Break Me Apart (Bloodlines #2)
ONE
CAIDEN
On the ride back to base, I dream of him again. We’re lying in bed in his tiny little cabin on the other side of the world, and I’m... happy.
I can feel the brush of his long blond hair against my cheek, his fingers tightening on my waist as he grips and pulls me closer, and the weight of his leg over the top of mine, caging me in, keeping me there with him.
I can smell the subtle hint of his aftershave, combined with the cigarette smoke on his skin.
I can hear the tiny sounds he makes while he sleeps, the crackle of the fire in the background, and the whistle of the wind outside.
I’m still there. I never left.
Then the truck jolts sharply, reminding me that reality is cruel, and I am, in fact, so painfully the opposite of happy.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, I left Russia — and him, Ari — behind. I still haven't let myself feel it properly.
I can't.
Not while I'm around the rest of my unit, so instead, I slept.
I opened the poetry book he gave me on the plane, saw the email address, and it sent my head west.
What now? Am I supposed to forget? Am I supposed to fight? I don't have the answer, only more questions. Questions I'm actively avoiding while people are looking.
Instead of focusing on those, I focus on what’s in front of me. The smell in the truck, the crap coming out of Mason's mouth, the weather. Anything that isn’t the twisting and churning feeling in my stomach.
The only thing that’s better in England is the weather, which, truthfully, isn’t saying much. As we pull onto the base, it surprises me how everything looks exactly how I remember it but feels so very different.
There’s the grey concrete, wet tarmac, and buildings that manage to look miserable even on a good day.
The four months away feel more like years. I could have stayed away longer without much trouble. Another four months, probably even more. There’s no puzzle as to why, even if I’m not in the mood to spell it out.
Still, men move around like they’ve got somewhere important to be, or at least they make it look that way. Somewhere nearby, I faintly hear someone already losing his temper with paperwork. It’s good to know some things never change in that way.
It’s home, apparently. Whatever that word means.
I hand over my paperwork, clear the last checkpoint, shoulder my bag, and everything continues as if I never left. The familiarity is there, but it doesn’t do much to help right now.
I don’t go straight to my room; if I do, I'll unpack, sit on the bed, and give myself far too much quiet time. And I’ve had enough of that already.
So, I head for the office instead.
I drop my bag by the desk and start working through the messages that stacked up while we were away.
Most of it is predictable. There are updates, requests, and problems that resolved themselves before anyone bothered to wait for an answer.
There’s one note from a bloke who could have sorted his own issue if he’d given it five minutes and a tiny amount of brainpower.
I consider writing “try harder, fucking arsehole” in the margin and decide against it.
The professional growth shocks even me.
I deal with everything quickly, efficiently, and I keep my mouth shut.
By the time I run out of excuses and head back to my room, the base has settled down.
Nothing in my room has changed. The bed’s pulled tight enough to bounce a coin, and the desk is exactly how I left it.
There’s a pale rectangle on the wall where a picture used to hang, before someone decided it counted as personality — God forbid — and, therefore, had to go.
Later, it’s business as usual. On paper, I’m the same person. In practice, not so much. The rest of the day blurs into reintegration briefings and debriefs stacked back-to-back. People want updates, opinions, and reassurance that nothing slipped while we were gone.
I give them what they’re after.
There’s a rhythm to it I know well. Competence, a bit of dry humour in the right places, and just enough ease to stop anyone looking at me too closely.
Not that I give them anything to look at anyway.
The six of us who came back from Russia drift toward each other automatically.
Mason’s as loud as ever, complaining about the food and the fact that there’s nothing to do once the working day ends.
“The place is dead,” he says, dropping into a chair opposite me in the common room.
“No duties till Monday and nothing worth getting out of bed for.”
“I wish your mouth were dead,” I mumble.
“How about you enjoy the rest?” Collins offers.
Mason snorts. “I’ll enjoy it when I’m doing something.” There’s a brief, half-arsed debate about options, most of which get dismissed immediately. I don't get involved in the discussion. My head is elsewhere, in another country.
It might as well be on Mars.
“The World’s End’s open late,” Collins says eventually.
