THIRTY-TWO
ARSENY
Niko comes back to work quietly. There’s no announcement, no speeches, and no one pretending this means anything is solved. He turns up on time, shaved, uniform straight, and hair a little too neat.
I notice it immediately, and then make myself stop looking because hovering helps no one.
People can feel concern when it turns into scrutiny, and Niko has had enough eyes on him already.
So, I let him walk into the building under his own steam, carry his own folder, answer his own questions, and sit through the first half hour without stepping in every five minutes to check whether he’s still functioning.
He seems to be, and that has to be enough for now.
Later, when we’re alone for a minute between briefings, he tells me about the sitter in the practical tone he uses. Vetted, local, available on short notice, and close enough to the barracks that getting back won’t be a full operation in itself.
“That’s good,” I say, and mean it.
He nods, but there’s a delay to it, like he’s still waiting to see whether I’m going to argue with him or point out something he missed. Then he says, “I’m—” The sentence dies halfway out of his mouth. He looks away, then tries again. “I’m working again,” he says. “Properly.”
He means he’s made childcare arrangements, shown up on time, and managed to put his boots on without feeling like the floor might open. He means he wants me to see that he is doing what he can. “I know,” I say. “I can see it.”
That gets the smallest change in him. His shoulders ease, but only by a hair.
I see the relief, but it’s not enough to make me stop worrying.
That was never going to happen this soon.
Grief doesn’t suddenly become bearable because somebody comes back to work in a pressed uniform.
Still, this is what the beginning of recovery looks like most of the time.
Turning up, eating badly but regularly, and going one day at a time.
I leave him to it after that, not because I stop thinking about him, but because he deserves the space to try.
The operation briefing lands on my desk just after lunch.
Joint effort, limited footprint, and, to my surprise, British-led. I know what that means before I finish reading the page. Their side will take point, and ours will do what ours always does when someone higher up wants control without visible overreach.
I’m in the room when it’s presented, standing off to one side with the others while maps go up on the wall and timings get laid out in broad strokes.
Risks are acknowledged without being looked at too closely.
As usual. Nobody likes saying the ugly parts aloud in briefings like this. It makes them too real in the moment.
Caiden is there with his unit, which catches my attention more fully than the paperwork does — irritating but true.
He’s leaning a little forward in his seat, enough that I recognise he’s locked in.
The tension I’ve been watching him carry all week changes when the briefing starts.
This is his territory. Systems, responsibility, and practical pressure.
The sort of thing that lets him stop turning anger over in his head and actually do something with it.
I watch him track the information, then watch the moment he realises leadership is sitting on his shoulders. The room empties in stages afterwards. I let the crowd thin enough that catching up to Caiden looks accidental, then fall into step beside him in the corridor.
“So,” I say, keeping my voice light enough to pass as casual. “Looks like you finally get to be the boss, detka.”
He makes a face at that, but I still get the snort before he can stop it. “God help them.”
“You’ll do great,” I say. “Probably.”
That gets a proper grin out of him. “Motor pool later?” he asks, taking a quick glance around.
There he is.
“Mm, yes, sir,” I say. He laughs and keeps moving. I let him go because that’s how this works, and because the anticipation is half the fun anyway.
The rest of the afternoon passes in the usual bits and pieces.
A problem with a supply count, one soldier who thinks “nearly correct” is a usable standard, and another who’s managed to lose an entire form and looks genuinely surprised that I don’t find it charming in the slightest. Routine, in other words.
Still, under all of it, there’s that thin, live thread of later, which is the only reason why I leave the soldier in question with his pride intact.
Caiden is already at the motorpool when I get there. I get close enough to see him properly — standing in the shadow of one of the trucks with his hands in his pockets like he hasn’t been watching for me at all — and I keep walking until I’m in front of him.
He still looks tired, but lighter than he did a few days ago.
“Come here,” I say quietly, and then I catch his sleeve and pull him by the arm.
I keep walking until we reach the armoured transport truck with its reinforced bodywork and blacked-out windows.
It's not the first place we've used, and it won't be the last. I wrestle the heavy door open and don't look at him when I say, “Get in.”
He does it immediately.
The second the door shuts behind us, the sounds on base are muted. The space inside the truck is cramped, but Caiden climbs over me without me saying anything and settles astride my lap like he’s been thinking about this for hours.
He confirms it in the way he grabs me through the uniform.
“Fuck,” I say quietly. “You’re impatient.
” My hands go straight to his hips, dragging him closer.
He’s breathing a little too fast already.
His mouth is parted. His pupils are wide in the dim light.
He looks wrecked before I’ve even properly started.
“You’ve been thinking about this all day,” I murmur, mouth close to his ear. “About my cock inside you?”
“What do you think?” he asks, rolling his hips slowly and filthily, grinding down on me hard enough to drag a rough breath from my mouth.
“Lock the doors,” I tell him.
He reaches past me, fumbling slightly with the controls, and lock clicks, snapping into place.
Now we’re sealed in.
Then I kiss him, hard. My tongue pushes past his lips, and he gives way immediately. His hands are in my hair, tugging hard, making me nip his lower lip. He makes that wrecked little sound he tries not to make, his hips rocking down again because he can’t help himself.
