Chapter Text
The cottage sat at the edge of the lake like something pulled from the pages of an architecture magazine, all sharp black beams and enormous windows that reflected the moonlight in fractured silver patterns across the water, but tonight it felt softer somehow, warmer in a way Ilya had never managed to feel before, because Shane was here, stretched beside him beneath rumpled gray sheets, breathing slow and even in sleep after hours of whispered confessions that had left Ilya feeling scraped raw in the best possible way.
Outside, the wind moved through the pine trees in long sighing currents, brushing branches against the side of the house with faint scratching sounds that blended with the quiet creak of settling wood and the distant lap of water against the dock, and for the first time in years Ilya had fallen asleep without tension sitting like a blade between his shoulders, because Shane had looked at him in the dark with those impossibly warm eyes and admitted, voice rough and terrified, that he loved him too.
It should have been enough to keep every nightmare away.
Instead, sometime deep into the night, Ilya’s eyes snapped open.
At first he didn’t know what had woken him. The room remained dark except for pale moonlight spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the tangled sheets around their legs and painting Shane’s bare shoulders in silver. Shane slept heavily beside him, one arm thrown across the mattress where he had reached for Ilya even in sleep, his expression younger and softer than it ever looked during the season, without the permanent edge of irritation or rivalry sharpening his face.
Then Ilya heard it again.
A sound downstairs.
Not the house settling. Not the wind.
A muffled thud.
Every muscle in his body tightened instantly.
Years of living under constant scrutiny, of learning how to survive around men like Alexei and the people Alexei associated with, had trained his instincts too well for him to ignore sounds like that. His pulse began hammering before his mind could catch up, dread sliding cold and familiar beneath his skin.
Carefully, trying not to wake Shane, he eased himself out of bed.
The hardwood floor felt freezing beneath his feet as he crossed the bedroom, grabbing the first pair of sweatpants he could find from the chair near the window. He didn’t bother with a shirt. The cottage heating ran warm enough, and he planned to check the downstairs quickly before returning to bed and pretending his nerves had not immediately dragged him back into old fears.
Because Alexei was gone now.
Cut off.
Finished.
At least that was what Ilya kept telling himself.
Three weeks earlier he had stood beside his father’s grave while cold rain soaked through his black coat and Alexei hissed insults through clenched teeth the moment mourners drifted out of earshot, demanding more money, more favors, more loyalty, as though Ilya existed solely to fund his life forever. Ilya could still remember the fury that had finally risen sharp enough to overpower guilt, the way he had looked directly at his brother and told him no.
No more money.
No more lies.
No more fixing disasters caused by Alexei’s cocaine habits and corrupt police connections and endless shady deals.
And when Alexei had called him a faggot who abandoned his family, Ilya had walked away without looking back.
He reached the staircase now, descending slowly while shadows stretched across the modern open-concept living room below, moonlight glimmering off polished countertops and the dark surface of the lake visible beyond the glass walls.
Silence.
Maybe he imagined it.
Then something moved behind him.
An arm locked violently around his throat.
Ilya barely managed to gasp before another figure slammed him forward into the wall hard enough to rattle framed photographs, pain exploding across his shoulder as rough gloved hands grabbed at him.
“What the fuck—”
A fist drove into his ribs.
The impact knocked the breath from his lungs instantly.
Two men.
Masked.
Large.
One twisted his arms behind his back while the other yanked something metallic from his pocket that flashed briefly in the moonlight.
Zip ties.
Cold terror surged through Ilya so quickly it made him dizzy.
Not robbery.
Not random.
Alexei.
“Move quietly,” one of the men muttered in heavily accented Russian. “Or we break your jaw before transport.”
Transport.
The word turned his stomach.
Ilya fought immediately, driving his elbow backward hard enough to connect with someone’s ribs, but the second man caught him by the hair and smashed his face against the wall. White pain burst behind his eyes. He tasted blood instantly.
“Fucking little bitch,” the man snarled. “Your brother said you’d be difficult.”
Rage cut through the fear then, hot and blinding.
Of course Alexei had done this.
Of course his brother had decided that if Ilya stopped being useful, stopped sending money to finance his addictions and criminal bullshit, then he would simply take what he wanted another way.
The realization made him feel sick.
Not because he was surprised.
Because some part of him still hated that he wasn’t.
One of the men forced his arms tighter behind his back while the other reached for the zip tie again, and Ilya knew with horrible certainty that if they got him restrained, if they got him outside and into whatever vehicle waited beyond the trees, nobody would find him in time.
Then a voice cracked through the darkness like a gunshot.
