Fourteen
Arseny
“Caiden.” It comes out softer than I meant it to. It’s not the sharp, taunting edge I usually use on him, not the drill voice or the battlefield snarl.
I feel the change in him as I say it. His fingers are gripping the side of my neck, his thumb resting on the tendon that jumps when I’m trying too hard not to feel anything. He’d grabbed me there to shove me back a minute ago.
Somewhere between the shove and the follow-through, we ended up like this instead. Our bodies pressed from chest to thighs, my back against the racks, and my hand splayed over his spine.
His hand tightens on my neck. I think he’s trying to choke me at first — I like choking, depending on the circumstances — but this isn’t that. This is him hanging on like I’m the only thing stopping him from bolting.
“Caiden,” I repeat, because I’m a sadist and I want to hear how it changes his breathing. There’s a sharp intake of breath, almost like a flinch, then this rough little exhale that ghosts across my face.
His face so close I can see every ridiculous shade of green in his eyes — the gold ring around the pupil, the darker flecks at the edge. I shouldn’t be studying that, but I do it anyway.
My thumb hooks into his belt at the small of his back, and I can feel the hard line of muscle under my fingers, then the tiny tremor that runs through his body.
We hang there on the edge of a kiss, suspended between breaths. Our mouths are so close that if I leaned in another centimetre, we’d touch. If he’d just tilt his head a little, we’d slot together.
Instead, we shake with tension.
I’m hyper-aware of every point where our bodies meet, his thighs caging mine, the hard plane of his chest, the way his ribs push against me every time he drags in air, then exhales.
This started as an argument. That’s the funniest part.
I swallow, the muscles in my throat shift under his palm, and he freezes, his eyes locked on my lips. I stay perfectly still. Every instinct I have is screaming at me not to spook him.
One wrong move and he bolts, or bites.
He realises what he’s done a second too late. I see the flicker of panic and the way his chest jerks against mine. You’re not stupid, are you, detka? You’ve always known where this was heading. I’ve been dragging you here one insult at a time.
Just give in.
He looks up again, straight into my eyes, and I let him see it. No jokes, no taunting, just the naked want I’ve been practically throwing at him.
The hand holding my wrist releases me. He presses his palm to my chest, and for a second, I think he’s going to push himself back.
But then his hand slides a little lower to my sternum.
His eyes flicker down to my mouth again, then back up frantically.
I can feel the war raging inside him. The fear on one side, the sheer stupid gravitational pull of whatever this is on the other.
I’m aware, distantly, of how visible we are, behind a door — yes, but not invisible.
Someone could round the corner and open the door at any second.
But I’m finding it hard to care. I could say a lot of things right now.
I could joke, cut him down, but instead I give him the simplest, stupidest truth I can. “Yes.”
Yes, I want it too. Yes, I’ve been waiting.
Yes, I’m about ten seconds away from doing something reckless.
I watch his eyes and see the mixture of terror and relief rushing through him.
I tip my head just enough to shift the angle so his breath spills straight into my mouth, so he can feel how close he is to falling.
We’re standing on the edge of something huge, stupid, and inevitable. My gaze drops to his mouth again, then lifts slowly. I want him to see it. I want to make sure there’s no mistaking what I’m saying.
Every part of me is buzzing; electricity thrums through my body.
His hand on my neck, the heat of his palm, the way his fingers are beginning to bunch in the fabric of my shirt like he’s caught between hauling me closer and shoving me away — that’s enough to send a flood of fire through my veins.
It’s like my body knows exactly how it would feel to have him surrender that last little bit.
It knows how he’d taste and what sound he’d make when he finally stopped pretending he didn’t want this.
We need just one more step.
Come on, Caiden. Take it. Be brave about something that isn’t dying. He licks his lips, and I track it like a weapon sight. Fuck. I want him so badly my hands actually shake. If I push, I know I can make him fall; I’ll get exactly what I’ve been engineering for weeks.
But then I think of Niko’s face if anyone catches us. I think of Caiden, of how hard he’s fought himself already to say those words out loud and about what will happen to him if he lets go in the wrong way.
The army will crucify him long before they get to me.
I realise, with a sort of bewildered horror, that I don’t want his first kiss with me to taste like panic.
I want him ruined for anyone else, yes, but not like this.
So I hold still, and I don’t move in. His thumb strokes my neck again, and the control it takes not to groan into it makes my eyes sting.
Say something, Arseny. You can’t just stand here breathing on him. Say something. “I know you want it,” I murmur against his lips. “So, take it.” There, no more excuses. No more pretending this is something I tricked him into. If he closes the gap now, it’s his choice.
I watch every micro-expression on his face and the way his throat works. For a second — one glorious, terrifying second — I think he’s going to do it. His weight shifts into me, his mouth tips that fraction closer, his breath catches.
Then he stops.
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 feeding himself. 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.