“Clothes off, now,” I say, pushing him back far enough to look at him properly. His eyes look black in the low light, making him look even hungrier
He doesn’t make me tell him twice. His jacket comes off first, his shirt after it, then everything else. By the time he’s naked, his cock is hard and leaking, flushed and aching, and I stay exactly where I am for another second just to watch him.
He hates when I do that.
“Always so desperate for it,” I say, and drag my thumb over the head of his cock, spreading the wetness down the shaft. He shudders and thrusts into my hand on instinct.
There’s no point asking him to deny it. He won’t, not like this. I undo my belt slowly enough to make him suffer for a few seconds.
The buckle clinks in the quiet, and my zip follows. He’s watching my hands now, not my face, and I nearly laugh at how easy he is to read when he’s this worked up.
“You want it?” I ask. “Then take it, detka.” He lunges at me, tugging me out of my jacket, dragging my shirt over my head, and by the time I’ve shoved my uniform and boxers down to my ankles, he’s already got his lube slicked hand wrapped around my cock.
One stroke. Two. Then he’s lifting himself, positioning me, and sinking down in one slow, greedy movement that makes both of us stop breathing for a second.
Fuck.
He never gets easier to watch like this. The way his face tightens with the stretch, the way his mouth opens, and his whole body trembles as he works himself lower, taking me inch by inch. My hands lock onto his hips while I force myself to let him do it.
“God, I— Fuck Caiden,” I moan. He sits down fully with a broken little sound, ass flush to my thighs, and for a second neither of us moves. He’s tight, hot, and clenching around me in small involuntary waves that tell me exactly how much he wanted this before we ever got in the truck.
Then he starts to ride me. He’s slow at first, testing the angle, finding the depth, letting his body adjust. I feel the point where it changes from careful to needy as he starts chasing it.
He speeds up, his hips getting sharper, hungrier, and I let my head fall back against the seat with a low groan because he feels that good.
“Fuck, Ari,” he moans between whimpers, riding me harder, his cock leaking over my stomach, and his breathing going from thin and wrecked to wild pants. I can feel it building already.
Then a shadow passes over the window, and I go stock still under him immediately.
Outside, someone stops beside the truck.
I can see the shape of him through the darkened glass when the lighter flares — one of the younger Russian soldiers by the look of him, a cigarette between his fingers, his face lit for a second and then gone again.
He’s just outside. One wrong sound, and this becomes a very different evening.
“Wait,” I hiss, low enough that only Caiden hears it.
My hands are still on his hips, but my grip changes in warning.
But he doesn’t stop.
Instead, he carries on, moving agonisingly slowly, grinding down just enough to drag my cock against that perfect spot inside him. My breath catches before I can stop it, and his mouth shifts at that, the smug asshole.
The soldier outside takes another drag and shifts his weight, his boots crunching on the gravel. Caiden leans forward until his lips are at my ear. “He can’t see us,” he whispers. “But he could hear us.”
My hands tighten on him as he rocks down again, deeper this time, and I have to bite back the noise trying to come up my throat.
“You fucking—” I start, but he lifts up and then sinks onto me again before I can finish.
Harder now, no longer pretending to be cautious.
The recruit outside shifts closer, and every nerve in my body lights up with it.
Risk does that. So does Caiden when he knows exactly what he’s doing and does it anyway. “Fuck,” I breathe.
My hand slides up his back and fists in his hair, pulling his head back. “You’re going to get us caught.”
He smirks at me, “I don’t care. Fuck me, beautiful.”
That does it.
I adjust under him, sliding lower in the seat, spreading his cheeks apart with my hands, and thrusting up hard enough to knock the air out of him. His gasp is sharp, beautiful, and immediately swallowed when he attacks my mouth with his.
Outside, the cigarette glows again. Inside, I start fucking him properly.
No more patience, no more waiting to see whether he behaves.
My hands lock on his ass, and I drive up into him with fast, rough, deep thrusts that make the whole seat creak beneath us.
He’s trying not to make noise now, and failing in the best possible way.
Every breath broken against my mouth, every little movement of his body giving him away.
The recruit outside lingers, but it’s doing something for Caiden.
I can feel it in the way his ass tightens, the way his cock leaves pools over my stomach, and the way his body starts chasing mine instead of just taking what I give him.
He’s always gorgeous like this, half out of his mind and not trying to act otherwise.
“Harder,” he breathes against my mouth. “Make me come, Arseny.” His words are filthy enough to send shivers down my whole body.
I thrust up harder, he bites his own lip to keep quiet, and I nearly lose what little restraint I’ve got left.
My hand wraps around his length, stroking him hard and fast as my hips snap up over and over again, assaulting his prostate head-on.
He comes with a muffled cry against my mouth, his cock pulsing hot between us, and the way he clenches around me drags me over the edge a few seconds later.
I bury myself deep and come hard, my teeth set into the side of his throat to stop the noise before it gets out.
Outside, the soldier takes one last drag, flicks the cigarette away, and finally moves on, his footsteps crunching off into the dark.
Inside the truck, Caiden is still shaking above me, my chest rises and falls hard under his, his cock softening slowly against my stomach, and mine is still twitching inside him.
I drag him in for another kiss, slower this time, deeper, running my hands over his back in lazy strokes while both of us come back down enough to think properly again.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” I murmur, my voice wrecked.
He grins against my mouth. “But what a way to go.”
I laugh then and bite his lip one last time for being smug.