Eight
Arseny
I’m already in a foul mood. When Caiden Varrik walks in like someone wound him too tight and forgot to release the safety, I feel it immediately. He looks at me— no, he aims that simmering dislike straight at my face.
Every interaction we’ve had so far has been a challenge, and every time he directs that attention at me, it’s loud in a way that makes my teeth itch. So, when he steps onto the mat opposite me, posture squared off like he’s preparing for impact— I assume, naturally, that it's because he hates me.
“Ready, Lance Corporal?” I ask, and he gives a stiff nod. We circle each other for a minute; he’s annoyed, tense, and he definitely wants to hit me. If he wants to prove something, okay, I can work with that.
I feint left; he blocks. I jab; he parries.
He’s good, not intuitive yet, but he’s disciplined, controlled and trained into precision.
His breath turns harsher as I increase my speed, forcing him to move faster, adjust, and react.
He keeps his focus pinned on me with stubborn discipline, with the anger sitting close to the surface.
Good. Anger is simple.
But then, he overcommits on a block, and I slip under his guard, sweeping his legs, and I slam him onto the mat with a satisfying thud.
Before he can recover, I pin him. My knees bracket his hips, one hand forcing him down, and the other gripping his wrist, and pinning it to the floor above his head at an awkward angle.
I’m expecting him to glare at me, maybe even swear.
But then his attention drops from my eyes and locks in on my mouth.
“Varrik,” I murmur, letting my tone dip lower.
“Eyes up.” He jerks his gaze away like he’s been burned.
Too late. I saw it. “You looked,” I say softly, leaning closer, not to tempt him, but to make it impossible to pretend this is only sparring. “And not where you should.”
“Get off,” he snaps.
Instead of moving, I shift my weight just enough to remind him that I control whether he can breathe comfortably, and I stay there.
“Forget it,” I murmur, leaning down, my lips close to his ear and tone like a silk-wrapped razor blade.
“Those aren’t for you, Varrik.” His entire body shudders under me.
I push off him suddenly, rising to my feet.
“Again?” I ask. He stands slowly, refusing to look at me, and his hands are too still at his sides. He wants to stop feeling seen.
But I intend to make this worse.
The showers hiss with steam, and a thick white haze swallows the room. I’m under the spray, head tipped back, water running over my chest, when I hear the door slam. It’s followed by heavy, controlled footsteps. I hear him pause behind me, but I don’t turn around. Let him look.
I let him stand there long enough for him to understand that he chose to follow me in here, and that choice has consequences.
“Arseny.” I look over my shoulder and see Varrik standing there, looking at me like someone ripped out his internal circuitry.
He’s wide-eyed and rigid, it could be mistaken for discipline instead of panic.
He looks at me as if he’s waiting for a command he hates himself for wanting as I turn around to face him.
I take one slow step back, underneath the water, letting it cascade down my shoulders, deliberately dragging his gaze lower with every movement. “What is it, Lance Corporal?” I ask softly.
He blinks, remembering, badly, why he came. “You...” He swallows. “You had no right to say that in training.”
“Say what?” I ask, tilting my head in fake confusion. “That your eyes were on my mouth?”
His face goes scarlet. “That wasn’t— I wasn’t— ” He stops, his control slipping again. He catches it too late, and that failure is its own answer. Fuck, he’s obvious.
I move toward him slowly, and he doesn’t back up. When I’m close enough that he can feel my presence without contact, I stop, and let the gap sit there like a line on a map. “You followed me in here,” I say quietly. “Why?”
“To tell you that you’ve got the wrong idea.”
A soft laugh leaves me. “No,” I whisper. “You came because you wanted to see me naked.”
“That’s not—” I raise my hand, lean in, and I brush my thumb across his bottom lip. He inhales sharply and goes silent instantly. His hands twitch at his sides, looking almost like he’s trying to stop himself from grabbing me.
“See?” I murmur, tracing his lip again, softer this time, making his eyes flutter closed.
“You’re here because you want something,” I whisper, pressing my thumb lightly into the curve of his mouth.
“You want me.” His eyes open suddenly, and his breath leaves him in a broken shudder.
His entire body leans that little bit closer, and I smile when his eyes drop to my lips again. “Detka,” I whisper softly.
“What does detka mean?” He asks, making me grin. “You shouldn’t call me—”
His voice cracks, and the sentence stops instantly when I lean in until my lips brush his.
“I’ll call you whatever I want,” I whisper against his mouth.
His hands finally move, gripping my waist, his fingers digging into my wet skin, desperate for balance, contact, or both.
But I pull back an inch, it’s just enough to tease and remind him of who decides where this ends.
“Don’t,” he whispers.
“You don’t want more?” I ask, my voice dipping lower.
He doesn’t answer; he doesn’t need to; his silence is his confession.
I run my thumb one last time over his bottom lip.
“Poor thing,” I murmur, letting the Russian curl around the syllables.
“You don’t even know how to hide it.” His breathing stutters, and I drop my hand.
I step past him, brushing my wet shoulder against his bare arm, and reach for my towel. He stands motionless, chest heaving, and lips still parted slightly where my thumb touched. At the doorway, I glance back. He looks destroyed, without even a kiss, completely undone by a thumb on his mouth.
“Careful, Caiden,” I say softly. “If you look at me like that again, you won’t like how I stop you.” Then I turn and leave him there in the steam, trembling, furious, and so painfully wanting he could ignite the tiles beneath his feet.