Page 115 of The Wrong Brother

Two hours later, the SUV turns onto a narrow gravel road. The forest seems endless, half-visible thanks to the moon hidden behind the pines.

Trees surround us on every side, their branches whispering softly in the night breeze. When the cabin finally appears, relief floods through me so quickly that I nearly laugh.

It’s beautiful.

Warm golden light spills from the windows. Smoke curls from a stone chimney. The structure is built from dark timber and weathered stone, looking more like something from a postcard than a hideout.

A man in his sixties waits on the porch. The caretaker, apparently.

He greets Rus warmly enough to suggest they’ve known each other for years, though there’s a hint of sadness in his smile as he looks at him.

“Good to see you home, son.”

Home.

The word hangs in the air. Rus simply nods.

The caretaker escorts us inside. The moment I cross the threshold, some of the tension leaves my body.

The cabin smells faintly of cedar, wood smoke, and coffee. Thick rugs cover the floor. Old photographs sit atop a mantel, and comfortable furniture fills the room instead of the polished luxury I’ve come to associate with Rus. It’s only three rooms, but it’s exactly what I need all of a sudden.

I glance toward Rus.

For the first time all night, his shoulders seem slightly less rigid. And somehow, seeing that calms me more than the cabin itself.

The caretaker leaves shortly after showing us around, promising that there is enough food stocked for weeks and that the generator has been serviced recently. By the time the front door closes behind him, I already feel more relaxed than I have in days.

Maybe weeks.

The cabin is quiet in a way the hotel never was. No elevators, no reporters lurking outside. No politicians. No tabloid photographers.

Just the soft crackle of wood settling in the stove.

I find Rus in the living room kneeling beside the cast-iron woodstove. Firelight dances across his face as he adjusts a log with practiced movements, as if this is something he does every day, though I don’t remember seeing a stove in the Santa Barbara house. For a man who wears custom suits and owns private jets, he looks surprisingly natural here.

Like he belongs.

“Thank you.” The words leave my mouth before I can overthink them.

He glances over his shoulder.

“For what?”

“For getting us out of there.”

“You’re welcome.” His response is simple: his hands resting on his knees as he stares into the flames, lost in thought.

I move toward one of the oversized armchairs near the fire while he closes the stove door. Warm orange light fills the room, pushing back the darkness gathering beyond the windows.

For a while, neither of us speaks. Then the question I’ve been carrying for days finally slips out.

“Why haven’t you done anything?”

Rus looks up. “About what?”

I gesture vaguely. “Andrei.”

His expression immediately hardens.