Chapter 40
Eric
I spend the entire drive to Atlanta closed away in my bunk.
Minutes tick past like a time bomb, hours lost as I lie here, numb.
The world narrows to the low rumble of the road and the faint sway of the bus, but eventually, when thirst makes my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth, I resign myself to the fact that I have to leave this bed.
I have to face him.
The moment I shuffle into the living area, looking and probably smelling like the walking dead, Dmitri glances up with such misplaced hope that it slams into me like a physical blow. It knocks the air from my lungs and I stumble until I have to brace myself against the wall to stay upright.
He hurries toward me, and I hate myself as I instinctively recoil, unable to bear his touch. The anguish that floods his expression is so sharp I have to look away. I catch his nod in my peripheral vision, hear the thick click of his throat as he swallows.
“Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here,” he whispers, voice too rough. “I’ll always be here, Eric.”
My heart breaks a little more. I go back to bed and stay for hours, staring at the endless online speculation.
The fight at the club leaked quickly, with anonymous sources recounting Dmitri throwing a man against the wall along with speculation about the two of us together.
No pictures have surfaced yet, so I can only believe the bouncers took care of that side of it.
It’s the one tiny victory in the past twenty-four hours, because everything else has been a devastating blow.
Posts have exploded across social media, and bloggers and podcasts have latched onto the drama.
The words are knives, and they cut deep.
Nothing like realizing your favorite band is full of cocksuckers.
Sticks could have anyone on the planet, and that’s who he chose?
Eric’s voice always sucked, but I didn’t know he did, too.
I should stop looking. I should stop reading.
But each comment drags me back in, hunting for the next like a compulsion I can’t break.
It doesn’t matter how many supportive messages offer praise, affection, or quiet understanding, they dissolve into nothing.
These—the vicious ones—are the ones that take up residence in my brain, squatting in the shadows and replaying when the noise dies down.
These are the ones that matter.
Despite knowing they’re wrong, twisted, cruel…
deep down there’s a broken part of me that longs for them to hold truth.
Craves the validation that I am wrong, undeserving, that I never should’ve tried.
That the moment in the club was something I never earned, and something I should’ve known would be ripped away.
The support feels like charity I don’t deserve.
The hate feels like confirmation I’ve always feared.
We approach the wrought-iron gate of Dmitri's family home, and I watch it open through my sliver of window. The cobblestone driveway is at least a half mile long, and the house gets bigger and bigger as we drive. The brakes squeal, and I force myself to climb out of bed.
Dmitri's head jerks to me as I enter the room, and he smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Hey,” he whispers.
“Hey,” I force myself to respond, voice rough and barely there as I take a tentative step closer. His gaze meets mine—so guarded, and so fucking careful. I reach for him, then freeze, hand trembling in the air between us. “Is it… is it okay if…”
He stares for a beat, then gives a slow nod.
I inch forward. He’s cautious at first, his arms sliding around me like he’s afraid I’ll break, but muscle memory takes over for us both.
He pulls me in, hugging me tight against his chest, and my cheek presses to his shoulder as his nose buries in my hair with a deep, shaky inhale.
“Do I still smell like breakfast?” I whisper, the words scraping out like gravel.
A brief, sad laugh puffs from his nostrils against my scalp. “No,” he whispers back. “No, baby, you smell like home.”
“I'm sorry.”
Dmitri hugs me tighter, squeezing until it aches, and the pressure anchors me. This time, I don’t pull away. “You don't have to be sorry.”
“We're here to visit your family, and I'm going to ruin everything.”
“They're perfectly capable of doing that on their own,” he says against my ear.
I try to smile, try to force it through the numbness that’s settled like fog in my bones.
But right now, my best isn’t very good, and we’re out of time to fix it.
Dante shouts for Dmitri to show him where to park the bus, and he reluctantly releases me, fingers trailing a second longer before he heads to the driver’s cabin.
Dmitri’s parents step out onto the grand front porch.
We met once back in college, but they’re no less intimidating now.
If anything, the years have only honed their presence.
