“See?” I murmur, tracing his lip again, softer this time, making his eyes flutter closed. “You’re here because you want something,” I whisper, pressing my thumb lightly into the curve of his mouth. “You wantme.” His eyes open suddenly, and his breath leaves him in a broken shudder. His entire body leans that little bit closer, and I smile when his eyes drop to my lips again. “Detka,” I whisper softly.
“What does detka mean?” He asks, making me grin. “You shouldn’t call me—”
His voice cracks, and the sentence stops instantly when I lean in until my lips brush his. “I’ll call you whatever I want,”I whisper against his mouth. His hands finally move, gripping my waist, his fingers digging into my wet skin, desperate for balance, contact, or both. But I pull back an inch, it’s just enough to tease and remind him of who decides where this ends.
“Don’t,” he whispers.
“You don’t want more?” I ask, my voice dipping lower. He doesn’t answer; he doesn’t need to; his silence is his confession. I run my thumb one last time over his bottom lip. “Poor thing,” I murmur, letting the Russian curl around the syllables. “You don’t even know how to hide it.” His breathing stutters, and I drop my hand.
I step past him, brushing my wet shoulder against his bare arm, and reach for my towel. He stands motionless, chest heaving, and lips still parted slightly where my thumb touched. At the doorway, I glance back. He looks destroyed, without even a kiss, completely undone by a thumb on his mouth.
“Careful, Caiden,” I say softly. “If you look at me like that again, you won’t like how I stop you.” Then I turn and leave him there in the steam, trembling, furious, and so painfully wanting he could ignite the tiles beneath his feet.
Nine
Caiden
One second, I’m standing there, in the showers, with the steam burning my lungs, and Arseny Zakirov’s thumb stroking my bottom lip like he’s trying to rewire my nerves and the next, I’m stumbling into the corridor, the cold air slamming into my face so hard it feels like punishment.
I can feel my heart beating everywhere, in my throat, my hands, even my teeth. My legs carry me fast, as if I’m running from an explosion in the opposite direction of one naked Russian with a god complex.
I don’t breathe until I reach the first corner, and even then, it comes out in a wrecked, shaky exhale that echoes off the empty hall. “Fuck.” It’s the only word I have left. I grip the wall, bracing one hand against the cold brick to stop myself from sliding down it.
It’s the look he gave me, like he’d known — really known — what I wanted before I even admitted to myself I did. The way he stepped toward me, steam curling around him, skin soaked, his eyes amused like he was peeling me open with his gaze alone. And that touch, Christ.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
I squeeze my hands into fists and force myself to stand up straight. The corridor is empty, thank God. If anyone saw me right now, they’d think I’d been hit by a fucking grenade. I drag in another breath, but it barely helps. My body is buzzing, not with adrenaline or fear, but with something hotter and more dangerous.
I scrub my palms over my face and mentally kick myself. “You absolute idiot,” I whisper, half at myself, half at him, or maybe at whatever God oversees soldiers who make catastrophically bad decisions.
I slam my back against the wall and stare at the ceiling like it might have mercy on me. He was right, and that was the frustrating part. He saw straight through me.Every layer, denial, and carefully arranged boundary I built to keep my life controlled, stable, and survivable. He tore through it just by existing and looking at me with those sharp, knowing eyes and saying things in that low, effortless voice.
“Detka.”My knees nearly buckle again. “What the fuck am I doing?” I whisper. I’m not supposed to want him. I’m not supposed to want any man here, not like this, not openly, and definitely not someone like him.
I push off the wall and force myself to walk with slow, steady steps. My body feels too hot, and every nerve feels rewired. I reach the other locker room closer to the barracks. It’s empty, thank God. My hands are still shaking. I grab the edge of the metal bench and lean down, breathing hard like I’ve run fifty miles. I press my forehead against my arm with my eyes squeezed shut. He shouldn’t get under my skin this easily or be able to take my composure apart like it’s a puzzle he’s played with before.
I sink onto the bench, with my elbows on my knees, and my palms pressed to my eyes. Everything is a game to him. But what terrifies me is that some part of me wants to play.
I stay sitting until my heartbeat stops trying to kick a hole through my ribs, and when I finally lift my head, my face is flushed; I look like someone who just got fucked, and he barely touched me.
I stand abruptly, shove my hands into my pockets, and force myself to breathe like a functioning human being again. I swallow hard, take some deep breaths, and head for my bunk.
My body feels too tense the whole way there. I’m too fixated on the memory of heat, steam, and the touch that wasn’t supposed to happen. By the time I collapse into my bed, burying my face in the pillow, one final truth strikes me. It’s humiliating and electric at the same time. I’m not scared because Ari touched me; I’m scared because I wanted him to. And I don’t know what’s worse, that he knows it, or that I want him to do it again.
I’d love to say that I slept last night, but I didn’t. I lay there staring at the cracked ceiling of the barracks, blanket shoved down around my hips because the room always feels ten degrees hotter when you’re fighting thoughts you shouldn’t be having.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Ari naked, dripping from the showers, and looking at me like he knew every filthy thought I tried to strangle in my own skull. He wasn’t embarrassed in the slightest. He wasn’t coy or even surprised. He was amused, as if watching me unravel was his new favourite hobby.
Pathetic doesn’t begin to cover how I feel. I don’t want him; I don’t even like him, for Christ’s sake. I repeat it in my head so many times that the words lose all meaning.
The obstacle course is carved out of a patch of frozen earth that hates us all equally. We line up with our Russian counterparts. I remind myself I’m here for training, not because he’s here. Then he steps onto the course, and whatever lie I was trying to swallow lodges painfully in my throat.
Ari moves through the cold like the weather is an obedient dog that wouldn’t dare nip him. He’s in full gear, sleeves shoved up just enough to show his forearms, his muscles flexing under skin. He doesn’t even look at me, which is a hundred times worse.
All I can think of in this moment is water sliding down his skin yesterday, and the way he tilted his head at me in the showers like I was entertainment. I shove the image down so hard it nearly knocks the breath out of me.
Niko blows the start whistle and launches himself down the course. The two Brits beside me take off. I should follow them and focus, but my eyes drag to my left.
