Chapter 11 - Breaking the Silence
A warm, crackling fire now illuminated the main living area of the cabin, casting long, dancing orange shadows across the exposed log walls.
Nikolai sat at the rustic kitchen table upstairs, silently tending to his own wounded shoulder with the medical supplies Sienna had provided.
Downstairs, Sienna sat on the edge of a faded wool sofa, holding a tin cup of hot tea she had brewed over the wood-burning stove.
Roman stood by the window, peering out through the rain-streaked glass into the pitch-black darkness of the surrounding forest ridge.
His overcoat was discarded on a wooden chair, his shoulder holster visible against the dark gray wool of his bespoke suit vest.
“You should sit down, Roman,” Sienna said quietly, her voice cutting through the snapping sound of the burning pine logs in the hearth.
“Pacing the floor isn't going to make the sun rise any faster, and Viktor’s men won't attempt to climb that logging trail until daylight.”
Roman turned away from the window, his gray eyes locking onto her face, which was softened by the amber glow of the firelight.
He walked over to the hearth, slowly sitting down on the raised stone hearth rug directly across from where she was seated.
“Why didn't you go to Europe?” he asked, his voice low and raspy. “I left enough bearer bonds in your personal account to buy an estate in Italy or France.”
Sienna looked down at her tin cup, watching the steam rise before she lifted her eyes to meet his intense, searching gaze.
“Because I didn't want your money, Roman,” she answered simply, without any bitterness, stating it as an absolute matter of personal honor.
“When a man tells you that you are no longer welcome in his home, taking his money only confirms that you were an employee, not a partner.”
Roman felt a sharp, familiar pain tighten around his heart, his hands clenching into fists against his knees as he listened to her speak.
“You were never an employee, Sienna,” he whispered, leaning forward until the heat of the fire warmed the side of his face.
“You were the only thing in my entire life that didn't smell like blood, gunpowder, or syndicate politics; you were my clean air.”
“Then why couldn't you trust me with the dirt, Roman?” she demanded, setting her tea cup down on the wooden floor with a definitive thud.
Her hazel eyes flashed with the lingering agony of that October night, her voice rising slightly above the crackle of the hearth.
“Why did you treat me like a porcelain doll that would shatter if you showed me the reality of the world you lived in?”
She leaned toward him, closing the physical gap between them until he could see the golden flecks in her eyes reflected in the firelight.
“If you had told me Mikhail Sokolov was threatening my life, I would have stayed in that penthouse and loaded your spare magazines for you.”
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“I didn't want you loading magazines!” Roman growled, his own composure finally snapping as he reached out and grabbed her hands in his.
“I wanted you alive! I wanted you breathing on this earth, even if it meant you had to hate my guts for the rest of your days!”