Mason brightens and pushes himself up from the chair. “That’ll do. At least it’s not here. Come on then, ladies. Shower, shit and shave. Back here in an hour. You too, Varrik. I see you trying to ignore me,” he says while walking away. No one argues with him.
Decision made, I guess.
The World’s End is already loud when we arrive; the busy pub noise spills out every time the doors open. We shove a couple of tables together near the bar and settle in like we’ve done a hundred times before. The pints arrive, Collins orders shots and gets told where to shove them.
Not by me, although I am thinking the same thing.
The conversation loops easily through Russia, the cold, the boredom, and the people. I find myself listening rather than participating in the conversation. What would I even say? The weather was shit; I was never bored because of a certain tall, beautiful, blond menace.
Probably not.
I drink slower than the others, mostly because I don’t trust my mouth once I’m drunk. Also, the last thing I need to be doing is going back to base drunk and crying into my pillow.
A few seats down, someone interrupts a story mid-sentence to correct a detail that doesn’t matter, loudly enough to make sure everyone hears it.
Mason rolls his eyes and heads for the bar, draining his pint as he stands.
As I sit heavily in my thoughts, I can’t help but return to the email. I think it's pretty clear why he wrote it. It’s a window, if I want one. But a window to what? There’s no clear answer, that’s what is eating away at me.
Russia. Ari. How do I keep going without Ari? God, even my own thoughts are making me cringe. No matter how accurate the thoughts may be. I finish my drink, and I’ve now reached the point where staying put feels like a mistake. I push back from the table and go outside for some air.
A few people are already outside, scattered along the pub wall, smoking and drunkenly chatting in little clusters. I lean back against the wall and stay there with my eyes shut, trying to block out the noise.
People eventually begin to drift past me, then thin out. Some go back inside and others leave. I stand there blessedly, finally alone, when a sound from the direction of the bins in the alleyway grabs my attention. My curiosity gets the better of me; I step closer to the sound.
It’s Mason. He’s standing a little distance away, half-hidden in the dark.
He’s standing close to someone I don’t recognise at first. I squint until he comes into focus.
The bartender? I forget his name, it’s something...
Irish. They’re not too close together for a casual conversation, but when the bartender lifts his hand and grips Mason’s jaw, Mason doesn’t move away.
In fact, his head tips slightly into it, and he’s smiling.
Maybe it could still be nothing — just two people leaning in to hear each other over the noise.
But then the bartender closes the gap and kisses him hard, pressing him up against the wall.
Mason’s hands come up around his waist, pulling him in closer.
It’s quick, almost messy. There’s no attempt to hide it.
Holy fucking shit balls.
I remain where I am, the shock temporarily freezing me to the spot. I shouldn’t be watching, I know that. But my gaze lifts automatically, scanning the space around me — the door, the corners, the edges of light — checking no one else is here.
I think Mason feels my presence before he sees me. His body goes stock-still, then he pulls back, his eyes desperately flicking around the alleyway until they land on mine. He hesitates, says something to the bartender, who disappears down the alley, then Mason rushes towards me.
Shit.
He stops a few feet away, jittery, like he can’t work out where he’s meant to stand or what to say. “You saw,” he says quietly. “You definitely saw.”
“Yes. No. I mean — I saw nothing.”
He nods quickly. “Right. Okay. Right.” He exhales a short laugh that dies immediately. “Fuck.”
“Mate, it’s okay.”
“Nothing is okay right now.” He drags a shaky hand over his face. “Christ. I’ve fucked this.”
“You haven’t,” I say. “It’s fine; there’s only me out here.” That makes him look at me properly. He opens his mouth, closes it again, glances towards the door, then back at me.
“You’re not going to tell anyone?” he asks.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“You swear?” he asks, studying my face, searching for a catch.
“I swear. I’m not interested in ruining your life.”
Some of the tension drains out of his shoulders then.
He exhales through his nose, leaning back against the wall, head tipped back resting against the brick.
“Shit, I didn’t plan it,” he says. “I’m not that stupid.
It’s just that we were in Russia for so long...
I wasn’t thinking,” he pauses. “You’re not angry? ”
“Why would I be angry?”
“Because I'm —” he pauses again. “Shit, shit.”
