Chapter Thirteen
Adrik
Once Adrik changed at his cottage, they headed for the train station, and the interrogation resumed.
“You weren’t impressed with my cottage, were you?” Hans asked as they walked side-by-side.
“You need a maid, Hans, seriously. And why so much food? You’re one person.”
“So, wherever you flew in from, did you hire a cleaning service and eat out every night?”
Adrik shrugged, looking at the scenery as they walked. “I did. I didn’t have time to play house. I worked long hours at the family business.”
“In the city or at Westhampton Beach?”
Adrik cut him a look. “I’ll answer only if you answer one of mine.”
“Fine. Answer first.”
“I lived and worked in the city for my family’s business,” Adrik said.
“Are you really German?”
“Enough questions, Hans.”
Hans rolled his eyes, a playful huff escaping him at the name.
“Your last name is Brandt,” Hans countered. “That’s a German surname. Public knowledge.”
“Maybe I was adopted,” Adrik quipped, his tone shutting the door on that topic. “Stop with the questions.”
“Would you come to Munich with me next weekend to meet my parents?”
Adrik nearly tripped. He stopped, staring at Hans in genuine shock. “Meet your parents? Why? Are we getting married?”
“Because,” Hans said, looking uncharacteristically earnest, “I want you to see Munich. And we could have fun.”
The train ride to Rostock was quieter after that.
Adrik stared out the window, his mind racing.
Munich sounded great. The “parents” part?
Not so much. He had zero desire to sit across a dinner table and be scrutinized by a couple of nice German folks who would probably see right through his family business stories. No way in hell.
But as they stepped off the train and walked toward the restaurant overlooking the Baltic Sea, the salt air hitting his face, Adrik didn’t say no. He just kept walking, Hans’ presence a steady, complicated warmth at his side.
The restaurant was one of those places that tried a little too hard to be elegant, but the view of the sea saved it.
Large glass windows looked out over the dark, churning water, and the candlelight flickering on the tables made the entire world feel small—just the two of them in a bubble of amber light.
Adrik pulled out a chair for Hans, his mind still spinning from the Munich invitation. Meeting parents was for normal people with normal lives. It was for guys who didn’t have to check over their shoulders or wonder if their past was about to catch up with them in a seaside resort town.
“You’re very quiet,” Hans noted, unfolding his linen napkin. “Is it the mafia thug book or the parents that scared you off?”
Adrik picked up the wine list, using it as a shield. “I don’t scare easily, Hans. I’m just wondering what kind of story you’ll tell them about the guy you’re seeing.”
“I’ll tell them you’re a businessman from New York who’s a bit too fond of expensive shoes and far too mysterious for his own good.”
Adrik let out a short, dry laugh. “Accurate enough.” He set the menu down and leaned forward, his gaze intensifying. “But seriously. What is the interest in New York? Research for the book? Or do you just like men that could be from somewhere dangerous?”
Hans didn’t blink. “I like men with layers. Everyone here is… transparent. You’re like one of the books in my living room that’s been mislabeled. I’m just trying to read the chapters you’ve skipped.”
The server arrived, and Adrik ordered a bottle of the most expensive red on the list without glancing at the price—a habit from his old life he hadn’t quite kicked.
As the server retreated, Adrik felt the familiar itch from the “family business” talk.
It was a tightrope walk. He wanted to be real with Hans, but the truth was a lead weight.
Sergei had cautioned him to be careful with his money, as extravagant spending could reveal his hidden history.
His duty was to mimic the behavior of those in his vicinity.
All part of the RUN plan. Sergei hadn’t met Hans.
He tried to imagine where Sergei was. Adrik would never forgive himself if anything happened to him.
“If you come to Munich,” Hans said, his voice dropping to a softer, more persuasive tone, “no questions about New York. No talking of business. Just the city, the beer halls, and me. No pressure.”
Adrik looked at Hans—really looked at him. The man was a mess at home, obsessed with writing about criminals, and apparently determined to drag Adrik into a family dinner. He was a disaster, and yet, for the first time in years, Adrik felt like he could actually breathe.
