Updated Apr 20, 2026 • ~11 min read
Chapter 5: Montana
Nadia
The Montana safe house is exactly what Nadia expected—rustic cabin in the middle of absolute nowhere, surrounded by pine trees and silence and the kind of isolation that would normally make her claustrophobic but currently feels like the safest she’s been since Viktor’s threat arrived on her desk.
What she didn’t expect is how small it would feel with Riot taking up space in it, all coiled muscle and controlled violence and eyes that track her every movement like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he looks away for even a second.
They arrive just after dawn, both exhausted from the adrenaline crash and the early morning flight, and Riot does a thorough security sweep while Nadia stands in the middle of the living room and tries to process the fact that she just watched a man die in her bedroom and is now apparently going to be living in extremely close quarters with the bodyguard she kissed three days ago and has been trying very hard not to think about naked ever since.
“All clear,” Riot announces, emerging from what appears to be the single bedroom with an expression Nadia can’t quite read. “One bed. I’ll take the couch.”
“You can’t sleep on the couch for however long we’re stuck here,” Nadia hears herself say, even though part of her brain is screaming that sharing a bed with Riot is possibly the worst idea in the history of terrible decisions. “That’s ridiculous. We’re both adults. We can share a bed without it being weird.”
“It’ll be weird,” Riot says flatly, but there’s something in his eyes that makes her stomach clench with heat.
“Then we’ll be weird together. I’m not making you sleep on a couch that’s approximately two feet too short for you just because we’re both pretending that kiss didn’t happen.” She drops her bag by the door and crosses her arms, trying to project confidence she absolutely doesn’t feel. “Besides, you’ll be better rested if you’re actually comfortable, which means better able to protect me, which is theoretically why we’re here in the first place.”
Riot looks like he wants to argue, runs a hand over his face in what’s becoming a familiar gesture of frustration, and finally concedes with a sigh that sounds like defeat. “Fine. But we’re establishing boundaries. You stay on your side, I stay on mine, and we both pretend we’re somewhere else.”
“Deal,” Nadia says, even though she’s already wondering how that’s possibly going to work when the cabin’s so small she can practically feel the heat radiating off his body from across the room.
🔥
They make it exactly four hours before everything falls apart.
Nadia’s sitting on the couch with her laptop, trying to pretend she can focus on work emails when her hands are still shaking slightly from the adrenaline and the fear and the memory of watching Riot shoot a man to save her life. Riot’s pacing the cabin like a caged animal, checking windows and door locks and perimeter sensors with the kind of restless energy that suggests he’s running on pure nervous tension, and somewhere between one minute and the next, Nadia realizes she can’t do this anymore—can’t sit here pretending everything’s fine when she almost died and the only thing standing between her and another attempt is a man she barely knows but trusts with her life despite every instinct telling her that trust is dangerous.
“You killed him,” she says into the silence, not looking up from her laptop even though she hasn’t actually read a single email in the past twenty minutes. “That man in my bedroom. You killed him without hesitating.”
Riot stops pacing, and when Nadia finally looks up, he’s watching her with an expression she can’t decipher. “I’ve killed forty-seven people, Nadia. One more doesn’t really register.”
“That’s the most terrifying thing anyone’s ever said to me, and I grew up with a father who worked for the Russian mob.”
“Your father testified against the mob. There’s a difference.” He crosses to the couch but doesn’t sit, just stands there looming over her like he’s not sure whether to run or fight or something else entirely. “And I’m not sorry for killing him. He was there to murder you in your sleep, and I’d do it again without blinking if it meant keeping you alive.”
Nadia closes her laptop with more force than necessary, stands up so she’s not craning her neck to look at him, and says something that’s been building in her chest since they left Seattle: “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you care so much about keeping me alive? I’m just a client. Just another job. You could walk away right now, tell Marcus it’s not working out, and Viktor would be my problem instead of yours. So why are you here?”
“Because someone needs to keep you from getting yourself killed,” Riot says, but there’s something raw in his voice that suggests that’s not the whole truth, and they both know it.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
“Bullshit.” Nadia steps closer, driven by something she can’t name, some desperate need to understand why this man who barely knows her is willing to kill for her and sleep on couches too short for his body and uproot his entire life to keep her breathing. “You’re not doing this just because it’s your job. You kissed me three days ago like you’ve been thinking about it for weeks, and now you’re pretending it meant nothing while simultaneously acting like my survival is the only thing that matters in the world. So I’m asking you again—why do you care so much?”
“Because I can’t NOT care!” The words explode out of him, sharp and frustrated and so honest it steals her breath. “Because you’re brilliant and stubborn and absolutely infuriating, and watching you almost die tonight made me realize that keeping you alive isn’t just my job anymore—it’s the only thing I want to do with my life. Does that answer your fucking question?”