“Get the fuck away from him.”
Shane.
Everything happened at once after that.
The man holding Ilya turned too slowly.
Shane launched himself down the last few stairs with pure reckless fury, wearing only sweatpants and looking half feral with sleep still clinging to him, but there was nothing sluggish about the punch he drove straight into the nearest attacker’s face. Bone cracked loudly. The masked man staggered backward into the kitchen island.
The second attacker released Ilya immediately and lunged toward Shane.
Wrong choice.
Shane had spent his entire life refusing to throw punches on and off the ice, and unlike hockey fights, this carried none of the usual restraints. He moved with brutal efficiency, ducking beneath the swing aimed at his head before slamming his shoulder into the man’s stomach hard enough to send both of them crashing into the hardwood floor.
Ilya ripped free from the first attacker just as the man recovered enough to grab for a knife tucked beneath his jacket.
“Ilya!”
Shane’s warning came sharp and immediate.
Instinct took over.
Ilya caught the man’s wrist before the blade could fully clear its sheath and slammed it against the counter edge repeatedly until the knife clattered away across the floor. The attacker cursed and drove a knee into Ilya’s abdomen, but adrenaline kept the pain distant. Ilya retaliated with a vicious punch straight to the throat that sent the man choking backward.
Across the room, Shane had the second attacker pinned against the floor, fists bloody as he hit him again and again with terrifying force.
“Shane!” Ilya shouted, because there was something dangerous in the look on his boyfriend’s face, something furious enough to kill.
Shane froze only long enough for the attacker beneath him to shove him backward violently.
The man scrambled up and bolted for the open back door.
The other followed instantly.
Within seconds both disappeared into the darkness beyond the cottage, branches cracking somewhere out near the tree line as they ran toward the road.
Silence crashed down afterward so abruptly it rang in Ilya’s ears.
For one terrible second neither of them moved.
Then Shane crossed the room in three strides and grabbed Ilya’s face carefully, his breathing ragged, eyes wide with panic beneath the anger.
“Are you hurt?”
The question came rough enough to break something inside Ilya’s chest.
Blood dripped from Shane’s split knuckles onto the hardwood floor. A bruise was already darkening along his jaw. He looked furious and terrified all at once, like the thought of losing Ilya had reached directly into him and ripped something open.
“I’m okay,” Ilya said automatically, though his ribs ached and his head throbbed where it had hit the wall.
Shane’s hands tightened slightly against his face. “Don’t lie to me right now.”
And somehow that did it.
Not the attack.
Not the fear.
Not even Alexei betraying him one final time.
It was Shane standing there half shaking with adrenaline and fear, looking at Ilya like losing him would destroy him completely.
Ilya’s breath hitched unexpectedly.
“He sent them,” he said quietly. “Alexei.”
Shane’s expression darkened instantly, murderous fury returning so fast it almost looked physical.
“I’ll kill him.”
The words were not dramatic. Not exaggerated.
Shane meant them.
And God, some ruined part of Ilya loved him desperately for it.
“He wanted money,” Ilya continued, voice unsteady now despite his efforts. “I stopped sending it, so…” He laughed once, hollow and bitter. “This is easier for him.”
Shane stared at him for a long moment before pulling him forward abruptly into his arms.
The embrace nearly knocked the air from Ilya’s lungs.
Not because it hurt.
Because Shane held him like he genuinely could not bear not to.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Shane murmured fiercely into his hair. “Nobody is taking you from me. Do you understand?”
Ilya closed his eyes.
For years his life had been shaped by obligation and fear and the constant knowledge that love always came attached to conditions, to debts, to pain waiting patiently around the corner. Alexei had spent most of Ilya’s teenage and adult life reminding him that family loyalty meant surrendering pieces of himself until there was nothing left.
But Shane’s arms around him felt nothing like that.
Shane held him because he wanted him alive.
Wanted him safe.
Wanted him here.
The realization hurt almost as much as the attack itself.
“I understand,” Ilya whispered.
Outside, the lake stretched dark and endless beneath the moonlight while wind rattled softly through the trees, but inside the cottage Shane refused to let go of him for the rest of the night, as though sheer stubborn devotion alone could keep every ghost from ever reaching Ilya again.
By the time the police arrived, dawn had begun bleeding faint gray light across the surface of the lake, turning the black water steel-colored beneath the cloudy morning sky, and the cottage looked wrong somehow with flashing red and blue lights reflecting against its sleek glass walls, transforming what had felt private and safe only hours earlier into an active crime scene.
