Page 20 of Mission Shift

There was something mesmerizing about the way she moved, the way her body seemed to hum with awareness. She was a force of nature, and I wasn’t sure if I was more intimidated or impressed.

When we reached the door to the house, she pressed her back against the wall beside it, letting go of my hand. She turned her head slightly and gestured for silence, holding her finger to her lips.

Her hand hovered in front of her for a second, cautioning me, her eyes narrowing as she listened. She gently tested the knob. Then, with a swift twist, she shoved the door open, holding the Glock out in front of her.

The house was silent, the air stale with disuse. Without hesitation, she stepped inside and quickly swept the space. I followed, staying close, my pulse pounding in my ears.

It was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that made you second-guess every move. The sun was rising higher in the sky, light spilling through the dusty windows. The place was a time capsule—frozen in the moment its owners had fled. The table still had a tablecloth draped over it, and a pair of boots sat by the front door.

The Ice Queen didn’t seem fazed. She moved with the same cold precision I was starting to expect from her—her eyes darting to every corner, her body tense and ready for danger.

After a few minutes, she finally holstered her Glock, but her hand hovered near it. I followed suit, slipping my pistol into the waistband of my jeans at my back. It wasn’t ideal, but it’d have to do.

She checked the cabinets first, running her uncuffed hand along shelves and lightly tapping the wood to check for anything hidden. I stood behind her, watching as she reached for the top shelf, her muscles flexing under her fitted black shirt. She was tall for a woman, maybe just shy of six feet, and every inch of her was lean muscle. The way she moved—it wasn’t just grace; it was discipline. She reminded me of one of those gymnasts you saw in the Olympics, all strength and balance disguised as elegance.

She turned abruptly, yanking on the chain between us. I stumbled forward, the cuff biting into my wrist, and huffed out in pain.

In response, she threw a glance over her shoulder, her brow arching just enough to let me know she didn’t give a damn about my comfort—or lack thereof. Her smirk was fleeting, barely there, before she turned her attention back to the room.

I shuffled along beside her as she continued to explore the house, staying alert in case anything went awry.

The house felt…untouched. There were dishes in the sink, a pot on the stove, and faded family photos on the walls. It didn’t look like Russian or Ukrainian forces had been through here, and I wondered how long it had been like this. Three years? Long enough for dust to settle but not long enough for the memories of the people who’d lived here to fade entirely.

Finally, she stopped searching and straightened, her hand brushing against mine as she pulled me forward. She muttered something in Russian and released a relieved sigh.

With that, she turned her attention to the pantry, rummaging through cans and jars. She bent over, with me in tow, and I had to place my hand on her hip and lean against her to avoid toppling over. Her scent did strange things to my head. Between my chest grazing her back and the sway of her hips as she shifted, it was impossible not to respond physically. I clenched my jaw, willing my focus elsewhere, but my desire for her was undeniable.

After a minute, she straightened, holding an unopened bag of oats in one hand and a sealed jar of honey in the other. She handed them to me and turned back to the pantry, grabbing a jar of dark purple jam that had been preserved who knew how long ago and, to my surprise, a can of Spam. She examined each item with a critical eye before placing it on the counter.

It was the box she pulled from the bottom shelf that really caught my attention. With a grunt, she hauled it up and pried it open, revealing Russian MREs stacked neatly inside. She inspected a few before setting the box aside, giving a decisive nod and clearly noting it for later use.

“Not exactly steak and potatoes,” I muttered under my breath. She didn’t respond, though I caught the slightest twitch of her lips.

Moving to a cabinet, she found a pot and turned to the sink. She tested the faucet, letting the rusty, sputtering water run until it cleared.

“Hey, it’s clean,” I said, relief flooding through me.

She grabbed two glasses from a cabinet and handed them to me. I rinsed them out quickly, the handcuffs making the process awkward as hell. Her silent irritation hung in the air between us, but I was too thirsty to care.

I filled one glass and drained it in a single gulp. The cool water hit my throat like salvation, and for the first time in days, I felt halfway human.

Her gaze dropped to the handcuffs binding us, and she frowned, rotating her wrist to examine the restraints. A muscle in her jaw tightened as she ran her fingers along the chain, her eyes narrowing in frustration. She was already calculating how to remove them; she wasn’t going to put up with this situation for much longer.

I refilled the two glasses and handed one to her. She took a long sip and then set her glass on the counter. Her eyes closed momentarily, and she took a long, cleansing breath, nodded, and turned. She rummaged through some more cabinets and found a few pots and pans. After selecting a small saucepan, she turned back to the sink and rinsed it quickly. Then she filled it with water and tugged on the cuffs, leading me into the living room, toward a wood-burning stove in the corner. There wasn’t much I could do except try to stay out of her way as much as possible.

We were in luck; there were a few pieces of unburned wood, a little kindling, and some wadded-up paper inside. I reached down and fumbled with the old-fashioned flint and steel, managing to light the paper under the kindling and get a small fire going. Thankfully, the dry wood caught quickly.

The Ice Queen smiled in approval. Hmm, could she possibly be thawing?

She tugged me back into the kitchen, grabbed the oats from the counter and a spoon from a drawer, and returned to the stove. She added a generous portion of the oats to the saucepan, and it wasn’t long before the mixture started bubbling. I shoved a hand in my pocket, standing patiently beside her as she stirred them, lost in my thoughts. Soon, the oatmeal thickened, and she carried it back into the kitchen, setting the pot on a gas stove that appeared to be long out of commission.

While the oatmeal cooled, she reached for the can of Spam and grabbed a knife from the drawer. She popped the lid, slid the meat out onto a plate, and sliced it into thick pieces, putting the plate in the center of the table for us to share.

Together, we found and rinsed two bowls and spoons. She poured the oatmeal, giving me most of it, and added a generous drizzle of honey and a heaping spoonful of jam to each bowl. The sweet smell of the jam made my stomach growl loudly. God, I was so hungry.

We sat down across from each other at the kitchen table, our linked hands resting on top. She placed her Glock on the table, picked up her spoon, and started eating.

I followed her lead, shoveling a massive spoonful into my mouth. The oatmeal was warm and perfectly sweetened by the honey and jam.

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