Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
The Tsar
Waking up was usually a tactical assessment.
It was a bleak, efficient routine.
Today, waking up felt different.
It felt… warm.
I opened my eyes, expecting the grey ceiling and the silence. Instead, I saw a halo of platinum blonde hair splayed across my chest like a splash of sunlight. I felt a small, soft weight pressing against my side. I smelled peaches and sex.
Mila.
She was asleep, her face buried in the crook of my neck, one leg thrown over my thighs as if to pin me to the mattress. Her breathing was slow and even, puffing warm air against my skin.
I lay there for a moment, just breathing. My alarm wasn't set to go off for another ten minutes. For ten minutes, the world outside didn't exist. There was no draft, no Coach Miller, no Silas Kensington threatening to ship her to Switzerland.
There was just this. The soft rise and fall of her chest against mine. The way her hand was curled into a loose fist on my pec, right over my heart.
I carefully lifted my hand, brushing a stray lock of hair off her cheek. Her skin was flushed with sleep, soft and unmarked except for the faint shadow of a whisker burn on her jawline.
Mine.
The possessiveness hit me again, primal and overwhelming. I had claimed her. I had taken her innocence, her trust, and her body. And in return, she had taken… everything. My focus. My discipline. My solitude.
She stirred, letting out a small, contented hum. Her eyelashes fluttered, then opened.
Those blue eyes—usually so sharp and guarded—were soft and hazy with sleep. She looked up at me, blinked twice, and then a slow, sleepy smile spread across her face.
"Hi," she whispered, her voice raspy.
"Hi," I rumbled back. My voice sounded deeper than usual, rough with morning grit.
"You’re still here," she noted, sounding vaguely surprised.
"Where would I go?" I asked, tracing the line of her spine under the duvet. "It’s my bed."
"I thought maybe you’d be doing pull-ups in the doorway or something," she yawned, stretching like a cat. Her body rubbed against mine—skin on skin friction that woke my body up instantly. "You know. Keeping up the routine."
"This is the new routine," I said, pulling her closer.
She laughed softly, snuggling into me. "I like this routine better. It involves less sweating."
"Depends on the morning," I muttered, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
The air in the room shifted. The playful lightness evaporated, replaced by the heavy reality of the daylight creeping through the blinds.
"Mila," I said, my tone serious.
She stiffened slightly. She knew. "Here comes the talk."
"We have to be careful," I said. I didn't want to say it. I wanted to stay in this bubble forever. But I was a strategist. I knew the risks. "Nobody can know."
She propped herself up on one elbow, the sheet falling to her waist, exposing her breasts. I forced my eyes to stay on her face. It was a struggle.
"Why?" she asked. "Because of my dad?"
"Because of everything," I said. "Your father. The team. The draft. If people find out we’re… involved… it changes the narrative. You become a distraction again. I become 'unfocused.' And if your father finds out I broke the 'no touching' clause..."
"He pulls your draft support," she finished quietly.
"And he sends you to Geneva," I added. "I won't let that happen."
Mila sighed, tracing a pattern on my chest with her finger. "So we’re secret agents. Clandestine lovers."
"We’re strategic," I corrected.
"Can we still kiss?" she asked, looking up through her lashes.
"In private," I said. "Behind closed doors. In public, we are roommates. We are allies. Nothing more."
"Roommates who share a bed," she clarified.
"Yes."
"And roommates who do… that thing you did with your tongue last night?"
I groaned, grabbing her hips and pulling her on top of me. "Definitely that."
She straddled me, her hair falling around us like a curtain. She looked beautiful. She looked happy.
"Okay," she whispered, leaning down to kiss me. "Secret it is. But Theo?"
"Yeah?"
"You better be a really good actor. Because looking at you and pretending I don't want to climb you like a tree is going to be the hardest acting gig of my life."
I kissed her then—hard, fast, and desperate. A seal on the promise. A seal on the secret.
"We handle it," I promised against her mouth. "We win the game."
But as I kissed her, I knew the game had just gotten infinitely more complicated.
The next three days were a masterclass in torture.
It turns out, pretending you aren't obsessed with someone you live with is harder than winning a faceoff against a Canadian.
I would see her in the kitchen in the morning, wearing my t-shirt and nothing else, making coffee with that sleepy, soft look in her eyes. And I would have to walk past her, grab a protein bar, and grunt a generic "Morning" because Jax was sitting at the island eating cereal.
I would see her walking across campus, her white coat stark against the snow, laughing with a friend. And I would have to keep walking, hands in my pockets, fighting the urge to cross the quad, throw her over my shoulder, and carry her back to the Fortress.
