35
NAT
Amantis, Calle Pelayo. The place smells like new latex and peach lube, a sweet, chemical mix that gives me a ridiculous rush.
The door gives a discreet beep when we walk in.
Shelves on both sides with toys arranged by size, color, function; harnesses hanging by size with tags; flavored lubes; a table stacked with sex-ed books; a couple mannequins in lingerie that covers exactly nothing.
I spot two cameras up near the ceiling, an exit in the back that opens onto a narrow hallway, and another marked “Emergency.” I’ve clocked even the little bell on the register.
Alaska sticks half a step behind me, breathing on my neck. I’ve got her glued to me—Irina’s orders, my brain’s idea, and, fine, my body too. She gets to me.
“Don’t get lost, gorgeous,” I say, voice rougher than usual. I move in a little closer than should be legal.
“I won’t, Sarge,” she shoots back, and bumps her hip into mine. Minimum contact, maximum voltage. Heat climbs my spine and I have to swallow so the dopey grin doesn’t show.
I wander between glass cases. I touch one box, read another, stall. She accidentally breathes right behind my ear and I pretend to examine a pack of candles. The clerk clears her throat. I smother a laugh.
It’s been two weeks since the thing at the movies.
Two long, weird weeks. The first consequence, the big one, landed on Vega.
Rashel, head of tech, confiscated her pretty phone and saddled her with a keypad fossil.
Tiny screen, no apps, no decent camera. Calls and texts.
Period. Rashel gave her a lecture about protocol, tracking, metadata, geolocation, bad people with too much free time.
Half an hour of mistakes, itemized. Vega nodded on loop, eyes like a scolded doe.
Not a peep. She kept the gray Nokia and stuck a star sticker on it, which makes me feel tender and sad at the same time.
I’ve caught her twice tapping the screen to see if the icon moves. Nothing moves. She sucks it up.
The second consequence messes with my head and kind of makes me happy: Irina is teaching Alaska to use a basic weapon. My job is not to make a face. The part that actually thrills me is this: Alaska on the tatami three afternoons a week. My gift in the middle of the chaos.
She trains with me, with Luna, and with Valeria.
In the mansion’s dojo. Clean mats, duct tape in the corners, speakers that sometimes play DJ and sometimes pull fan duty, gloves in a basket, water bottles lined up because I line them up.
There’s a mirror that warps you a little, just enough for Luna to pose at herself, and enough for me to tell her to knock it off.
Luna and I are five eleven and we’ve spent years on katas, kicks, and boring reps until it comes out right without thinking.
Valeria isn’t our height, but she’s a kickboxing and self-defense instructor; she hits without warning, places her weight with science, corrects you with one eyebrow raised, and dismantles any excuse.
She wears her nails too long, tape on her fingers, and a tight bun.
I like her even though she argues with me just to entertain herself.
“I’m not a heavy bag, I’m a chickpea with eyes,” Alaska protested on day one, ten minutes in, sweaty, bangs plastered down, ready to toss in the towel she hadn’t even used.
“You’re short, skinny, and a little scrawny,” I told her, no sugar, smile tucked away. “That’s why I’m giving you technique. And you’re going to learn it. There is no plan B.”
“What if there’s a plan C?” she tried.
“Plan C is repeat,” I cut her off.
It’s hard for her. She gasps fast, her quads are calling an ambulance, her breathing spikes, and even her pride hurts.
The vein in her neck swells, she sets her jaw, and debates every correction like her mortgage depends on it.
Valeria dismantles the drama with saintly calm: posture, hands up, heels engaged, eyes on the center.
She repeats it without raising her voice and nudges her foot into place with two fingers, adjusts her chin with a tap, lifts her elbows until she sees awake shoulders.
I get a little desperate with both of them, bite my tongue, count to ten and then again.
Valeria gets distracted easily, cracks jokes, and tells me I sound like a drill sergeant.
I agree on the inside and not out loud, or she’ll get cocky.
“Cut the comedy, ladies,” I cut in every other minute. “Guards up. Live feet. Alaska, drop your hips. Valeria, watch her hands. Luna, don’t humiliate her. Then I have to be the one to console her and my calendar doesn’t allow it.”
“What calendar? You live here,” Luna says, delighted with herself.
“Zip it and get to work,” I finish.
Luna’s a happy little menace. In and out, clean sweeps, she drops all of us with that irritating smile and then asks if we’re okay.
