Chapter 5 #3
The nickname hits me like a lightning strike.
The one he whispered last night. The bird.
My breath catches hard in my lungs. I whimper — actually whimper — caught between the alcohol, the exhaustion, and the overwhelming weight of having Viktor look at me like this.
Like he wants to consume me. Like he’s terrified of it at the same time.
“Did you just call me a bird?” I manage, breathy and shaky as I twist slightly in his hold.
Viktor’s grip tightens enough to make my breath hitch. His dark eyes are locked on mine, inches away, burning with something raw and possessive that makes my stomach flip. “A very annoying bird,” he growls, accent thick. “Did. He. Touch. You?”
I can barely think straight with his hand on my throat and his face this close. My eyes drop involuntarily to his lips — full, tense, right there — before flicking back up to his eyes. I’m breathing hard, chest rising and falling against his. “What bird…?” I whisper, the words barely audible.
Viktor doesn’t answer. He just glares at me, our noses almost brushing, the tension between us so thick it feels like the air itself is crackling. His thumb presses lightly against the side of my neck, right over my racing pulse. I can feel every inch of him beneath me — barely holding back.
I swallow hard against his palm. “What bird, Vik?” I ask again, softer this time, almost pleading. My voice cracks on his name. I’m so fucking gone for him that I can’t even pretend anymore. “Tell me.”
Viktor’s thumb slowly drags along my jaw, tracing the line like he’s memorizing it.
He’s still staring at me — so close I can feel the heat of his breath on my lips.
His hand stays wrapped around my throat, firm enough to keep me exactly where I am: half sprawled across his lap, chest pressed to his, heart slamming against my ribs.
“Do you want to kiss him?” he asks, the accent thicker than I’ve ever heard it. The question lands heavy between us, laced with something dark and possessive that makes my stomach twist.
I should shut up. I should be smart. But I’m drunk and aching and so fucking tired of this dance we’ve been doing for years.
“I guess he’ll do…” I tease, the words slipping out defiant even as I’m trembling in his hold. My lips curve into a shaky smirk. “At least he wouldn’t spend four years looking at me like he wants me and then pretending he doesn’t.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I feel the shift in Viktor’s body underneath me. His thumb presses harder against my jaw, tilting my face up so I have no choice but to meet his eyes. The air between us crackles, thick and electric. His grip on my throat tightens just a fraction.
Viktor’s eyes drop to my lips for a heartbeat, then flick back up.
He looks like he’s two seconds away from snapping completely — and I’m not sure if I want him to stop…
or let go. “You guess he’ll do?” he repeats, his voice dangerously low.
“That is what you want? Some pretty French boy who smiles too easy?”
I let out a shaky breath, my hands still fisted in his shirt. “Why do you care? You made it pretty fucking clear you don’t want this. So what if someone else does?”
Viktor’s grip tightens even more, enough to make my pulse spike under his fingers. “You think I do not want you? After everything?”
I stare right back at him. “Then why did you walk away that night? Why do you keep pulling back every single time I get close? Why are you even asking about Luca if it doesn’t matter to you?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead his thumb strokes slowly along my face again, almost absentmindedly, like he can’t stop touching me even while he’s glaring. “Did you let him touch you? Did you like it?”
I swallow hard against his palm. “Would it bother you if I did? Would it make you do something about it, or are you just going to keep staring at me like this for another four years?”
Viktor’s eyes flash. “You think this is easy for me? Lying here with you in my bed after you spent the night letting some other man put his hands on you?”
I shift on top of him, pressing closer even as I keep pushing. “Then why don’t you answer the fucking question? Do you want me or not, Vik? Because I’m tired of guessing.”
He leans in until our noses brush, breath hot against my lips. “And what about you? You say you cannot kiss anyone else because of me, but you went out with him anyway. You let him flirt. You let him touch you. So tell me, Hollywood — what do you really want?”
I let out a frustrated sound, half-laugh, half-groan. “I already told you. Why won’t you just admit what you whispered last night? What the hell is soroka? Why do you keep calling me that if you’re just going to keep pushing me away?”
Viktor’s hand slides from my throat to the back of my neck, gripping tight. “Why do you keep testing me if you already know the answer? Why did you come back to this room tonight instead of getting your own?”
We’re both breathing hard now, nose to nose, questions flying back and forth like we’re afraid the second we stop, one of us will actually have to answer.
Then his fingers slide up from my neck and tangle in my curls.
My breath catches hard. For one dizzying second, I think he’s finally going to do it. Kiss me. Pull me the rest of the way down and ruin the last bit of sanity I have left. My eyes drop to his mouth again, my heart slamming against my ribs as I wait for it.
But he doesn’t kiss me.
Instead, Viktor exhales roughly and gently but firmly pulls my head down until my face is pressed against his chest. My cheek lands right over his heart. I freeze as the fast thump of it fills my ears. It’s racing. Just as hard as mine.
I can feel the heat of his skin through the thin t-shirt, the rise and fall of his breathing, the way his fingers stay tangled in my hair like he can’t quite let go.
“Sleep, birdie,” Viktor says, barely above a whisper. There’s exhaustion in it. Affection too, buried so deep I almost miss it.
Birdie.
The nickname hits softer than “soroka” did.
I squeeze my eyes shut, my hand fisting tighter in his shirt.
My whole body is still buzzing from the almost-kiss, from the alcohol, from the way he’s holding me like I’m something precious and dangerous at the same time.
I want to argue. I want to push. I want to ask him what the hell “soroka” means and why he’s calling me birdie like it means something.
But I’m so fucking tired.
I let out a shaky breath against his chest, melting into the solid warmth of him despite every instinct screaming that this is going to hurt later. His heart is still beating too fast under my ear. Mine probably sounds the same.
“Asshole,” I mumble into his shirt, the word soft and tired and fond all at once.