“I didn’t know,” I say, trying to sound reassuring.
“Didn’t know what?”
“That you were... you know...”
“Gay?” he finishes, studying my face, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “That’s something, I suppose,” he mumbles, pushing off the wall and bracing himself again. “I’m so careful. I don’t do this, ever,” he adds, gesturing vaguely back toward the bins. “That was a mistake.”
“Did anyone else see?”
His head snaps up fast, scanning the alley again, mirroring my earlier movements without realising it. “I don’t think so; I didn’t notice anyone.”
“Alright.”
“That’s it? You’re just... alright?” he asks, swallowing hard. “You’re really not going to tell?”
“I’m not a grass.”
“I—” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I can’t think like this.”
“Then don’t,” I say. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Easy for you to say,” he mutters. I leave that alone. “I just wanted one night where I didn’t have to think.”
“I get it.”
“Do you?” he asks, giving me a sharp look. He looks like he wants to ask something else, then decides against it. “I owe you. You could literally ruin my life with this.”
“I don’t make a habit of outing my mates,” I say. “You don’t owe me a thing.” He lets out a quiet, shaky laugh. “Go back inside, act normal and don’t drink anymore.”
“Yes, sir,” he replies, then winces. “Sorry.” He straightens his jacket, rolls his shoulders, puts the mask of calm back on, then heads for the door.
He hesitates with his hand on the handle, turning back to face me again. “Caiden. Thank you.”
When the door closes behind him, the quiet settles around me properly. I need to get out of here.
I don’t go back inside. Instead, I turn, and I walk.
Back on base, I let myself into the comms room and close the door without turning on the main light. I sit at the desk, power up the terminal, rest my forearms on the surface, staring at the blank screen until my thoughts organise themselves into something usable.
I think hard about Mason, the look on his face when he realised I’d seen him, and how fast the panic hit. I also think about how little it took — one lapse. No planning. Only the assumption that, for once, he might be allowed to exist without hiding.
That assumption would have ruined him if anyone else had seen.
I close my eyes briefly, then open them again. This isn’t really about Mason. It’s about how quickly something private becomes dangerous and how little control there actually is once taking a chance is involved.
It’s also about how easily it could have been Ari and me.
I pull up the email screen and log in to my civilian account. I consider not writing. I also consider waiting and being sensible.
Both those ideas last about ten seconds.
Ari left me a way back. I don’t know what it’s a way to, but I do know I’ll never find out if I don’t take the risk.
From: returnfire@
Date: Friday, January 12, 1996, 23:32
Subject: Sneaky Russian
—Ari,
I’m back. Landed, cleared everything, got through without trouble. I know you’ll want to know that first, so there it is.
I wasn’t going to write tonight. I told myself I’d wait, sleep it off, be sensible. You can see how well that went. I swear I used to have self-control.
Something happened tonight. I went out with the lads and tried to pretend nothing’s changed.
I’m sure you can imagine how wrong I was.
I caught Mason around the side of the pub kissing some guy.
He forgot, just for a minute, how careful he has to be.
Watching that happen in real time shook me up quite a bit.
I keep thinking about how thin the line is and how quickly something small like that turns into something catastrophic. Also, how easy it would be to misjudge things once and not get a second chance.
That should probably have scared me into keeping quiet and not writing this email.
It didn’t, clearly.
I miss you. Even more than I’m willing to admit, if I’m honest. Being back here hasn’t helped. Everything’s the same, but I feel like I’m standing slightly out of sync with it.
I don’t know what this turns into. I’m not sure how careful we’re meant to be, or what the right version of this looks like from here.
All I know is I love you.
Write when you can. I’ll be here.
—Caiden
The message disappears from the screen, and I lean back, breathing out slowly. It doesn’t feel like relief, not exactly. It feels more like something clicking into place and a line crossed without a clear view of what’s on the other side.
The only clear thing I see is Ari.
I log out and step outside; the air’s sharp enough to clear my head and I stand there for a moment before heading back to my room, letting the cold bite.
This is going to hurt; I already know that, but it’s my choice. A choice I’m very clear about making. And it’s one I’m willing to live with.
Fuck the consequences.