Arseny
“Caiden.” It comes out softer than I meant it to. It’s not the sharp, taunting edge I usually use on him, not the drill voice or the battlefield snarl.
I feel the change in him as I say it. His fingers are gripping the side of my neck, his thumb resting on the tendon that jumps when I’m trying too hard not to feel anything. He’d grabbed me there to shove me back a minute ago.
Somewhere between the shove and the follow-through, we ended up like this instead. Our bodies pressed from chest to thighs, my back against the racks, and my hand splayed over his spine.
His hand tightens on my neck. I think he’s trying to choke me at first — I like choking, depending on the circumstances — but this isn’t that. This is him hanging on like I’m the only thing stopping him from bolting.
“Caiden,” I repeat, because I’m a sadist and I want to hear how it changes his breathing. There’s a sharp intake of breath, almost like a flinch, then this rough little exhale that ghosts across my face.
His face so close I can see every ridiculous shade of green in his eyes — the gold ring around the pupil, the darker flecks at the edge. I shouldn’t be studying that, but I do it anyway.
My thumb hooks into his belt at the small of his back, and I can feel the hard line of muscle under my fingers, then the tiny tremor that runs through his body.
We hang there on the edge of a kiss, suspended between breaths. Our mouths are so close that if I leaned in anothercentimetre, we’d touch. If he’d just tilt his head a little, we’d slot together.
Instead, we shake with tension.
I’m hyper-aware of every point where our bodies meet, his thighs caging mine, the hard plane of his chest, the way his ribs push against me every time he drags in air, then exhales.
This started as an argument. That’s the funniest part.
I swallow, the muscles in my throat shift under his palm, and he freezes, his eyes locked on my lips. I stay perfectly still. Every instinct I have is screaming at me not to spook him.
One wrong move and he bolts, or bites.
He realises what he’s done a second too late. I see the flicker of panic and the way his chest jerks against mine. You’re not stupid, are you, detka? You’ve always known where this was heading. I’ve been dragging you here one insult at a time.
Just give in.
He looks up again, straight into my eyes, and I let him see it. No jokes, no taunting, just the naked want I’ve been practically throwing at him.
The hand holding my wrist releases me. He presses his palm to my chest, and for a second, I think he’s going to push himself back. But then his hand slides a little lower to my sternum. His eyes flicker down to my mouth again, then back up frantically. I can feel the war raging inside him. The fear on one side, the sheer stupid gravitational pull of whatever this is on the other.
I’m aware, distantly, of how visible we are, behind a door — yes, but not invisible. Someone could round the corner and open the door at any second. But I’m finding it hard to care. I could say a lot of things right now. I could joke, cut him down, but instead I give him the simplest, stupidest truth I can. “Yes.”
Yes, I want it too. Yes, I’ve been waiting. Yes, I’m about ten seconds away from doing something reckless. I watch his eyes and see the mixture of terror and relief rushing through him. I tip my head just enough to shift the angle so his breath spills straight into my mouth, so he can feel how close he is to falling.
We’re standing on the edge of something huge, stupid, and inevitable. My gaze drops to his mouth again, then lifts slowly. I want him to see it. I want to make sure there’s no mistaking what I’m saying.
Every part of me is buzzing; electricity thrums through my body. His hand on my neck, the heat of his palm, the way his fingers are beginning to bunch in the fabric of my shirt like he’s caught between hauling me closer and shoving me away — that’s enough to send a flood of fire through my veins. It’s like my body knows exactly how it would feel to have him surrender that last little bit. It knows how he’d taste and what sound he’d make when he finally stopped pretending he didn’t want this.
We need just one more step.
Come on, Caiden. Take it. Be brave about something that isn’t dying. He licks his lips, and I track it like a weapon sight. Fuck. I want him so badly my hands actually shake. If I push, I know I can make him fall; I’ll get exactly what I’ve been engineering for weeks.
But then I think of Niko’s face if anyone catches us. I think of Caiden, of how hard he’s fought himself already to say those words out loud and about what will happen to him if he lets go in the wrong way.
The army will crucify him long before they get to me.
I realise, with a sort of bewildered horror, that I don’t want his first kiss with me to taste like panic. I want him ruined for anyone else, yes, but not like this. So I hold still, andI don’t move in. His thumb strokes my neck again, and the control it takes not to groan into it makes my eyes sting.
Say something, Arseny. You can’t just stand here breathing on him. Say something. “I know you want it,” I murmur against his lips. “So, take it.” There, no more excuses. No more pretending this is something I tricked him into. If he closes the gap now, it’s his choice.
I watch every micro-expression on his face and the way his throat works. For a second — one glorious, terrifying second — I think he’s going to do it. His weight shifts into me, his mouth tips that fraction closer, his breath catches.
Then he stops.