Ilya sat at the kitchen island wrapped in one of Shane’s hoodies, fingers curled tightly around a mug of coffee that had long since gone cold, though he had not taken a single sip. His ribs hurt every time he breathed too deeply. There was dried blood near his hairline from where his face had struck the wall, and every few seconds he caught himself staring toward the back door as though expecting the masked men to come crashing through it again.
Across from him, Shane argued with one of the officers in a voice sharp enough to cut glass.
“I’m telling you they had a fucking knife,” Shane snapped, pacing beside the living room windows with restless, furious energy. “And zip ties. They didn’t come here to scare him.”
“We understand that, sir—”
“No, you don’t.”
The officer, a tired-looking man in his late forties with deep lines carved around his mouth, glanced toward Ilya briefly before lowering his voice.
“We do understand. That’s why detectives are already involved.”
Shane dragged a hand through his hair hard enough to shove it back from his face, revealing the bruise darkening along his jaw from the fight. He had refused medical treatment twice already. Every ounce of his attention remained fixed on Ilya instead, like looking away for too long might somehow result in him disappearing.
Another officer emerged from downstairs carrying an evidence bag.
Inside sat the plastic zip ties.
And a syringe.
Shane went still immediately.
“So they drug him too?” he asked quietly.
The room seemed to shrink around Ilya.
The older officer exhaled heavily before setting a notepad down on the counter. “We can’t confirm intent yet,” he said carefully. “But based on what we found, combined with the statements you both gave…” He paused briefly. “This does not look like a standard home invasion.”
Ilya laughed once under his breath, humorless and exhausted. “No shit.”
The officer’s expression softened slightly.
“You said one of the attackers mentioned your brother?”
At the name alone, nausea twisted sharply in Ilya’s stomach.
“Yes.”
“And your brother is currently employed in Russian law enforcement?”
“Police,” Ilya corrected flatly. “Corrupt police. There is difference.”
The officer gave a slow nod like that detail unfortunately made things make more sense rather than less.
“And you recently stopped financially supporting him.”
“Yes.”
“Did he ever threaten you directly?”
Ilya hesitated.
Because technically Alexei had never said the exact words.
But there had always been threats buried beneath everything else. In every demand. Every insult. Every reminder that family loyalty came before personal happiness. Alexei had spent years making sure Ilya understood that leaving was not allowed.
“He said I owed him,” Ilya answered finally, voice rough. “For everything. For family. For raising me.” His mouth twisted bitterly. “He thinks I belong to him.”
Silence followed that.
Then the officer looked down briefly at the evidence bag before speaking in a measured voice that somehow made the words even worse.
“Mr. Rozanov… based on similar cases we’ve worked, it’s possible the intention was abduction for trafficking purposes.”
The sentence landed like a physical blow.
For a second Ilya genuinely could not process it.
Beside the windows, Shane stopped moving entirely.
“What?” he said.
Nobody answered immediately.
The officer chose his next words carefully, like he understood exactly how catastrophic they sounded.
“We’ve seen situations involving organized criminal networks where victims with money, public profiles, or foreign connections are taken for leverage, labor exploitation, forced sex work, financial coercion, or private sale to other groups.” His gaze shifted back toward Ilya. “Particularly when there’s a family connection facilitating access.”
Shane stared at him blankly.
Then he looked at Ilya.
And Ilya watched the full horror of realization spread slowly across his face.
Not assault.
Not ransom.
Not intimidation.
Taken.
Sold.
Gone.
The mug nearly slipped from Ilya’s numb fingers.
“No,” Shane said immediately, violently, like refusing the possibility could somehow erase it. “No, they were probably just trying to scare him.”
The officer didn’t argue, which somehow felt worse.
“We hope that’s the case,” he said carefully. “But the restraints, the sedative, the remote property location, the timing…” He paused. “Those are concerning indicators.”
Shane turned toward Ilya so quickly his chair scraped harshly across the floor.
“They wouldn’t have gotten you out,” he said, breathing unevenly now. “I would’ve heard something.”
But his voice lacked conviction.
Because they both knew he almost hadn’t.
If Ilya had gone downstairs thirty seconds later.
If Shane had slept deeper.
If the attackers had moved faster.
The realization settled over the room with suffocating weight.
Ilya suddenly pictured the dark road outside the cottage. A van waiting somewhere beyond the trees. His passport. Fake paperwork. Anonymous hotel rooms. Locked doors. Endless disappearances swallowed across borders every year while families searched forever without answers.
And Alexei would have known exactly what kind of people to contact.
God.
His own brother.
A strange sound escaped Shane then, rough and shaky, and Ilya looked up in time to see him brace both hands against the counter edge like he needed physical support to stay standing.
