37. Octavia
By the time I return to my room after shooting practice with Nik, warm afternoon light bathes the bed.
I collapse on the edge, stretching out my tired arms. It’s strange to remember this room as it was when we first came to the Siderov compound nearly two months ago. Back then, it was gaunt and lifeless.
Now, you can’t turn your head in a single direction without seeing an artifact of our new life.
Two empty cups sit on the bedside table from the coffee I brought up earlier.
Comfy, extra-large articles of clothing that I insist on sharing with Vas hang about.
A brush on the vanity lies forgotten from the last time he detangled my wayward hair after the shower.
Even the sage green color of these crumpled sheets was chosen specifically by him on our shopping trip, after I insisted he make the decision.
I’m not sure why, but in the unusual quiet of the room, I climb to my feet.
A soft breeze whispers through the open window as I kick off my boots and turn my feet out into first position.
My hand finds the wooden bedpost, fitting into my palm like the familiar grooves of a barre.
There was a time when this position felt as natural as breathing, but all it takes is one experimental bend backward to realize something has changed.
My new, bulkier thigh muscles, which allow me to tackle and lift, have trouble zipping up against one another in the awkward hyper-extended position.
The vanity mirror projects a strange image.
My upper body doesn’t look remotely lithe and willowy anymore.
There’s no way it could, with the amount of muscle I’ve packed on.
I look sturdy. Formidable, even.
The realization leaves me more confused than anything else. Muscles in the mirror flex, rippling back with foreign control. The type I was never allowed to maintain, let alone celebrate.
Maybe I don’t want to look breakable anymore.
I jump at the sound of the door’s whine. Another figure appears in the reflection, standing in the doorway with a small smile on his face.
“How was your call with your sister?” I ask, turning with a giddy feeling filling my chest. Vasiliy’s hair hangs in haphazard, inky waves over his brow, and something about it reminds me of those abstract vines tattooed across the entirety of his upper body.
My blood heats inconveniently at the memory of our kiss outside the fight club.
We hold each other in sleep each night, but I think that has more to do with trauma than lust. I have both in spades, but the compulsion to wrap my body in his is fueled by something far deeper than sexual frustration.
He’s given me stolen kisses and heated words, but we haven’t moved past that.
Some part of me is terrified to push the bounds of our relationship forward.
What if my issues ruin what we already have?
He’s my best friend. My closest confidante.
Losing him is not an option.
“She is very excited to meet the ballerina.” He flashes a handsome smile, but I can taste the bittersweet flavor in his words. He’s been calling Anya to check in every week, but nothing can substitute for actually visiting her.
The only problem is, once he’s in Russia, he has to answer to his uncle.
“You’ll see her soon,” I promise, stepping closer. “We’ll find a way. Maybe my dad could take a call with him and your old boss?”
He sighs, wrapping an arm around my waist with the closeness we’ve grown used to.
“I’m not sure it will help at this point.
They probably wrote me off as a defector the first week I disappeared from my station in New York.
There’s no way word hasn’t gotten around about me being seen with your family’s syndicate. ”
“I’m sorry.” My arms pull away from his neck. “This is all my fault. I got you into this mess from the start, and now everything is all fucked up. You can’t even visit your little sister.”
His hand slides over my ribs, preventing me from moving away. “None of this is your fault.”
“You don’t have to say that…”
“I’m not just saying it, Octavia.”
I stop pulling away at his unusual use of my full name.
“I doubt Siderov or my uncle were going to allow me to leave New York to visit Anya, anyway. That’s why I saved so much for her security details and nannies.
I put every cent I could into planning for this eventuality, which is absolutely not your fault.
” His eyes lower to the ground. “Do you know what my life was like before you?”
My throat bobs. I’ve heard him talk about his past in bits and pieces, but I never wanted to pry the information out of him. I know what it’s like to bury fissures in your skin.
“I was fucking lost,” he whispers with uncharacteristic gentleness.
“Every day, there was a new list of meaningless orders and victims, but it wasn’t my place to know the context of why.
I’d spend hours in the darkness, milking information free from desperate veins.
Random addresses were sent to my phone, delivering a new victim for my chair.
And then I’d go home to an empty apartment and drink until the call came in, telling me to do it all again the next day. ” His voice breaks on the last words.
My hand cups his cheek, smooth from his shave this morning. “You won’t have to live like that ever again, Vas.” His forehead lowers to mine. “You’re capable of doing so much more than sitting in the dark.”