Nadia stares at him, her heart hammering so hard she can feel it in her throat, and thinks: *Oh, we’re in so much trouble.*
“You should be scared,” she says quietly, needing him to understand what he’s signing up for. “Everyone I love dies. My parents, my friends from before, everyone I’ve ever let get close—Viktor takes them, or life takes them, and I’m left alone. If you care about me, you’re just putting a target on your back.”
“He’s going to have to go through me to get to you, and I’m significantly harder to kill than most people.” Riot steps closer, close enough that Nadia can feel the heat of him, smell the gun oil and cedar scent that’s become inexplicably comforting. “So yeah, maybe I’m signing up for a target. Maybe this is the worst possible decision I could make as your bodyguard. But I’m doing it anyway, because the alternative is letting you face this alone, and that’s not something I’m capable of.”
“This is a terrible idea,” Nadia whispers, even as she’s reaching for him, fisting her hands in his tactical shirt and pulling him closer.
“Absolutely the worst,” Riot agrees, and then he’s kissing her like he’s been holding back for weeks and finally ran out of reasons to resist, all desperate hunger and barely controlled violence that makes her knees go weak.
It’s nothing like the kiss against her living room wall—that was anger and frustration and denial, but this is something else entirely, something that tastes like fear and relief and the kind of raw need that comes from almost losing something precious. Nadia makes a sound that’s half-sob and half-moan, and Riot responds by backing her against the wall and lifting her like she weighs nothing, his hands spanning her waist and then sliding down to grip her thighs as she wraps her legs around him.
“We shouldn’t,” he breathes against her mouth, even as he’s grinding against her hard enough that she can feel exactly how much he wants this. “You almost died tonight. You’re in shock. This is adrenaline and fear and—”
“And I don’t care.” Nadia bites his lower lip hard enough to sting, needs him to stop overthinking and just FEEL. “I need this. Need you. Need to feel alive after spending the past six hours thinking I might die. Please, Riot. Don’t make me beg.”
That’s apparently all it takes to shatter his control, because suddenly he’s carrying her toward the bedroom, his mouth never leaving hers, and Nadia thinks deliriously that she should probably feel some kind of shame about how desperately she wants this, how little she cares about professional boundaries or appropriate timing or any of the thousand reasons this is a spectacularly bad idea.
But all she feels is alive—more alive than she’s felt in twelve years of hiding and building walls and refusing to let anyone close enough to hurt her.
Riot kicks the bedroom door closed behind them and lays her on the bed with surprising gentleness considering how frantic his kisses have been, and for a moment he just looks at her like he’s trying to memorize everything about this moment. “Last chance to stop this,” he says, his voice wrecked and desperate. “Last chance to tell me to sleep on the couch and we’ll pretend this never happened.”
“I don’t want to pretend.” Nadia reaches for him, pulls him down on top of her until she can feel the solid weight of him pressing her into the mattress. “I want you. Right now. Hard and fast and no thinking. Can you give me that?”
“Yeah,” Riot breathes, already reaching for her clothes with hands that shake slightly despite his reputation for steady aim and cold professionalism. “Yeah, I can definitely give you that.”
He makes good on the promise—taking her fast and hard against the wall first, too desperate to even make it all the way to the bed, both of them still half-dressed and clinging to each other like they’re drowning. It’s frantic and messy and absolutely perfect, and when Nadia comes apart in his arms, she bites down on his shoulder to muffle her scream and thinks: *This changes everything.*
Because it does.
They both know it does.
This isn’t just adrenaline or fear or two people seeking comfort after a traumatic night—this is crossing a line they can’t uncross, admitting feelings they’ve been trying to deny, choosing each other despite every reason it’s a terrible idea.
And as Riot carries her properly to the bed for round two (slower this time, thorough enough that Nadia loses track of her own name), she realizes with stunning clarity that she doesn’t want to uncross this line even if she could.
She wants this.
Wants HIM.
Wants whatever comes next, no matter how complicated or dangerous or absolutely insane it might be.
So when he finally collapses beside her, both of them sweaty and satisfied and completely wrecked, and asks in a voice rough with exhaustion and something that might be hope: “What now?”—Nadia has an answer ready.
“Now we stop pretending this is just a job,” she says, threading her fingers through his and feeling the rightness of it settle in her chest like coming home. “Now we figure out how to survive Viktor and each other and whatever this is becoming. Together.”
Riot squeezes her hand, pulls her close until she’s tucked against his side with her head on his scarred chest, and says something that sounds like a vow: “Together. I can work with that.”
And for the first time since the black envelope arrived on her desk, Nadia lets herself believe that maybe, just maybe, they’re going to make it through this.
As long as they stop lying to themselves about what they mean to each other.
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