She counts reps singing, uses the breaks to fix her hair, and still has breath left to talk about shows.
I set the pace, stopwatch in hand, count reps, correct rotations, set insteps with two fingers, bring water when it’s time and not before.
I have a reputation for being a hard-ass. I earn it.
By the second session, Alaska wasn’t checking the clock every two minutes anymore.
By the third, she pulled off a clean evasion.
I feinted a straight; she turned her hips a touch, took her head off the line, didn’t close her eyes, exhaled, and the punch sailed past. She planted.
Looked at me. Smacked my palms, lit up. Something shifted in my chest and I refused to let it show.
"Good," I nodded, curt.
"Only good?" she needled.
"Again," I told her.
I made her repeat it. Again. Again. Again.
Until it came out the same four times in a row.
I changed the angle and made her do four more.
She muttered insults. Called me a pain. I deserve it and it gives me a weird little thrill.
In one of those she steps on my foot by accident, snaps a heel tip off, goes pale, we both laugh and keep going.
I give her twenty seconds. She earns them. When the timer kicks back on, she looks at me with pretend hate. If she really hated me, she wouldn’t come back tomorrow. And she does—three afternoons a week. I make sure my voice doesn’t shake when I say good and I save the smile for the shower.
The twins haven’t set foot outside in many days.
Not a single outing. After the movie, nobody argues: outside isn’t safe.
JARSI keeps moving and it doesn’t stop over our little incident.
Irina and the others took off out of the city three days ago.
Trunks loaded with black trash bags, backpacks with logos taped over, contact lists on paper, quick hugs.
They leave the twins’ security to me. I take it seriously.
I go over shifts, cameras, internal routes, passwords, doors, first-aid kit.
Julia, who’s an angel and has a knack for everything, stays at the house, organizes, lays down order, takes care of Svet, keeps an eye on Vega, and sends me reports every two hours.
My phone goes off more than the microwave every single day.
Before she left, Irina fixed me with that dry stare that knocks the wind out of you.
"Don’t leave Alaska’s side," she said.
And I obey. Not her body, not her name, not her shadow.
For protocol, for the mission, and, yeah, because I don’t know how to pull away anymore.
I want to tell Irina, put it on the table, take the consequences.
Guilt climbs into my throat when I think about it.
I picture her tense face, a short order, a door shut between Alaska and me. It scares the hell out of me.
Alaska gets pissed at the secrecy, the rules, the control.
She doesn’t want to hide. I try to soothe her with affection, with play, with sex—no fireworks, no promises I can’t keep.
It works sometimes. I feel my margin shrinking every day.
I don’t want to hit the point where everything blows.
I avoid dramatics, but I look in the mirror and see the bags under my eyes.
I laugh at myself, at my smart-girl plan. Smart girl, my ass.
I snap back to the present. Alaska points at a clear vibrator. She raises an eyebrow. I raise one back. The saleswoman finally comes over.
"Looking for anything in particular?" she asks, friendly, professional.
"Yes," I say. "Discretion. And a plain bag."
Alaska laughs, elbows me. She looks at me with a spark in her eyes. She tempts me. I get fear and want in the same bundle. I grab a basket. Stick to the mission. Don’t let go of her hand.
"We buying something that vibrates or something that ties?" Alaska asks, and strides into the medical-grade silicone section with zero shame and her eyes shining.
I follow. Tall shelves, white light, boxes with cheesy photos and rocket-ship names. Another clerk gives us a chin-lift hello.
"First we look, see what’s new," I toss back.
I don’t want to rush and grab the first thing. Alaska pulls a mischievous-kid face and turns up the heat in a very specific area.
It’s our first stretch alone in days. I picked the store for the location and because there aren’t invasive cameras.
Anton and Alexei stayed by the door with bags from another shop for the compulsive-shopping couple act.
One holds the other’s elbow in a way that looks very natural for two guys built like refrigerators.
I’ve got the ping on my watch, in case there’s trouble. Not romantic, but I need it.
Alaska sinks her fingers into a sample bowl of textures. She toys with it for a second and reads out loud in a warm radio-host voice, "Platinum-grade silicone, hypoallergenic."
She looks at me like she’s grading me.
"Approved," I say, a half smile slipping out. "Non-porous, easy to clean. Nothing that leaves residue."
"Ms. Velikanova, you’re very serious in the hardware store of pleasure."