Dmitri’s dad owns one of the largest shipping logistics companies on the east coast. He’s an imposing man, just as tall as Dmitri, but where his son walks around with a smile that radiates the warmth of the sun, Anatoly Belikov is made of hard lines and stern glares.
Even today he wears a suit as he greets us, attempting a smile that looks like he’s smelled something rotten.
His mother, Vera, stands behind Anatoly—always behind him, never at his side—all long legs and graceful movements.
She was once a sought-after model, but under his thumb became nothing more than a trophy wife.
A possession to display. It doesn’t matter how much wine stains her lips or how deep her depression runs, as long as she maintains her figure and stands on his arm when it’s demanded of her.
How these two cold people created a child made of pure joy is beyond me.
“Son,” Anatoly rumbles, his hand outstretched to Dmitri in a handshake that looks more like a challenge. It’s nothing like the soft, laughing embraces my parents dole out, and Dmitri moves through introductions with shoulders rigid, every line of him coiled like he’s bracing for impact.
He brings me forward last, palm settling at the small of my back, and fingers spreading just enough to anchor me without making a show of it. They both clock it. Anatoly’s gaze sharpens on the contact, and Vera’s softens with something unreadable.
“You remember Eric from UNC.”
“Ah, yes, Eric,” Anatoly says, eyes sliding from Dmitri’s arm to my face. “It’s been some time, hasn’t it?”
“It’s great to see you again, Mr. Belikov… Mrs. Belikov.” I nod to Vera, then offer my hand. Anatoly regards it with a sneer until Dmitri’s throat clears. Their eyes meet in a split-second standoff that makes the air feel heavier, then Anatoly clamps down on my fingers with bruising force.
“Likewise,” he says, enthusiasm on par with a man who just stepped in dog shit. Dmitri’s grip tightens on the fabric at my back, thumb brushing once against my skin in silent reassurance.
“I hope you boys are hungry.” Vera’s voice cuts in, smile forced but not unkind, as she tries to stitch the moment back together.
“Oh, hallelujah, I’m starving,” Tai says brightly, flashing that effortless grin that always knows exactly when to defuse. I want to hug him for it.
Theo jumps into the conversation, complaining about how the two of them have to feed us most days, and slowly the pressure releases from my throat. They lead everyone inside, and Dmitri tugs on my shirt to hold me back.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters as we bring up the rear, the apology quiet enough that only I hear it over the shuffle of footsteps and voices ahead.
“You can’t help how they act.”
He shrugs, stealing another glance at the group while we bring up the rear. “Maybe not, but it feels like I should try.”
We cross into the entryway, where marble spreads underfoot and the grand staircase splits the room with carved handrails that look like they cost more than most people’s cars. “Something tells me no one can tell them what to do,” I muse.
He lets out a huff of laughter that frays into a sigh. “No kidding.”
“Do they know we’re together?”
His eyes slide away, head shaking. “They aren’t like your parents, Eric. We don’t have a lot of heartfelt talks.”
The admission stings more than it should, doubt creeping in like rot. Dmitri halts, then turns me with careful hands until our eyes lock. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I ask, keeping it soft.
“For not having a conversation about it yet. He watches my career like a damn hawk, and he’s perceptive… hell, they both are. They know. But I’ll talk to him, I promise.”
“It’s okay,” I say, forcing a smile that never quite reaches my eyes. “It’s not important.”
“Eric—” he starts, but he's cut off by Anatoly’s sharp call of his name.
The others are already in the dining room, and his father blocks the doorway, arms crossed and stare assessing. Dmitri and I share a glance. Mine is guarded tight, while his is distant and pained. The space between us feels endless.
His palm settles at my lower back again as we join the others, like he's afraid I'll float away if he doesn't hold on. The table is covered in elaborate food, courtesy of some unseen chef who’ll never be thanked, but my appetite is stolen by the scrutiny that follows my every move.
Theo and Tai save the day without even trying.
Both self-proclaimed foodies, they launch into animated praise over every bite and gush about the flavors.
Vera’s attention locks onto them, and I'm grateful for the distraction while I push food around my plate in slow, pointless circles.
Dante keeps the conversation polite and measured in the kind of steady cadence that seems to satisfy Anatoly.