Page 3 of Mission Shift

After we’d stabilized the soldier, I stood and wiped my hands on my pants, trying to shake off the sense of futility. His pulse was so weak. He was patched up as best as I could manage. Not great, but it was better than bleeding out on the floor.

I moved to the kitchen to clean up.

The ancient tap groaned and sputtered before releasing a weak stream of water, barely enough to rinse the blood from my hands.

Behind me, footsteps scraped softly against the floor. I glanced over my shoulder to see the woman standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. Turning off the water, I turned fully to face her, curling my fingers around the edge of the counter as I leaned back, trying to look more casual than I felt. The first rays of dawn streamed through the kitchen window, illuminating her so I could see her more clearly. Sheswiped an antiseptic wipe over her fingers as she studied me. Her tall, sleek form and commanding presence drew my gaze, and I found myself unable to look away.

She didn’t say a word, just continued wiping her hands. My chest tightened under her scrutiny. Her eyes were locked on me, her brow slightly pinched, lips pressed into a thin line. Her stare was cool and calculating, as if she were deciding whether I was worth the trouble or better left in a shallow grave out back.

My gaze dropped, traitorously tracing the length of her legs again. Long, lean, powerful. The kind of legs that could run a marathon or—fuck—lock around my hips and keep me there until I begged for mercy. Jesus Christ. Blood and chaos all around, and here I was with my body betraying me for the very woman who’d stormed in, fists flying and ready to kill me an hour ago.

Her lips curved into a small smile, as if she’d cracked the code of my thoughts and was more amused than offended. That smirk hit me, and I felt like a damn fool.

She tossed the wipe onto the counter with a flick of her wrist, then crossed her arms over her chest as she leaned against the doorframe. But she still didn’t speak. Didn’t have to. That smug little look said everything:Whatever’s running through your head, I know it’s filthy.

“So, this is awkward,” I said, forcing a laugh that sounded hollow even to my own ears. “I’m an American paramedic stuck in a Ukrainian war zone with a Russian soldier and—well, you. Whoever the hell you are.” I gestured vaguely in her direction. The silence that followed was unnerving. She might as well have been carved from stone for all the reaction she gave.

I scrubbed a hand over my chin, studying her. “You don’t talk much, huh? Guess that’s fine. Probably better. Less chance of us disagreeing.”

She remained silent, her expression unreadable. Did she even understand English? Her eyes were icy, but they didn’t seem uncomprehending. Still, the way she stared through me—as if she’d already dismissed me—irked the hell out of me. Maybe she understood every word and just didn’t care—like the Kremlin didn’t care how many were dying every day in this fucking war. Frustration simmered beneath my skin, tangled with exhaustion and the sickening images I couldn’t shake from my mind. All at once, my anger became too much to hold in.

Then words started spilling out before I could stop them, a bitter rant fueled by all the anguish I’d seen since arriving in Ukraine. “This war—this devastation—it’s madness, you know? Families ripped apart, children missing limbs, so many good people slain.” I started to pace.

“This isn’t a war,” I continued, unable to stop myself. “It’s just rich men using people as pawns. All for what? More power? Because they want to rape the Ukrainian land for rare earth minerals? Some dictator’s vanity? It’s bullshit.”

Her lips twitched subtly, but she quickly schooled her features back into that stoic mask—so quickly, I almost missed it.

As I continued to talk, sharing more random thoughts about the war, I couldn’t help but notice her high cheekbones, the fullness of her lips, the way her sharp pixie cut framed her face, and the strength in her posture. She was tall for a woman—nearly my height, and I was six-two. She had an athletic build that suggested both power and grace.

I mentally kicked myself.Focus, Braxton. She’s not the girl next door. She’s a lethal Russian soldier who just tried to kill you.

But damn, if she wasn’t captivating in a way that unsettled me more than it should have.

I followed her into the living room, watching as she peeked outside the front door, which was still standing wide open. Whatwas she thinking? What was driving her? What lay beneath that hostile exterior?

We were uneasy allies in this abandoned refuge, bound together by necessity and circumstance. Fear and curiosity hung in the air between us, tangled with an unnamed tension simmering beneath it all.

She closed the door and turned to face me, pressing her back against it before motioning toward the sofa with a jerk of her chin.

Stepping back to the spot where I’d been lying when she came crashing in, I sank onto the worn cushions, my muscles aching from our earlier fight. The reality of my situation hit like a punch to the gut. What the hell had I gotten myself into? This wasn’t just a humanitarian mission anymore.

My thoughts raced to darker possibilities. She probably had backup searching for her, soldiers who wouldn’t think twice about eliminating an American.

I needed an exit strategy. Fast. Before she decided I was a liability she didn’t have time for.

The wounded soldier’s labored breathing filled the silence, punctuated by his occasional whimpers of pain. I glanced up, watching her eyes flick to the man lying by the door. Exhaustion had etched lines into her face, and for a fleeting second, I caught something like regret darkening her gaze.

She pushed off the door, moving from window to window, scanning our surroundings. The old floor creaked under her weight, making my nerves jump.

My heart wouldn’t stop racing as despair settled in. How had my attempt to see the world landed me here, trapped between a dying soldier and his terrifying companion?

Chapter two

Ipaused to take in the remnants of the life that had been left behind in this house. I knew better than to linger on ghosts, yet this house was full of them. They whispered to me from every corner—from the child’s drawing taped crookedly to the refrigerator, to the knitted blanket with frayed edges draped over the back of a chair. Atop the stove in the living room’s corner sat a once brightly colored enamel-coated kettle. If not for the layer of dust, it would have looked like it was sitting there waiting for someone to return and boil water. It was the kind of home that breathed love, laughter, and happiness—the kind of life that had ended for me the day my mother was murdered. A familiar ache twisted deep inside my chest, a place I’d sealed shut long ago. Neither my father nor the FSB had managed to extinguish that fragile ember of humanity buried deep insideme, though God knows they’d tried. It flickered faintly, just enough to remind me I was still more than the monster they’d forged.

The family who’d once lived here had probably fled in terror, grabbing what they could before the Russian artillery fire came raining down. Or maybe they hadn’t escaped at all. Maybe they’d been dragged from this very room, their lives upended—or even worse, extinguished at the point of a rifle.

I paced, forcing myself to stay focused. Compassion was a liability, a weakness I couldn’t afford. It was dangerous, this lingering softness, a weakness that could get me killed in an instant. Yet standing here, amidst the ruin of another family’s shattered life, something inside me stirred defiantly—reminding me I was still human, capable of feeling something other than the cold grip of violence. As I rifled through the cabinets and drawers, I couldn’t shake the memories of my mother, Irina, whose name meant “peace,” though her life had been anything but.

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