The Eastern Front, late 1942, was a hellscape of mud and misery, a forest clearing near a Soviet encampment where the air hung heavy with the stench of gunpowder and damp earth. Under a gray, oppressive sky that seemed to press down like a leaden fist, Kunitsa—known as "Marten" for her cunning ferocity—lay perched in a nest of gnarled branches, her sniper rifle a cold extension of her will. Each notch carved into its stock marked a German life snuffed out, a tally of her silent vengeance. Her chestnut hair, streaked with mud, was shoved beneath a worn cap, and her hazel eyes, sharp as shattered glass, scanned the horizon with predatory focus. At nineteen, her bony frame bore scars from a past captivity she never spoke of, her skin prickling in the biting cold. Yet her long, steady fingers never wavered on the trigger. Beside her, Pulya, her loyal mutt with a coat as gray as the sky, lay still, ears twitching at every rustle, mirroring her tension.
She heard him before she saw him—boots squelching in the mire, a low whistle cutting through the stillness. Her jaw tightened. Reinforcements, her commander had said. A spotter. As if she needed anyone watching her back. Kunitsa didn’t trust anyone but herself and Pulya, and even her dog had to earn that over months of shared hunger.
“Oi, Marten!” a deep voice called, too loud for her liking. “Heard you’re the sharpest shot this side of Stalingrad. Care to show a poor sod how it’s done?”
She didn’t turn, didn’t flinch, her gaze locked on the distant tree line where shadows could turn to enemies in a heartbeat. “Keep your voice down, idiot,” she hissed, her tone as cold as the frost creeping up her boots. “Or I’ll shoot you myself just to shut you up.”
A low chuckle rumbled behind her as Sasha clambered up to her perch, his towering frame—damn near two meters of muscle and arrogance—making the branches groan. His brown hair was cropped short beneath his helmet, and his piercing green eyes glinted with a mischief that grated on her nerves. He dropped into a crouch beside her, far too close for comfort, his broad shoulder brushing hers as he adjusted his binoculars. She stiffened, her grip on the rifle tightening.
“Name’s Sasha,” he said, undeterred by her venom. “And I’m guessing you’re not one for small talk. That’s fine. I talk enough for two.”
“Clearly,” she snapped, finally sparing him a sidelong glance. His easy grin, all teeth and charm, made her want to punch him. Or worse, stare a little longer. She shoved the thought down hard. “You’re supposed to spot, not yap. So spot. Or I’ll toss you down to the wolves.”
Sasha raised a brow, his grin widening. “Wolves, eh? Thought I’d already found the fiercest one up here. Tell me, Marten, do you bite as hard as you bark?”
Her hazel eyes narrowed to slits, a flush of irritation—or something else—creeping up her neck. “Keep pushing, pretty boy, and you’ll find out. Now shut it and watch the eastern ridge. I’ve got no time for your nonsense.”
He obliged, for a moment, lifting his binoculars with a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am. Wouldn’t dream of distracting a lady with a rifle.”
“I’m no lady,” she shot back, her voice low and cutting. “And you’re no gentleman, so let’s not pretend otherwise.”
“Fair enough,” he said, his tone light but his eyes flicking to her with a curiosity that made her skin prickle. “But I’ll wager I can still charm a smile out of you before the day’s done.”
“Wager your life on it, and you’ll lose faster than a German in my crosshairs,” she retorted, though the corner of her mouth twitched, betraying her. Damn him. She refocused on her scope, tracking a flicker of movement in the distance—likely just wind, but she wasn’t taking chances. “See anything, or are those binoculars just for show?”
“Patience, Marten,” Sasha drawled, his voice dropping to a teasing murmur. “I’m looking. Though I’ll admit, the view right here ain’t half bad either.”
She whipped her head around, glaring daggers. “Say that again, and I’ll carve your tongue into my next notch.”
He laughed, a rich, reckless sound that made Pulya’s ears perk up. “Easy, easy. I meant the forest. Though your eyes do have a certain… sharpness to ‘em. Could cut a man down without a bullet.”
Kunitsa snorted, turning back to her scope to hide the heat in her cheeks. “Flattery won’t keep you alive out here. Focus, or I’ll leave you for the krauts to pick off.”
Their banter simmered as they worked, Sasha calling out potential targets while Kunitsa tracked them with lethal precision. She hated to admit it, but he was good—his eyes caught angles she couldn’t see from her perch, and he covered her blind spot with an ease that unnerved her. She wasn’t used to relying on anyone, and the thought of needing him, even for a moment, made her stomach twist.
Then it happened—a crack split the air, a bullet whistling past her ear, splintering bark inches from her face. “Down!” she barked, already rolling off the perch, Pulya scrambling after her. Sasha followed without hesitation, and they hit the muddy trench below with a wet thud, their bodies colliding as they pressed into the narrow space for cover. Her breath hitched, not from the near-miss, but from the sudden weight of him—his chest against her back, his arm instinctively shielding her as another shot rang out above.
“Get off me,” she growled, shoving at him, though there was nowhere to go in the cramped ditch. Her scars burned under her uniform, a visceral reminder of why she hated being touched. But his heat, the solid bulk of him, stirred something else—something she refused to name.
“Trying to save your pretty neck, Marten,” Sasha muttered, his voice rough now, no trace of humor. His breath was warm against her ear, and she cursed the shiver it sent down her spine. “Unless you’d rather take a bullet than take my help.”
“I’d rather take neither,” she snapped, twisting to glare at him, their faces inches apart. His green eyes locked with hers, searching, and for a heartbeat, she forgot the war, the mud, the cold. Then she shoved harder, forcing space between them. “Move. I can handle myself.”
He eased back, just enough, his gaze dropping briefly to her collarbone where her chained pendant had slipped free, revealing the jagged edge of a scar beneath. Her hand shot up to cover it, a reflex, and his expression shifted—curiosity, concern, something darker. He didn’t ask, didn’t push, and for once, she was grateful for his silence.
They stayed like that, pressed close in the trench, the distant crack of gunfire a grim reminder of where they were. Her heart thudded too loud, and she knew he could feel it, just as she could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. Neither spoke, neither moved, the air between them thick with unspoken heat. Pulya whined softly, sensing the shift, but Kunitsa kept her eyes on the ridge above, refusing to acknowledge the simmer beneath her skin.
For now, the war was their only language. But as Sasha’s gaze lingered on her, she knew this was only the beginning of a different kind of battle.
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