, not asking, just… stepping in. It felt oddly domestic—like this was something they'd done before. Like she belonged in the rhythm of his quiet life.
He didn't thank her. But when she handed him the mug, their fingers brushed. He didn't pull away.
"I saw movement in the trees last night," she said after a moment.
Ivan tensed. "How close?"
"Far. Maybe nothing. But I stayed up until the light came."
He set the mug down and ran a hand through his hair. "We don't have long."
"I know."
His eyes met hers. "Then we need to decide what happens next."
Anna hesitated, then nodded. But deep inside her chest, something ached. Because she didn't want to go back to who she'd been before. Not when this—this strange, sharp, broken thing between them—felt more real than anything she'd known.
And the danger wasn't just outside anymore.
It was in her heartbeat. In the way she noticed the pain behind Ivan's smirk. In the way he looked at her like she was both salvation and sin.
Outside, the wind shifted. A crow took off from the trees, wings slicing the morning air like a warning.
It was quiet now.
But not for long.
Anna peeled the potatoes in silence while Ivan leaned against the counter, watching her like she was a question he couldn't solve. The kitchen was small, rustic—stone tiles underfoot, wooden shelves lined with mismatched jars and spices probably older than either of them wanted to admit. But it was warm. And quiet.
"I could help," he said eventually, though he made no move to stand.
She glanced at him. "Could you?"
His mouth twitched, almost a smile. "Probably not."
"Then sit there and try not to pass out."
Ivan obeyed, lowering himself into the creaky wooden chair at the table with a grunt. The effort clearly cost him, though he tried not to show it. He hated needing help. She could see it in the set of his shoulders, in the stiffness of his jaw. But he didn't argue when she poured hot water over the instant coffee and set it in front of him.
"I never thought I'd say this," he muttered after a sip, "but I miss bad city espresso."
Anna sat across from him, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "You miss being in control."
His eyes lifted to hers. Sharp. Still dangerous. But quieter now.
"Is that what this is about?" he asked. "Control?"
"No. Not anymore."
Silence stretched. Outside, a bird called once—sharp and lonely. Then nothing.
"I thought I'd hate you," she said. "I did, at first."
Ivan didn't react. He just listened.
"But you don't break people the way I thought you did. You unravel them. You make them look at themselves. And maybe that's worse."
His voice was quiet when he answered. "I never wanted to break you."
"Liar."
A beat passed. Then, with surprising softness: "Yes."
She looked down at her hands. They weren't shaking, not anymore. The first time he'd brought her here, they had trembled like leaves in wind. Now they were steady. Strong. She hated that she owed that to him. But she did.
"What about you?" she asked.
"What about me?"
"Are you broken?"
Ivan leaned back, exhaling slowly. "I was. Long before you."
He didn't elaborate. He didn't have to.
She stood and turned off the burner. The stew would need time to simmer, but it could do that without her. What she needed was something else. Something that was becoming harder to name.
Anna moved to stand beside him, close enough that she could see the faint bruise still curling under his jaw from the last fight. She didn't touch him. Not yet.
"You keep pushing me away," she said.
"It's safer for you."
"No. It's safer for you."
That made him flinch. Just a little.
She reached out, brushing a hand down his arm. He didn't stop her.
"I'm not asking you to be someone you're not, Ivan," she whispered. "I'm asking you not to lie about what this is anymore."
His breath caught. Her fingers found his, curled and cold on the table. Slowly, carefully, she laced hers through them.
"I've killed people," he said.
"I know."
"I don't know how to want someone without ruining them."
"Then maybe," she said, voice steady, "you don't ruin me."
She leaned in, close enough to feel the warmth of him, the storm under his skin. He didn't kiss her. Not yet. But his forehead touched hers, and that was almost worse. Almost better.
It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't surrender. But it was real.
And real was the most dangerous thing of all.
They sat like that for a long time, the silence around them turning softer, more forgiving.
Then, a sound shattered it.
A crunch outside. Snow, underfoot.
Ivan was on his feet in an instant, grimacing at the pain but already reaching for the gun tucked beneath the folded blanket by the couch. Anna moved too—no hesitation, no question. She grabbed the smaller pistol he'd shown her yesterday. It felt alien in her hand. But she didn't let that stop her.
"Window," he said, voice low. "Don't move."
Anna crouched beside it, careful not to be seen. Two shapes—just shadows, distant—moved through the trees. Slow. Controlled. Predators.
Her breath caught. "Mercenaries?"
Ivan nodded once. "Bounty hunters, maybe. They're close."
She turned to him. "Then let's make sure they don't leave."
Ivan met her eyes. Not the frightened girl from that night. Not a pawn anymore.
Something else entirely.
He nodded.
And the war outside finally reached their door.