Chapter Text
The small house was yours – or at least you temporarily claimed it to be. Just until you figured out a plan. Any plan.
Right now, staying alive was your only priority.
The snow had been falling heavy and silent, covering the forest in a white blanket. Good. It would hide your tracks. The cold settled deep in your bones, but you didn’t dare to light the fireplace, not yet. It wasn’t much, the little house. But after running blindly through the woods for hours, it emerged like a fucking haven in the middle of nowhere. Small, dirty, plain, clearly forgotten and abandoned. No pictures, no frames, not a trace of a human touch except for the strange embroidered tapestry on the wall. Was that a... hyena? You couldn't tell for sure.
The main floor was basic: a table with two chairs, a kitchen sink, a few shelves with dusty jars and cans, and a worn-out sofa. A small staircase led up, but you didn’t bother checking it at first. You took off your soaked boots and wet clothes, teeth chattering as you looked around to know what the place had to offer. After some digging, you managed to find a black hoodie and sweatpants that were clearly too big for you, but they were dry, and that was enough.
Hunger started to make your stomach growl. God, you’ve always hated canned food. There was something so unsettling about the texture and the watery flavor. But after days without eating anything substantial, the soup you found might as well have been the fanciest meal you’ve ever had.
After a couple of days, you started to settle in, though your guard was never fully down. You stayed quiet, always listening for movement outside, but no human sounds ever came. The fire now burned lazily, warming the little house. For a moment, you let yourself believe that things were going to be okay.
You thought you were safe.
That's why you never saw him coming.
・・・・・
It happened fast. Really fast.
You didn't hear anything. Not a step, nothing. The arm holding you in place was like a serpent, pulling you back against a broad chest. His gloved hand covered your mouth, silencing the scream that emerged from your throat. A copperish scent instantly filled the air. Something dripped, a crimson stain spreading across the floorboards. Blood.
He held you effortlessly, as if the injury didn’t even exist. Panic crashed over you like a wave when you felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed against your temple. The man was silent as he… sniffed you? You froze as his breath brushed your ear, warm against your jaw and neck, like an animal measuring his prey.
Slowly, your hand moved toward the knife on the counter.
“Нет,” he said firmly, pressing the gun harder against your head.
Even with your limited knowledge of the language, you were certainly familiar with the Russian word for no.
Hands raised in surrender, your breath hitched, heart pounding frantically against your chest.
“I’m sorry,” you blurted out when his gloved hand finally left your mouth. “Please, I didn’t mean to–"
He let out a low and amused chuckle that twisted your stomach into a knot.
“Who are you?” His voice was raspy with a thick Russian accent, each word measured.
“Nobody. I’m nobody,” you whimpered. “Please, I swear–”
His dark laugh echoed through the room like a gunshot: cold, sharp, and humorless.
“We are nobody, Любимая,” he said, the Russian words curling off his tongue like poison. You didn’t understand them, but the tone was enough to make your skin crawl.
Then, he barked, “Водка.”
You froze, unsure. His left hand was pressed firmly against your belly, holding you in place, while the pistol in his right one pointed toward the cupboard.
“Водка!” he growled again, louder this time.
You were a mess. “Vodka?” You repeated out loud, trying to make sense of the word. “Vodka! Okay. Yes.” Your fingers reached for the cupboard, trembling as you grabbed the dusty bottle stashed in the back.
“Стой. Stay,” he commanded sharply.
You barely had any time to react before he spun you to face him. Cargo pants, military boots, a heavy jacket, and a balaclava covering his face – all black. The only color that stood out besides the blood on the floor was the grayish-blue of his eyes. He looked like war.
The stranger roughly removed the jacket, tossing it aside. He tapped the bottle with his pistol and gestured his head toward his arm. "Clean." Your eyes widened at the command, but you complied, pouring the liquid over his wound. The sharp scent of alcohol burned its way through your nostrils.
He was strong, and his movements were calculated. Running crossed your mind several times, but it was stupid because you were positive that he'd catch you, even wounded. And the worst part was that he struck you as the type of man who would enjoy it – the thrill of chasing something, someone. Fighting wasn’t much of an option either, since he seemed highly trained, and you could barely remember any moves from the self-defense lessons you’d taken last summer.
If he had wanted to kill you, he would've done it by now, right?
Scaring you? Yes, he was doing that more than effectively. But hurting you? No, at least not yet.
And you had watched enough true crime shows to know that sympathizing with him and earning his trust was your best chance of surviving this. He would have to trust you first, only then he would make a mistake. Escaping would come next. For your own sanity, you tried not to think about what would could happen in the in-between.
Be friendly. “You need stitches,” you said, surprised by how meek your voice sounded. His head snapped at you, eyes narrowing with suspicion.
“да,” he nodded.
“You need a hospital,” you added, trying to sound braver this time.
“Нет,” he growled with no room for debate. "Стой," was his command.
The word was freshly imprinted in your brain: stay.
He walked to the couch with the quick grace of an apex predator. Silent, aware, imposing. Reaching underneath it, he pulled out a small box and waved the gun toward you, motioning for you to come closer. Swallowing the rising panic, you moved carefully.
“Садись. Sit,” he ordered, handing you the box, which turned out to be a first aid kit. He pointed to his arm, clearly waiting for you to take care of it.
Your breath quickened. “I-I can’t. I don’t know how,” the words rushed out of your mouth.
“I'm not asking, жена,” he stated flatly.
・・・・・
Nobody hated English.
“A filthy language for filthy people,” were the words he spat as you mended his arm. "In my dacha, you better start learning Russian if you want to keep your pretty tongue."
Fucker. "Yes–"
“да, господин,” he snapped, correcting you.
Startled, you repeated the words awkwardly, hoping they sounded correct enough. The bastard chuckled, a muffled sound through the balaclava, and his blue eyes sparkled with amusement.
“Better,” he said with a condescending tone.
You tried to steady your breathing, but the tension was almost unbearable. He didn’t flinch as you stitched his wound, and you could not get a hiss of pain from him, even though you were being purposefully rude at some points.
“Осторожно. Careful,” he warned when you pulled too tight.
“I’m trying,” an irritated murmur under your breath.
“Hm?” He tilted his head ferociously, inspecting you with a narrowed gaze.
“Nothing,” your voice was tight.
“Какая послушная. So obedient.”
The silence returned, thick and suffocating. The crackle of the fireplace was the only thing filling the room. After tying the last stitch, you looked at him hesitantly.
He grunted, inspecting your work. “Good enough, жена.”
You let out a relieved breath as he leaned back on the couch, his movements were smooth, but his sharp eyes never left you. Earn his trust. Show him you are not a threat. Show him you care.
“Жена,” the word tasted broken in your mouth. “You keep calling me that… What does it mean?” As soon as you asked, regret washed over you because you weren’t sure that you wanted to know the answer.
The corner of his eyes wrinkled slightly, a hint of dark amusement flickering in them. “Wife,” he said it low and deliberate. “Жена means wife.”
Your heart caught in your throat. His gaze was proud and it pinned you in place like he was daring you to challenge the statement.
But you didn’t.
You couldn’t.