Chapter 1 #2
He smells of musk and the actual woods and pine. Leaves cling to his skin and hair, one stuck stubbornly behind his ear.
He offers his hand—the one covered with dirt, dried blood, and multiple lacerations.
I stare down at it but make no move to take it.
“Ah! Sorry.” He wipes his palm on his equally soiled jeans, rubbing it back and forth before he offers it again.
This time, I reach into my pocket, then drop a handkerchief in his hand. “I don’t touch unclean things.”
If my jab affects him, he doesn’t show it on his face. He’s still smiling, displaying an unsettlingly open expression, not attempting to school his features or mask his emotions.
Surely, he was taught how to control his reactions.
Though it does seem like he couldn’t care less about the traditional ways of doing things.
Yulian scrunches the handkerchief in his grip, running his dirt-smudged fingertip along the embroidered initials at the corner.
V.K.M.
Now, I regret giving him a high-quality handkerchief.
“Vaughn Kirillovich Morozov.” He stares at me as he reads out what the initials stand for, then lifts the handkerchief and blows his nose in it.
My jaw grinds, but I force myself to remain calm and not allow his antics to get to me. My eye twitches, though, when he wipes at the blood in the corner of his lip.
“My name is Yulian. Dad told me you and I need to get along.” He speaks in perfect Russian.
When I say nothing, mostly preoccupied with the view of my ruined handkerchief, he snaps his fingers. “Oh! Do you prefer to speak in English? Heard New York kids barely know any Russian.”
“I know enough to call you a rabid dog,” I say in Russian.
“Rabid wolf?” he asks in English.
“Dog.”
“Wolf. You said волк (volk), not пёс (pyos).”
“I said dog.”
“Hmm. If you say so.”
His grin has grown wider, stretching his cheeks as he tilts his head to watch me closely. “You have a bit of an accent when you speak Russian.”
“I do not.”
“Then your tongue prefers wolves?”
“I said it correctly the first time. Not my problem you have hearing issues.”
He just continues to grin like an idiot, savoring his correction.
Fire blossoms at the center of my chest and tightens my muscles.
“By the way.” He steps closer, and since I refuse to give up any ground to the pest, we’re standing nose to nose when he speaks.
He smells of cigarettes. Nauseating.
A headache is pounding at the back of my head due to interacting with him.
Everything about this prick makes my eyes twitch.
“Let’s fight!” he shouts, bouncing in place like a hyperactive toddler.
I get distracted by a strand of dark-brown hair the wind has shoved into his eye.
The blue one.
The strand is damp, like his whole head of hair is, falling in long, haphazard locks past his nape and right above his shoulders, as if he dunked his head in a bucket of water.
He blows it away, his eyes gleaming, his grin widening as he shifts back and forth in place, almost as if he’s an idling engine ready to go.
“What do you say?” He jumps up and punches the air. “It’s a yes, right? Right?”
I just stare him down and say nothing.
“Come on! We have to know who’s the top dog around here. Or wolf. See what I did there?” He bends down, clutching his stomach as he laughs at his own distasteful joke.
“No, thanks.” I turn toward the door, noticing that the old man has disappeared, abandoning me to this heathen.
Yulian leaps in front of me, his arms open wide, forbidding me from moving. “But how will we figure out who’s the top?”
“I’ll defeat you at actual training, not whatever this absurd thing is.”
“You won’t dare fight me, will you? You know I’ll drag you in front of your prim-and-proper friends, don’t you? Don’t you?”
“Nice try, but it’s not that easy to provoke me.”
“Boo. New Yorkers are cowards!” he shouts for everyone downstairs to hear.
“Who did you call a coward, motherfucker?” someone shouts behind us.
I recognize the voice without having to see who it’s coming from.
Before I can stop him, Nikolai, the son of two leaders in our Bratva, jumps at Yulian, and soon, they’re wrestling on the balcony, punching each other on the floor.
Yulian hits Nikolai, then hops up. He shoves the handkerchief I gave him in his pocket and hooks his index finger in my direction. “Come join the fun.”
Nikolai slams into him from behind, shoving them back onto the floor.
I walk inside, leaving them to bloody each other senseless.
Now I know who Yulian reminds me of.
Nikolai.
Both spring into action first, both are reckless, and both share one brain cell.
Only, I don’t dislike Nikolai. I just think he’s uniquely chaotic, and I actually have some form of respect for his authenticity. This Yulian, however, seems like an absolute nightmare.
I’d prefer our other friend, Jeremy, be here to rein in Nikolai.
Unfortunately, Jeremy is training with his father this summer.
Something I’d rather be doing instead of this. Hell, I’d like to be in Russia instead of this.
Whatever this is.
“Wait!”
I come to a halt in the middle of the hall when Yulian catches up to me. He stops in front of me, panting harshly, his chest rising and falling chaotically, causing the scraps of his shirt to stretch against defined muscles.
“What do you want now—”
My words are cut off when he lunges at me.
I pull away, but it’s too late, because the asshole is rubbing his palm on my face.
His bloodied palm.
The hygiene hazard is in my goddamn face.
I throw my fist in order to shove him away, but he’s already stepped back, my hand barely connecting with his chest.
A dark glimmer shines in his mismatched eyes. “Hope that’s clean enough for you, Mishka. You know, because you’re such a baby.”
Then he turns toward Nikolai, who’s chasing him.
And I’m left behind, my fists clenched, my blood boiling, with literal blood handprinted on my face.
That’s it.
I officially hate the bastard.
And I will make his summer hell.