But the worst… the absolute worst… was the library.
It was Wednesday night. We were in the "Silence Sector"—the designated quiet floor of the Blackthorne library. It was 9:00 PM.
We were "studying."
Mila was sitting across from me at a small wooden table tucked between the stacks of History and Philosophy. She was reading a massive tome on Baroque Art. I was ostensibly reviewing game film on my iPad, but mostly I was watching her chew on the end of her pen.
She was wearing a thick cream sweater that hid her curves, and reading glasses that slid down her nose every thirty seconds.
She pushed them up. Tap.
She chewed the pen. Click.
She sighed. Exhale.
Every sound was a siren call.
I stretched my leg out under the table. My foot found hers. I nudged her ankle.
She looked up, startled. Her eyes met mine.
The heat was instant. It flared in her gaze, turning the blue dark.
I moved my foot higher, sliding it up her calf, under the leg of her jeans.
She bit her lip to suppress a smile. She looked around the library. It was mostly empty, save for a few stressed-out premed students three rows over.
She reached under the table. Her hand found my knee. She squeezed.
Then her hand moved higher. Up my thigh.
I stiffened, gripping the edge of the table.
She watched me, her expression innocent, while her hand crept dangerously close to my crotch.
"Find anything interesting in the film, Captain?" she whispered.
"Defense is sloppy," I choked out, my voice tight. "Gaps in the neutral zone."
"Mmm. Gotta mind the gaps," she murmured. Her fingers brushed the inseam of my jeans.
"Mila," I warned low. "We are in public."
"No one can see," she whispered back. "The tablecloth is long."
It wasn't a tablecloth; it was the shadow of the desk. But she was right. We were hidden.
She moved her hand again, cupping me through the denim. I hissed in a breath.
"You’re playing a dangerous game," I growled.
"I like danger," she said. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, looking the picture of a studious academic. "Besides, I’m bored. Tell me what you’re thinking about."
"I’m thinking about dragging you into the stacks," I whispered, leaning in so only she could hear. "I’m thinking about lifting you up against the shelves in the Philosophy section and seeing if I can make you recite Nietzsche while I—"
"Shh!" A student two rows over hissed at us.
Mila clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. Her face turned bright red. She pulled her hand back from my lap instantly.
"Sorry," she whispered to the student.
She looked back at me, her eyes dancing with mischief.
"Philosophy section?" she mouthed. "Later?"
I shook my head, fighting a smile. "Home. Twenty minutes."
"Make it ten."
We packed up our bags in record time. We walked out of the library with a respectable distance between us, but the air crackling between our bodies could have powered the entire campus grid.
The sneaking around wasn't just physical; it was emotional.
We developed a code.
A text message that said “Groceries?” meant “Are we alone?”
A text that said “Gym time” meant “Meet me in the bedroom.”
A coffee cup left on the counter with the logo facing out meant “Jax is home, stay cool.”
It was a covert operation. And it was thrilling.
On Thursday, after practice, I found her in the laundry room of the Fortress.
The dryer was tumbling, creating a rhythmic thump-thump-thump that masked the sound of the door closing. The room was warm, smelling of dryer sheets and humidity.
Mila was folding towels. She was humming to herself.
I locked the door.
She turned around at the click.
"Theo," she breathed.
I didn't talk. I crossed the small room in two strides. I picked her up and sat her on top of the washing machine.
"Jax is upstairs," she whispered, wrapping her legs around my waist instantly.
"Jax is wearing headphones and playing Call of Duty," I said, burying my face in her neck. "He wouldn't hear a nuclear explosion."
I kissed her. It was hungry. It was the accumulation of twelve hours of pretending I didn't care about her.
Her hands were in my hair, pulling, gripping. My hands were under her sweater, finding warm skin.
"I missed you," she mumbled against my mouth.
"I saw you at breakfast," I said, nipping her lip.
"That wasn't you. That was The Tsar. I missed this."
"I’m right here."
I ground my hips against hers. The washing machine wasn't running, but the vibration of the dryer next to it hummed through us.
"We have ten minutes," I said. "Before I have to leave for physio."
"Ten minutes is plenty," she challenged.
We didn't have sex. We couldn't risk the noise. But we got close. Hands exploring, mouths devouring, bodies pressing together until the friction was almost painful. It was frantic and messy and desperate.
When I finally pulled back, gasping for air, my lips felt swollen.
"You’re a bad influence," I told her, resting my forehead against hers.