I feel the retreat without him taking a single step back. Something folds in him like a shutter slamming down behind his eyes, and fear wins by a nose.
We stand there for a few more seconds, then I let my hand fall from the small of his back. “Arseny...”
“Too slow, detka,” I whisper, taking my hand, pushing him back gently, and sidestepping him. The air between us suddenly feels huge, like we’ve just been separated by miles instead of inches. His hand falls away from my chest, and my skin misses it instantly like a phantom ache. I don’t let myself reach for him again. If I do, I won’t stop.
I force my face back into my cocky and unbothered expression. The tilt of the mouth, the raised brow, and the same armour I’ve worn since I was old enough to realise what it meant to want what I want.
“Go inside before you freeze,” I say, my voice is light enough that if anyone overhears, they’ll hear nothing in it. “You look like shit.”
He stares at me like he can see the lie, as if he can see the way I’m holding myself together. “Arseny...” he repeats.
I can’t hear my name coming out of his mouth right now. Not with that failed kiss still burning between us like a live mine. So, I take two more steps to the side, shove my hands deep into my pockets to hide the tremor, and shrug. “Next time, try breaking my nose first,” I say. “It might make it easier.” Then I turn and walk out of the room.
Every step feels like wading through wet concrete. I can feel his eyes on my back all the way down the path, between the barracks and up the concrete stairs. The urge to look over my shoulder is almost physically painful, but I don’t give in.
You wanted to leave him wanting more, I remind myself.
Congratulations. You succeeded.
It still doesn’t feel like winning.
One of the spare barracks rooms is blessedly empty when I slam the door behind me. The thin metal shakes in its frame, and I lean my forehead against it for a second, with my eyes squeezed shut. I catch myself on the door handle, my hand braced so hard the metal digs into my palm. “Idiot,” I mutter at myself. “Complete fucking idiot.”
I push away from the door and pace the length of the room. It’s not big; it takes three strides. I press the side of my hand to my lips. They’re still tingling, and he didn’t even touch them.
I can still feel the imprint of his fingers on my neck and the heat of his palm on my chest.“I know you want it. So take it.”Why the fuck did I say that?
I drop down onto the edge of the bed with my hands still shaking. I stare at them, then scrub them over my face, trying to wipe his breath off my skin. But it doesn’t stop the images replaying it whenever I blink.
Now he knows, and he can’t unknow it. He can’t go back to pretending he hates me or whatever lie he was feedinghimself. He knows I wanted it too. He heard me say yes, and he knows I put the decision in his hands.
I flop backwards onto the bed with a groan and stare up at the cracked ceiling. “I am so fucked,” I tell it. It doesn’t disagree. I throw an arm over my eyes and try, very hard, to think about anything else. Mission parameters, tomorrow’s training schedule, what fresh hell the mess will serve for breakfast, Niko’s stupid face when he finds out.
That last one makes my stomach drop.
Because he will find out, he always does. He reads me like a book he’s annotated himself. I might as well have a neon sign over my head right now flashing ‘I almost kissed your British pet.’ He’s going to kill me, or worse, he’s going to look disappointed. That thought hurts more than bullets.
I should stay away from him, make another joke, cut him down in front of the others, make him hate me enough that this never happens again. I should, but I won’t, I already know it. Because underneath all the terror and the self-preservation and the rules, there’s a rotten little truth I don’t say out loud, not even to myself most days.
I like the way he looks at me.
I like that he looks at me like I’m dangerous, fascinating, infuriating, and maybe worth the risk.
And yet here I am, lying on a narrow bunk in a freezing barracks on the edge of nowhere, replaying every second of a kiss that didn’t happen with a man who doesn’t know how to want things without punishing himself for it.
I breathe out, long and slow, and let myself sink into the mattress. We didn’t kiss, but we will. “See you soon, detka,” I murmur, smiling up at the cracked ceiling
Then I close my eyes and let the not-kiss replay again, this time not as torture, but as a promise.
Fifteen
Caiden
It’s been three days since I nearly kissed Arseny Zakirov behind the barracks, and my brain hasn’t shut up once. Three days of pretending nothing happened. Three days of pretending I don’t remember the exact feel of his hand on my back, his breath on my mouth, and his eyes on my lips. Three days of lying so hard to myself, I should probably be court-martialled for it.
The lads are either snoring or out trying to drink themselves frostproof, and Niko’s still buried in some officer meeting. I should be asleep or writing up the most boring morale report in the history of NATO.
Instead, I’m walking loops of the perimeter like a fucked-up wind-up toy with anxiety. The chain-link fence rattles faintly every time the wind hits it, and the floodlights throw harsh yellow cones across the snow, turning my breath into bursts of white smoke.