The color had drained completely from his face.
“They would’ve taken him,” Shane whispered.
Nobody corrected him.
The officer cleared his throat quietly. “Mr. Hollander, we’re arranging temporary patrol coverage for the property and recommending immediate private security measures. We also strongly advise against Mr. Rozanov remaining alone until suspects are identified.”
“Obviously he’s not staying alone,” Shane snapped instantly, almost offended by the suggestion. Then, softer but somehow more intense, he added, “He’s not leaving my sight.”
The words wrapped around Ilya’s chest painfully.
Because Shane sounded furious.
Terrified.
Protective in a way Ilya still didn’t fully know how to survive.
One of the younger officers approached carefully then, holding a clear plastic evidence bag.
Inside rested Ilya’s broken gold necklace, the one that had snapped during the struggle downstairs.
“Found this near the staircase,” she said gently.
Ilya stared at it silently.
His mother had given him that necklace.
Alexei had mocked him for wearing it constantly.
Family makes you weak, little brother.
The memory made something inside him fracture quietly.
Shane reached over without hesitation and took Ilya’s free hand beneath the counter, threading their fingers together tightly enough to hurt.
Ilya clung back just as hard.
The officer continued speaking about reports and investigations and federal agencies, but the words blurred together after that, drowned beneath the terrible understanding settling heavier and heavier in Ilya’s chest.
He had known Alexei was cruel.
But this—
This crossed into something monstrous.
And for the first time since cutting ties with his brother, Ilya truly understood that Alexei had never viewed him as family at all.
Only property.
Something useful.
Something profitable.
Something to own.
Shane’s thumb moved slowly against the back of his hand.
A small grounding touch.
When Ilya finally looked over at him, Shane was already watching him with an expression so devastated and furious that it nearly stole the remaining air from his lungs.
“You’re safe,” Shane said quietly, firmly, like he needed both of them to believe it. “He didn’t get you.”
And only then, sitting in the cold gray aftermath of almost disappearing forever, did Ilya realize how horrifyingly close Alexei had come.
The next day the cottage no longer felt peaceful.
That was the first thing Ilya realized when he woke sometime after noon to weak sunlight filtering through the enormous bedroom windows and the smell of coffee drifting faintly upstairs from the kitchen below. The lake still glittered beyond the trees. The wind still moved softly through the pines. Nothing about the place itself had changed.
But now every shadow looked like somewhere a person could hide.
Every creak of the old wood beneath the modern renovations sounded like footsteps.
Every movement outside the windows made adrenaline spike instantly through his bloodstream before logic could catch up.
He lay motionless beneath the blankets for several long seconds, staring at the ceiling while his heart hammered too fast for someone who had only just woken up.
Safe, he told himself.
You are safe.
The words felt thin and fragile.
Beside him, Shane was gone.
The empty space in the bed hit Ilya with immediate panic so sharp it almost hurt.
He sat upright too quickly, ribs protesting painfully, eyes darting toward the bedroom doorway just as a loud thump echoed from downstairs.
Ilya froze.
Another sound followed.
A muffled bang.
His pulse lurched violently.
For one irrational, horrifying second he pictured masked men climbing the stairs again, pictured zip ties and gloved hands and a needle sinking into his arm before he could fight hard enough—
Then Shane’s voice drifted upward.
“Fuck’s sake.”
A cabinet door slammed.
Silence.
Ilya exhaled shakily, only then realizing he had half climbed out of bed already, muscles coiled tight enough to run or fight.
Jesus Christ.
He pressed both hands against his face hard enough to hurt.
This was ridiculous.
He had survived worse things than this. Hockey injuries. Public scandals. Years of emotional warfare with Alexei. He was not supposed to be sitting here terrified because Shane dropped something downstairs.
But fear did not care about logic.
The attack kept replaying in flashes every time he closed his eyes: the hand around his throat, the knife, the words your brother said you’d be difficult.
His stomach twisted.
The bedroom door opened abruptly.
Shane stepped inside carrying two mugs of coffee, then stopped instantly the moment he saw Ilya’s expression.
Concern replaced irritation so quickly it almost looked painful.
“Hey,” Shane said immediately, setting both mugs down on the dresser. “What happened?”
Ilya looked away. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
Shane crossed the room at once.
Even injured, he moved with that same restless physical confidence that always reminded Ilya of a wolf pacing the edge of a territory, hyperaware of every possible threat. Bruises darkened one side of his jaw now, and his knuckles remained scraped raw from the fight, but somehow the injuries only made him look more dangerous.
More protective.
