The forest had changed.

Fog hung heavier now, thick and choking, seeping into every branch, every crevice, every shadow. The air smelled of damp earth and gunpowder, sharp and acrid, and my chest tightened with anticipation. Every step we took was measured, deliberate, because the Russians weren’t just hunting—they were laying a trap.

Dante’s hand found mine instantly, strong, unyielding, a tether I could cling to amid the chaos. The heat of his body pressed against mine as we moved through the mist, every nerve in me alive with tension. My pulse thundered not just with fear, but with the magnetic, dangerous pull I felt every time we brushed against...