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I don’t wait to take the fallout of their anger and be trapped by them again. So, without allowing myself to overthink the situation, I follow the captain.
Maybe, just maybe, I’ve finally found someone to teach me how not to be a weakling.
2
SASHA
While I like to believe I’m a practical person who overthinks before acting, there are times when I act out of pure impulse, not considering the possible ramifications, circumstances, or people’s reactions.
This is one of those times.
My steps are lighter as I completely ignore the pain from the boots and the general discomfort caused by my blood-clogged nose and swollen lips.
I break into a jog to catch up with the mysterious captain’s wide strides.
You know how some people are thrown into your path for a specific reason? I think—no, I’m certain that he’s here for that reason.
He’s nothing short of a phenomenon, an occurrence that I’m sure happens once in a lifetime, and if I don’t seize this chance, I won’t be given another.
His retreating back is getting farther and farther away, disappearing down the depressing hallway with the flickering fluorescent lights.
I can’t help noticing how he walks with purpose. No, not walks. He’s definitely striding, looking the part of a captain even when he’s not on duty.
Just when he’s about to round the corner, my mind goes into overdrive at the prospect of missing him—and my chance.
“Captain!” I call with all the strength I have.
He shows no sign of hearing me, and for a moment, I think I’ve lost him. That all my strength wasn’t enough.
Then in one swift movement, he spins around, and I freeze in place. He’s farther away than he was earlier, but I see him more clearly now, and I have no choice but to be sucked into his penetrating gaze.
The unforgiving harshness of his feral eyes pins me in place. It strikes me then.
He looks like a human weapon.
I don’t have to see him in action to guess that he’s both highly efficient and cold-blooded.
I shouldn’t have any misconceptions about this man just because he saved me earlier. He would’ve done the same for anyone in my position, considering he’s a higher-up.
It’s a duty. Nothing less and nothing more.
He slides his gaze over the length of me, eyes tapering with an acute sense of…disapproval.
“Do you have a habit of not greeting your superiors, soldier?” His crisp, deep voice again.
I’m caught in a trance by the subtle authoritativeness in it and the lowering edge in his tone.
He raises a perfect thick brow, and I straighten, then salute. “Sir, no, sir.”
Long silence stretches between us, and I think he’ll turn around and forbid me from following this time, but his voice carries in the silence again. “What’s your name, soldier?”
“Private Lipovsky, sir.”
“Full name.”
A shiver goes through me. He could be asking for my name to report me or something, but I seal away my doubts as I answer, “Private Aleksander Abramovic Lipovsky, sir.”
Another long moment of stretched silence. The few seconds that tick by feel like hours. As much as I try to hold my ground, I can’t help the sweat that trickles down my spine.