“I dropped a pan downstairs,” Shane said carefully. “That’s all.”
“I know.”
“You don’t look like you know.”
Ilya hated that Shane could read him this easily already.
He stared down at the blankets twisted around his legs before finally admitting quietly, “I thought maybe they came back.”
The confession seemed to physically affect Shane.
Something dark flashed across his face so quickly Ilya almost missed it.
Then Shane climbed onto the bed without hesitation and pulled Ilya against his chest hard enough that resistance became impossible.
“They’re not getting anywhere near you again,” Shane said firmly.
Ilya let out a shaky breath despite himself.
Objectively, he knew how irrational this was. The police had increased patrols around the property. Shane had checked every lock in the house three separate times before finally sleeping. There were security cameras now, motion lights, officers stationed half a mile down the road.
And still every noise made his nervous system react like prey sensing predators nearby.
Shane’s hand slid slowly up and down his back.
“You know what I did this morning?” Shane asked after a moment.
Ilya made a questioning noise against his shoulder.
“I walked the entire property perimeter twice.”
Despite everything, a faint laugh escaped Ilya. “You are insane.”
“Probably.” Shane sounded completely unbothered. “Checked every door too. Every window. Garage. Dock.” His arm tightened slightly around Ilya. “Nobody’s getting close without me knowing.”
The terrifying thing was that Shane absolutely meant it.
Ever since the attack, something instinctive and almost primal had switched on inside him. He tracked Ilya’s movements constantly. Positioned himself between Ilya and every doorway without seeming aware he was doing it. Last night, after the police finally left, Shane had prowled through the cottage checking locks repeatedly until nearly sunrise, jaw clenched tight with lingering adrenaline and fury.
Like a guard dog that had finally found something worth protecting.
And maybe the strangest part was how safe it made Ilya feel.
“You should not have to babysit me,” Ilya muttered.
Shane pulled back just enough to look at him directly.
“This isn’t babysitting.”
“No?”
“No.” Shane’s expression hardened slightly. “Someone tried to fucking kidnap you, Ilya.”
The bluntness knocked the remaining air from his lungs.
Even now, saying it aloud felt impossible to fully comprehend.
Shane’s thumb brushed lightly beneath one of the bruises forming along Ilya’s neck where fingers had dug into his skin.
“I almost didn’t wake up in time,” Shane admitted quietly.
The rawness in his voice made Ilya look up sharply.
Shane rarely admitted fear. Anger, yes. Possessiveness, constantly. But fear was different. Fear required vulnerability Shane usually buried beneath sarcasm and irritation before anyone could touch it.
“I heard noises downstairs and thought maybe I was imagining it,” Shane continued, gaze fixed somewhere over Ilya’s shoulder now. “If I’d fallen back asleep…”
He stopped.
Ilya suddenly understood that Shane had replayed the same scenario in his head all night too.
The almost.
The unbearable possibility of waking up to an empty house.
Without thinking, Ilya reached up and touched Shane’s face gently, fingers brushing the bruise on his jaw.
“But you did wake up,” he said softly.
Shane’s eyes closed briefly at the contact.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I did.”
A sudden sharp sound cracked outside somewhere near the lake.
Ilya flinched violently before he could stop himself.
Instantly Shane was moving.
One second relaxed against the pillows, the next fully alert and halfway off the bed, body positioning automatically between Ilya and the windows while his gaze snapped toward the trees outside.
“What was that?” Ilya whispered.
Shane stayed silent for several tense seconds, listening.
Then another sound echoed faintly.
A branch hitting the dock in the wind.
That was all.
Still, Shane crossed the room and checked anyway, pulling the curtain aside carefully before scanning the property with narrowed eyes.
Only after a full minute did his shoulders loosen slightly.
“Tree branch,” he said. “Nothing else.”
Ilya hated the lingering tremor still running through his body.
Shane noticed, of course.
He always noticed.
Without a word, Shane returned to the bed and tugged Ilya back against him until they were pressed together beneath the blankets again, Shane’s larger body acting like a barrier between him and the rest of the world.
“You know guard dogs usually bark less,” Ilya muttered weakly after a while.
Shane snorted softly against his hair.
“Yeah? Well this one also bites.”
The image should not have comforted him as much as it did.
But as Shane held him there in the quiet afternoon light, one arm wrapped possessively around his waist while the lake shimmered peacefully outside, Ilya slowly became aware of something strange beneath all the fear.
Every terrible thing that had happened over the last twenty-four hours had proven one undeniable fact.
When it mattered most, Shane came for him.
Immediately. Violently.
Without hesitation.