Page 73 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

And then—voices.

Muffled, but unmistakable.

Laughter.Footsteps.A woman’s giggle.

Petyr froze, hovering over me.“What the hell?”

We both went still.The sound came again, closer now.Several voices, male and female, growing louder.

Then a knock.Firm.Not polite.

“Damn it!”I hissed, jerking up to sitting.“Who the fuck…”

Petyr grabbed my wrist before I could bolt for the door.“Dima.Wait.Think.”

I swallowed my anger.He was right.I couldn’t go storming out red-faced and breathless, looking like I’d just been, well, exactly what I’d just been doing.

I scrubbed a hand over my face and nodded.

We moved into the living room, Petyr pulling his sweater straight and me still catching my breath.The knock came again, more insistent this time.

Petyr opened the door.

Standing on the porch were three men we knew from the factory.Anton, Pavel, and Oleg, all clearly drunk, cheeks flushed and coats askew.Behind them were two women I didn’t recognize, one already lighting a cigarette, the other laughing at something Anton had just said.

“What are you guys doing here?”Petyr asked, incredulously.

Anton lifted a bottle of vodka with a grin.“Factory dacha, yeah?Oleg said you guys like to party.Surprise!”

ChapterTwenty-Two

Petyr

“Petyr, my man!”Oleg shouted, brushing past me like we’d been waiting with open arms.“We thought this place might be empty, but look at this!Firewood stacked, food on the stove—hell, you’ve been living.”

Pavel and Anton followed behind him, both grinning like idiots and nodding their hellos.They reeked of vodka and bravado, already halfway to plastered.Two women I didn’t recognize trailed after them, giggling about the breeze in their skirts and the wildflowers by the road.One of them wore a leather jacket two sizes too small, the other had hair bleached to the color of old straw.They were women who used their loudness like armor, chirping about god knows what while their eyes scanned the place for something stronger than tea.

I smiled like the friendly host I was pretending to be.

“Of course!C’mon in, comrades,” I said, sweeping an arm toward the kitchen as if we’d invited them, as if this wasn’t the one weekend all season I’d begged the universe for solitude.“The dacha’s for everyone in the spring and summer.You know how it is—one big party all season long.”

Laughter erupted as they made themselves at home.Oleg was already poking at the samovar like he owned the place, and Anton stretched out on the couch like he planned to sleep there until August.The women drifted toward the kitchen, following the scent of Dimitri’s stew like hungry wolves.

“Ohhh, you’ve been cooking,” said the blonde, eyes wide with glee.

“Please,” I said with a bright grin that hurt my jaw, “help yourselves.Anything you see, it’s yours.We’ve got food in the fridge and a stew on the stove—don’t burn yourselves.”

I caught Dimitri’s face just as he turned to walk out the back door.Rage was written in every line of it.His shoulders were coiled tight, fists clenched.But he didn’t say a word.Didn’t need to.I knew exactly what he was thinking.And worse—what he was feeling.

I cracked a joke about ration coupons with the girls, just loud enough for the others to laugh.Then I slipped out the back.

He was standing in the yard, rigid as a soldier, eyes burning into the trees at the edge of the property like he could set them on fire.I followed him without a word.When we crossed into the thin line of woods just beyond the garden, he spun and punched a birch tree hard enough to make it shudder.Bark split.So did his knuckles.

“Fuck!”he hissed, shaking his hand, blood blooming between his fingers.“Fuck.”

I grabbed him by the shoulders before he could do it again.

“Dima, stop!You’ll break your hand.”

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