Twenty-Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Seven
Caiden
Of course I’m early. Fifteen minutes early in fact, standing by the row of transport jeeps like an over-trained dog waiting for a command.
My bag’s slung over my shoulder, my pulse has been jackhammering in my throat for the last hour, and I’ve changed my shirt three times — which is pathetic, because Ari is the last person on Earth who gives a damn about what I wear.
I’m standing here waiting for what feels like hours before I check my watch again. Now he’s late. Not by much, but by Ari’s standards, late is practically punctual.
It’s long enough for my brain to start staging small rebellions. What if he was joking? What if he changed his mind? What if he’s testing me? What if—
I hear footsteps behind me, stopping my brain mid-spiral. Ari’s energy hits the air, sharp, smug, predatory and irritatingly magnetic. “Packed, detka?” Ari drawls.
I turn. He looks— Fuck. Of course, he looks ridiculously hot.
Dressed all in black, his field jacket unzipped, his gloves shoved into one back pocket, and his hair a little mussed like he’s just run a hand through it — which he probably has — wearing that smirk, that infuriating half-tilt of his mouth that already has me halfway undone.
“You’re late,” I say, because I need to say something sane.
He glances at his watch. “Only a few minutes, Caiden. Control yourself.”
“I am controlling myself.”
“Mm,” he says, stepping past me to unlock the jeep. “Try harder.” He knows exactly what he’s doing. The bastard.
He takes my bag from me, tossing it onto the back seat like it weighs nothing and climbs in. I follow, shutting the door before anyone can notice either of us leaving together.
The base noises fade as we roll out the gate, the guard waving us through, and just like that, we’re off base. No uniforms to salute, no regulations breathing down our necks, no steel walls listening. Just him and me, alone in a dark Russian wilderness.
Fantastic. No way this goes horribly for my self-control.
I keep my hands tightly clasped in my lap, because the urge to touch him is a full-body problem.
His thighs spread slightly as he settles into the seat, one hand on the wheel, the other relaxed over his knee, maddeningly close to where I want to put mine.
He notices me looking, then he gives me a look out of the corner of his eye, yeah, he’s definitely amused. “Relax,” he murmurs.
“I’m relaxed,” I say, sounding like someone being held at gunpoint.
“That’s funny,” he says, “because you look like you’re trying not to jump me.”
I choke on air. “I am not—”
“Caiden.” My name in that tone should be illegal. It’s like he’s peeling the clothes off me with his voice. My hand tightens on my knee. If we keep going like this, I’m going to do something... desperate. I need a distraction.
“So, where are we going?”
“A cabin,” he says, flicking an amused glance at me.
“A cabin,” I repeat, less a question and more a prayer for survival.
“Mm, private, quiet, off grid,” he pauses and smirks at me. “Soundproof.”
Jesus Christ.
I stare out the window before I climb over the console and ruin everything. The forest rolls past in black shapes, white drifts, and the road is one long stretch of ice and moonlight. I need to think about something else. Anything else.
“So,” I say again, clearing my throat. “Tell me something.”
“That sounds dangerous,” he says, raising an eyebrow.
“Humour me.”
“What kind of something?” he asks, tapping the wheel with his thumb.
“I don’t know. Things I don’t know about you.”
His mouth curves. “You want to get to know me?”
“It’s called a conversation,” I mutter. “People do it.”
“I prefer other kinds of communication.”
“I’m aware,” I groan. “But conversation is what’s stopping me from grabbing your face while you’re driving, so pick something.”
He laughs, it’s warm, surprised, and it hits me square in the sternum. “Fine,” he says. “Ask.”
“What music do you listen to?” I blurt.
He gives me a look. “That’s your question?”
“It’s a normal human question.”
“I’m not a normal human.”
“I’m painfully aware.”
He gives me another small laugh. “Rock. Old Russian punk. Some metal. Whatever annoys command.”
“Of course. What about Western music?”
“Mm.” He shrugs. “I like that one band you play sometimes.”
I blink. “What band?”
He shrugs again, staying meaningfully vague. “The one with all the feelings.”
“Oasis?” I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s been paying attention. But that doesn’t stop me from feeling thrown for a minute.
“Next question.”
“Favourite food?”
“Anything I didn’t have to cook.” Then, after a second, he adds, “Or the lemon cakes my mother used to make. Before.” Before. He doesn’t explain the word. He doesn’t need to, but I don’t push. “You?” he asks suddenly.
“Me?”
“Yes, you. What do you eat besides protein bars and self-loathing?”