“I wasn’t just sitting in the dark…”
“I know,” I interrupt. “I know what you were doing. I’ve been in one of those rooms, remember?”
“I remember.”
“We’ve already experienced hell together,” I say, brushing the vein in his neck with the tip of my index finger. “There’s nothing you can tell me that will scare me off.” My lips press to the corner of his in a teasing kiss. “I’ll always be right by your side, helping you dig the graves.”
He steals my next breath, lips consuming mine with a desperation that scratches an itch deep inside my mind. He still tastes like mint from his afternoon tea, and I seek out the flavor. A low growl responds to the touch, vibrating down my spine.
“Octavia,” he gasps into my mouth, pulling back when I nip his full lip. “Fuck…I need…we should take a break.”
“I don’t want a break,” I say, molding my body to his. He reads my need, instantly lifting me into his arms so I can wrap my legs around his hips and grind right where I need him most.
I go still as he lowers me. The hard outline of his cock grows stiff between us. I grind down on the stiff length below me, desperate for some friction to silence the need.
“You sure?” he breathes, maneuvering our bodies onto the bed below.
“I’m sure.” I pull at his shirt. He shrugs off the garment, exposing inches of his carved, tattooed chest for my hands to run over.
Then he’s pulling off my top, too, revealing the sports bra I wore to the shooting range.
Lips trace a devious line down my collarbones, followed by a wet trail of heat that laps down between my breasts.
“Fuck, these are gorgeous,” he whispers, palming both in a gesture that wrenches a moan free from my mouth.
“More,” I gasp, arching into the touch.
A breathy chuckle is the only response before he draws the fabric down, sucking one of my nipples into the heat of his mouth.
I arch even further, pressing his head into my chest, desperate for more sensation.
My legs tighten around his hips, grinding up as his lips lift off my breast, kissing a line back up to my sensitive neck.
Then the split happens.
My body continues to writhe beneath his, desperate for more—more of his touch, more of his warmth, more of everything.
But at the same time, my brain registers the weight pressing into me from above. A cold trickle runs down my neck, slamming the same two words into my brain over and over.
Not safe, not safe, not safe.
“You okay?”
I hear his voice above, but all I see is that massive shadow. Suddenly, I feel small and entirely too exposed. The moment barely lasts a second before my vision tilts, and I’ve been deposited on top of a chest. A comforting hand runs over my bare spine, lulling me into a gentle, calming rhythm.
And then the embarrassment catches up, flushing all the way to my cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to sit up on his body. “I…it wasn’t you…” Fuck. “It was—”
“Me being on top?” he guesses. He doesn’t sound angry at all that I ruined everything.
“Yeah.” I look away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Hey, no.” He captures my chin in his hand, turning my face back to his. “None of that. There’s nothing to be sorry about. All we can do is figure this stuff out as we go, right?” His hand never stops rubbing my back in smooth circles, and for some reason, it causes my eyes to water.
I’m selfish.
I need him to function, but I can’t even give him one lost moment of intimacy without flipping out.
“Maybe…” I clear my throat. “Maybe you should be with someone who can give you what you—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” he cuts in. “The only thing I need is you. We’ll keep learning together, okay?”
The declaration stills some manic twitch in my mind.
His bare chest is warm beneath my palms, and I abuse the access to trace each scar littering the surface.
Some are old and rough, inked over with those abstract black vines.
Others are still soft pink and tender. Those will likely take years to harden.
“I’ve taken so much from you.” I don’t plan on releasing the words into the world.
“What are you talking about?” He sits up, gathering me into his lap. “You haven’t taken a thing.”
I laugh humorlessly. “I’ve uprooted your entire life. I’m responsible for every new scar healing on your flesh, and every second you spend severed from your family.”
“That’s not true,” he says, gripping my chin between his fingers. I try to look anywhere else, but he holds me still, trapping me in the depths of his addictive gaze. “You’re my family, too, Octavia. You’re my person.”
My jaw loosens.
“Your person?” I ask in a tight, high voice.
He nods.
My person.
I have the sudden urge to package his words and save them for a rainy day, or maybe ship them to a younger version of myself who needed them even more than I do. His declaration could cure me of any ailment. It could flood my lungs with air in the depths of the sea.
I don’t deserve such a gift.
Unfortunately, I’m far too selfish to release it.