CHAPTER 3: Don't Run

The first thing Sara noticed was the smell.

Pine. Woodsmoke. Something warmer underneath that she couldn't name but that her body recognized before her brain did, the way you recognize a song from the first three notes without remembering where you heard it.

The second thing she noticed was that she was wearing a shirt that did not belong to her.

Black. Soft from a hundred washes. Long enough to reach mid-thigh. It smelled like the room, which smelled like him, which meant she was wearing a shirt belonging to the enormous naked man from the forest and that was a sentence she was going to need a moment with.

Sara opened her eyes.

The ceiling above her was exposed timber.

The room was large and simply furnished, a stone fireplace crackling in the corner, a window showing darkness and pine trees, a bedside table with a glass of water and two painkillers lined up with precise, almost deliberate care.

Someone had cleaned the blood off her face.

Someone had wrapped her ribs.

Someone had straightened the fingers on her right hand and splinted them while she was unconscious, which was both medically competent and deeply unsettling.

She sat up slowly. Her ribs made their displeasure known in no uncertain terms. Her head swam for three seconds, then steadied. She took the painkillers because she wasn't stupid, drank the entire glass of water because she was apparently more dehydrated than she'd realized, and then sat on the edge of the bed and took stock.

Her go-bag was in the corner. Untouched, by the look of it. Her blazer was folded over a chair, torn and bloodstained but present. Her shoes were by the door.

Her gun was not anywhere she could see.

Of course it isn't.

The door opened.

Sara went completely still in the particular way she had learned, not the stillness of fear but the stillness of assessment, every sense sharpening at once, building the profile before the subject even crossed the threshold.

He was just as large as she remembered. That hadn't been a trauma-induced exaggeration. He filled the doorframe in a way that suggested the doorframe had been built to accommodate him specifically and still hadn't quite managed it. Black hair slightly damp, like he'd showered recently. Dark eyes that swept the room and found her immediately, and something in them shifted when they did, something she catalogued and set aside to examine later.

He was wearing clothes this time. Dark jeans, a grey thermal pushed to the elbows. He was carrying a tray.

Food. Actual food. Soup, bread, another glass of water.

Sara's profiler brain started its work.

Controlled. Deliberate. Every movement considered. He placed that tray so the food is closest to me and he is furthest, conscious reduction of threat profile. He showered and dressed before coming in here, which means he wanted to seem less dangerous, which means he is aware that he is dangerous. The food is a peace offering. He wants something from me and he's leading with comfort.

He is hiding something significant behind very careful eyes.

He is also, objectively, the most attractive man she had ever seen in her life, and she was going to file that under irrelevant and move on.

"You're awake," he said.

"Observant." Sara kept her voice neutral.

"Where am I?"

"Somewhere safe."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the most important part of an answer." He set the tray on the bedside table. Made no move to come closer. "How do you feel?"

"Like I rolled a car down an embankment and then a monster chased me through a forest." She watched his face. "Your name."

A beat. "Roman Volkov."

"Roman Volkov." She repeated it slowly, tasting it. Committing it. "How long was I unconscious?"

"About six hours."

"And in those six hours you brought me to your home, had someone treat my injuries, and put me in your shirt." She held his gaze. "Without my consent."

Something moved behind his eyes. Not guilt. Closer to the particular discomfort of someone who had made a necessary decision and knew the justification was going to be complicated. "You needed medical attention. The nearest hospital is ninety minutes away and the thing that attacked you was still between us and the road."

"The thing." Sara stood up. Her ribs screamed. She ignored them. "We're going to talk about that."

"Yes."

"But first." She crossed to where her shoes were by the door and picked them up. "I need to make a phone call and then I need to leave.”

"You can't."

She looked up.

He was standing exactly where she'd left him. Hadn't moved. Hadn't raised his voice or shifted his posture or done any of the things men did when they wanted to remind you they were larger than you. He was just looking at her with those careful, steady eyes and a certainty that was somehow more immovable than any physical barrier.

"I can't," Sara repeated.

"The thing that attacked you is still in the woods between here and the road. You leave this property, it finds you. It's been circling the perimeter since I brought you in." He paused. "You won't make it to your car."

Sara studied him for a long moment.

He wasn't lying. She had interviewed enough liars to know the difference, and this man was telling her something he believed absolutely.

That was almost more frightening than if he'd been lying.

"I'm FBI," she said. "Special Agent Sara Mitchell, Behavioral Analysis Unit.

Obstructing a federal agent is a felony, Mr. Volkov."

Something shifted in his expression. Not fear. The opposite of fear, actually. Almost like she'd said something that confirmed a suspicion he'd been holding.

"Then arrest me," he said.

She stared at him.

The corner of his mouth moved. Not quite a smile. Something more controlled than that. "Your gun is in my office. I'll return it when it's safe for you to leave." He nodded at the tray. "Eat. You lost a lot of blood.

Then we'll talk."

"We'll talk now."

"Eat first. Talk second." He moved toward the door. "The soup will get cold."

"I'm not eating your soup."

"It's from a can. I'm not trying to impress you."

"That's not…" Sara stopped. Took a breath. Reset. "Mr. Volkov."

He paused at the door.

"What attacked me tonight." She kept her voice level and professional and completely betrayed by the slight edge underneath it. "What was it?"

He turned. Looked at her for a moment that stretched just long enough to feel like a decision being made.

"Eat the soup," he said. "Then I'll tell you everything."

He left.

Sara stood in the middle of the room in his shirt with her shoes in her hand and her gun missing and a monster circling the property outside, and she did the only rational thing available to her.

She sat down.

And she ate the soup.

It was good soup. She was furious about that.