I snort. “Real food when I’m not deployed. Shepherd’s pie.”
“Of course,” Ari sighs. “You are painfully British. Ask another.”
“Why me?” I ask, hesitating for a minute.
He stiffens, but keeps his eyes on the road. “You’re interesting.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
“Ari...”
“No more questions, Caiden.” Ari gives me that shut-down tone. His walls slam up even while the rest of him stays warm. I nod once, letting it go for now.
We drive in the quiet hum of the engine and the endless dark. The tension between us isn’t easing; it’s tightening, stretching, and simmering low in my belly. I’m trying so hard not to climb into his seat that it should probably qualify as a military exercise.
And then lights appear through the trees. It’s a cabin, a real one. Small, secluded, with snow piled halfway up the sides. Ari pulls up beside it and kills the engine.
He turns to me slowly, and a wicked, knowing smirk appears on his face.
“We’re here,” he says. No shit. I grip the door handle just to stop myself from grabbing him instead.
Ari leans back in his seat, dragging his eyes over me.
“Come inside, detka,” he murmurs. “Before I change my mind and take you in the car.”
I get out of the jeep before I do something like kiss him breathless across the gearshift. He gets out too, handing me my bag, then slinging his bag over his shoulder. The cabin door waits ahead, the weekend waits with it, and every nerve in me already knows I’m not coming out of this unchanged.
The cabin is small, with warm light spilling from its windows, and smoke curling out of the chimney. It looks like something out of a storybook. A storybook I have absolutely no business being in. This is really happening, a weekend alone with him.
I swallow hard and sling my bag over my shoulder because it gives my hands something to do besides reach for him.
I can feel every second of him moving around behind me, that heat, presence, and quiet confidence that’s wrapped itself around every nerve ending I have.
When he finally moves past me toward the cabin steps, I catch the faintest brush of his shoulder against mine.
By the time he unlocks the door, my heart is punching wildly at my ribs like a man trying to escape a burning building.
The door swings open, warm air spills out, then Ari steps aside and gestures for me to go inside.
“After you.” I step past him into the cabin, it’s wood-panelled, cozy, softly lit by a lamp in the corner, and a stone fireplace that crackles in one wall.
There’s a kitchenette, two chairs, one small table, a sofa, and a bed.
Behind me, the door shuts, and the soft click of the lock sounds final — like the sealing of something I can’t undo.
I turn slowly, afraid of what my face is going to show if I move too fast. Ari is leaning back against the door, arms folded, watching me with that half-lidded predatory grey stare.
Fucking hell, he’s gorgeous. I tear my eyes away before I do something unhinged, putting my bag on the chair to distract myself, but it doesn’t help my nerves.
Ari notices, obviously. “Relax, Caiden,” he says, his voice smooth. “You look like you’re about to combust.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, which is stupid because I haven’t said a single convincing lie to him since the day we met. He pushes off the door and walks toward me, slowly, like he’s giving me time to change my mind.
As if I could.
He stops just far enough away that his breath fans my face when he exhales. “Tell me what’s happening in that head of yours,” he says softly. Everything. Nothing. I want you. I’m terrified. I don’t know what I’m doing. “I’m thinking,” I manage.
“Dangerous,” he murmurs, looking down at me. I take a few seconds to study his face in the lamplight. It catches the faint scar on his eyebrow, the shadows in his eyes, and the curve of his mouth. Then my stomach flips hard because I know what that mouth can do.
He said he’d been thinking about how I’d sound if he got all of me. And here I am, in a cabin with one bed, and absolutely no backup or excuse or escape route. Ari watches the way my breath falters. “Ah,” he says quietly. “There it is.”
“There what is?” I rasp.
“Whatever filthy thing you just thought my mouth was for.” Heat rushes up my throat so fast I nearly choke.
I step back instinctively, and he follows.
It’s only a step, but it’s enough to tell me the balance of the entire weekend.
It crashes over me in one realisation. There is no universe in which I’m topping him.
None. Zero. Not even theoretically. He’s going to ruin me, and the fucked-up part is my body wants it, it wants him.
It wants to give in, go under, fall apart in his hands.
But another part — the soldier, the fighter, the stubborn bastard — rebels. I’m not soft, and I don’t submit easily. “I’m not—” I begin, then stop. Not what? Not bottoming? Not nervous? Not desperate for him?
He lifts one eyebrow, reading every unfinished sentence. “Say it,” he murmurs.
I shake my head. “Forget it.”