Page 10 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

I stood up, adjusting my ill-fitting work coat.“Yes, ma’am.”

She led me through the double doors and into the factory proper, where the sound hit me like a wave—mechanical groans, rhythmic clanking, and the roar of the looms spinning out the same olive-drab blankets I’d slept under since childhood.The air was thick with machine oil and something damp, like old wool left out in the rain.

We passed rows of workers, heads bent over cloth, fingers nimble and fast.Vera didn’t speak as we walked, her heels clicking confidently on the concrete.We turned a corner, and there he was.

Petyr.

He stood with his sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms dusted with blonde hair and muscles taut from genuine work, not the kind you brag about at political youth camps.He had one hand on a lever, the other steadying a blanket as it spooled out onto the conveyor belt.When he saw us, he looked up—and grinned.

Not the polite, neutral smile you give a stranger.This one was open, disarming.Like he already knew me.

“You must be Dimitri,” he said, stepping forward and holding out his hand.

I took it.His grip was firm and warm, like the rest of him.Our eyes met for a second too long.Something flickered in my chest—something I didn’t have a name for.

I let go first.

“Welcome to the factory,” he said.“Hope you don’t mind a bit of noise.”

I opened my mouth, maybe to answer, maybe to breathe.

But all I could think was: Why did the world just get louder and quieter at the same time?

ChapterFour

Petyr

I’d been elbow-deep in a snarl of tangled threads, swearing under my breath in increasingly creative ways, when I felt a presence behind me.Not the usual presence of a clipboard-wielding supervisor or some half-trained new guy too afraid to ask a question.This one...this one came with music.

Not literal music—nothing you could hum.Just a thrum, a hum, a feeling, like a cello note hanging in the air too long after the bow’s been lifted.It was ridiculous, really.I’d gone years without hearing that kind of phantom sound.Not since school.Not since—

“Petyr,” Vera’s voice called over the racket of the looms.

I turned, wiping my hands on a rag, and there she was.My brilliant, redheaded firecracker of a wife, her face a mixture of pride and amusement.And beside her—

The music swelled.

Tall.Pale.Eyes too big for his face, like he was always halfway through asking a question.And that mouth—stern, cautious, as if smiling might give something away.

“This is Dimitri Morozov,” Vera said, and I swear she was smirking.“He’ll be training with you today.”

Dimitri offered a polite nod.

I grinned, stepping forward, my hand already extended.“Nice to meet you, Dimitri.”

He hesitated, then took my hand.His grip was firm, but not aggressive.And warm.Strangely warm for someone who looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.Our eyes met—just for a beat too long.

I saw Vera glance at me from the corner of her eye, and I knew that look.I’d seen it across school cafeterias, party meetings, smoky kitchen tables at midnight.She always noticed.

But Vera said nothing.Just gave me a look that saidBehave, then disappeared into the noise of the factory like a magician vanishing into a foggy cloud.

Dimitri looked after her.“She’s...enthusiastic.”

I barked out a laugh.“That’s one way to put it.Come on, let’s find you a station before someone throws you to the spindles.”

I led him down the line, pointing out the key parts of the loom: feed rollers, tension knobs, the emergency stop lever.His eyes followed every movement.Quiet.Focused.Like a soldier waiting for orders, or maybe a stray dog trying to figure out if you’re safe.

He was all sharp lines, and unsure silence, and something about that made it worse.Made it impossible not to turn the charm on.Dangerous, sure—but instinctive.

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