Enchoes of the past

**Chapter 4: Echoes of the Past**

The ambush came at 3 a.m.

A crash shattered the cabin's front door. Viktor was on his feet before the first gunshot, shoving me into the closet. "Stay. *Down.*"

I crouched in the dark, listening to the chaos—snarls of Russian, the sickening crunch of bone, Viktor's guttural curse. When silence fell, I crept out, heart lodged in my throat.

Viktor stood in the wreckage, blood dripping from a split lip. Two men lay unconscious at his feet. A third writhed, clutching a knife buried in his thigh.

"Who are they?" I whispered.

"Monica's new friends." He yanked the knife free, ignoring the man's scream. "She's outsourcing her dirty work to Bratva thugs. *Clever.*"

"Bratva? As in… Russian *mafia*?"

He wiped the blade on his jeans, eyes glacial. "You're full of questions tonight, *kotyonok*."

"And you're full of *secrets*," I shot back, trembling with adrenaline. "Who were you before this? Really?"

Viktor stilled. Then, with a sigh, he pulled a faded photograph from his wallet and handed it to me.

A younger Viktor smiled beside a dark-haired woman in a sunflower dress, her belly rounded with pregnancy.

"Lena," he said quietly. "She was eight months along when a rival gang firebombed our home. I was… distracted. Let my guard down." His thumb brushed the photo. "Monica sold me out. Tipped them off to settle an old debt."

The air left my lungs. "You blame yourself."

"I *am* myself," he said, and walked away.

We fled north in a stolen truck, Viktor's knuckles white on the wheel. The radio hummed static until I finally broke.

"Why show me that photo?"

"To remind you what happens when I care too much."

"Or to warn me not to care about *you*?"

His jaw tightened. "Smart girl."

By midnight, we'd reached a derelict boathouse on Lake Superior. Viktor tossed me a threadbare blanket and collapsed onto a moth-eaten couch, his shirt riding up to reveal a fresh bruise along his ribs.

"You're hurt," I said.

"I'll live."

"Let me help."

"*Don't.*" He caught my wrist as I reached for him, his grip bruising. "You don't get to play nurse, Ashley. Not with me."

"Why? Because you're afraid I'll see you're human?"

Something snapped in his eyes. In one motion, he pinned me beneath him, his body pressing me into the couch. Our breaths tangled, frantic.

"You think I'm *human*?" he hissed. "I've killed men for less than what you're doing right now."

"Then kill me," I dared, tilting my chin up. "Or admit you're just as terrified as I am."

For a heartbeat, his gaze dropped to my lips. Then he shoved away, raking a hand through his hair. "*Gospodi.* You'll be the death of me."

Sleep never came. At dawn, I found Viktor waist-deep in the lake, shirtless, hurling knives at a waterlogged tree. Each throw was vicious, precise.

"Who taught you that?" I called out.

"My father," he said, not turning around. "Before he sold me to the Bratva to pay his vodka debts."

The confession hung between us, raw and ugly.

"You're not him," I said softly.

Viktor froze. When he finally faced me, his expression was unreadable. "Come here."

I waded in, the icy water biting my skin. He pressed a knife into my palm, closing his scarred hand over mine. "Lesson one: Always aim for the heart."

His chest pressed against my back, his voice a rumble in my ear. "And never hesitate."

The blade thudded into the tree.

*Neither of us breathed.*