Damian leaned against the edge of the frost-covered outpost, his eyes locked on the two distant figures moving through the thinning snow. From afar, it seemed harmless—just a man and a woman walking together, talking quietly. But Damian's instincts were too sharp to ignore what his gut was trying to tell him.
Anya Petrova again. And that man. That same unfamiliar face who had been hovering near her more and more lately.
He didn't know the guy's name. Didn't care to. But something about their closeness unsettled him in a way he couldn't quite explain. His fingers curled in his coat pocket, brushing against the soft fabric of the scarf he'd found days ago—her scarf. The second piece of evidence. The first was the pendant. And now, this.
He wasn't jumping to conclusions. He couldn't afford to. But the more he observed her, the more things didn't add up.
His eyes narrowed as he continued watching them.
A sudden gust of wind blew flurries around the pair. Anya's hand flew to her face as a snowflake caught in her eye, and she winced, blinking rapidly. The man beside her—too comfortably—caught her wrist before she could rub it, gently tilting her chin up to look at her. Then he leaned closer, his face inches from hers.
From Damian's vantage point, it looked far more than casual.
His spine stiffened.
He wasn't sure what he saw—a kiss, maybe. Or the beginning of one. But whatever it was, it sent a strange rush of heat to his chest, uninvited and sharp.
She's supposed to be with me.
That thought snapped into his head before he could stop it. And it wasn't true—not really. They weren't together. Not in any way that counted. But still, she had been playing that role, hovering near him, bringing him coffee with soft smiles and warm glances. Pretending.
He didn't ask for that. Never encouraged it. But now that he'd gotten used to it—whatever it was—seeing her like this, with someone else, made something twist deep inside him.
His pride flared.
She should know better. If she was pretending to be involved with him—for whatever reason she had—then she should at least understand the consequences. What if someone else saw her like this? Laughing. Close. Soft. Vulnerable.
It wasn't just about appearances. It was about control. About keeping up walls. His image, his discipline—it wasn't something he let anyone touch. Especially not someone like her.
Someone who might be lying.
Someone who might be Anya Blackwood.
He turned away, jaw clenched, the back of his neck burning with frustration. He didn't know why it bothered him this much. It wasn't jealousy. He didn't even like her. Not like that.
But still—he didn't want to see her like that with someone else.
A voice called his name from across the barracks, snapping him from the spiral of his thoughts.
He gave one last glance toward the snow-covered path. The pair was gone.
He exhaled sharply, then turned, walking away. But the questions stayed with him, following like shadows across the snow.
Why was she here?
Why was she after Ivankov?
And why did it feel like he was the one being played?