“No questions?” Adrik clarified, raising an eyebrow.
“None. Unless you want to ask me something.”
Adrik reached across the table, his hand hovering near Hans’. “I might have one or two. But let’s see if we make it through dinner first.” Adrik moved his foot under the table and rubbed his shoe against Hans’ ankle. “I have a proposition for this evening,” Adrik said.
“Listening.” Hans nodded, a subtle movement holding a certain allure.
“I want to challenge you to a match. The winner tops tonight,” Adrik announced.
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the challenge?”
“Can’t talk about it here. When we get home.”
“Did you move me into your cottage?” Hans’ words held a playful quality, but his eyes betrayed a deep undertone.
During the pause in conversation while the server took their dinner orders, Adrik ordered another bottle of wine.
“You eat too much beef,” Hans said.
“And you don’t eat enough.”
“How do you know what I eat when you’re not around?”
Adrik ignored Hans’ question and continued his defense. “Beef and…” Adrik stopped short of finishing his sentence. “Is the makings of a warrior.”
Hans leaned in. “And what?”
“Daily masturbation.”
“What?” Hans nearly dropped his glass of wine. “What research source backs up your statement?”
“My father. I had to masturbate every day since I was twelve.”
“In front of him?” Hans’ face was etched with horror, his expression paling as if he were watching a horror movie.
“Sorry. Forget what I said. Too much wine.” Adrik rubbed his head, feigning a headache.
Adrik’s thoughts scattered. Hans saw right through his attempted diversion.
As much as he hated his father right now, he didn’t like Hans or anyone talking shit about how his father raised him to be a warrior.
The level of disrespect was astounding! The air thickened with a bitter taste; a lump formed in his throat and tears welled in his eyes.
Adrik pushed back from the table, the chair’s screech slicing through the quiet and somehow matching the hollow ache in his chest. He didn’t bother hiding the slump in his shoulders as he headed for the men’s room.
Every step felt heavy, like his body was keeping time with a grief he couldn’t outrun.
The restroom was empty—thank God. For a second, the silence felt like mercy.
Then the dam cracked.
He drove his fist into the cold tile wall; the impact was sharp enough to sting all the way up his arm.
Pain bloomed across his knuckles, warm and wet, but it barely registered over the mess in his head.
Sergei’s absence hit him all over again, brutal and familiar.
And the worst part—the part that twisted the knife—was knowing there were things he still couldn’t say to Hans.
Things Sergei would’ve understood without a word.
Hans wasn’t Sergei. He wasn’t supposed to be. But that didn’t stop the guilt from clawing at him.
Tears blurred his vision, hot and unwelcome. He tried to blink them back, but they kept coming, slipping down his face as he leaned his forehead against the tile.
The door slammed open behind him. Adrik flinched, dropping his gaze, ashamed of the state he was in.
Then Hans was there—of course he was—turning him gently by the shoulders. Their eyes met, and something in Adrik just… gave way. Hans pulled him in without hesitation, arms wrapping around him like he wasn’t afraid of the broken pieces.
Adrik let himself fold into the embrace, breathing in the steadiness he couldn’t find on his own.
It wasn’t until later, when the storm inside him had quieted, that Hans noticed the blood on his hand. He didn’t scold, didn’t lecture—just guided Adrik to sit on the counter and cleaned the torn knuckles with a tenderness that made Adrik’s throat tighten all over again.
Hans didn’t replace Sergei. He never could.
But at that moment, he was exactly what Adrik needed. “I’m sorry.” He used his hand to wipe Adrik’s tears away. “It’s not you. I’m just dealing with something I can’t talk about.”
“Understood. Do you want to leave?”
“No, I’m okay now. Sometimes, I talk shit when I drink.”
They returned to the table and kept the conversation light. Adrik paid the bill, and they walked three blocks to the nightclub.
Hans ran rings around him in the knowledge department. He had so much to learn from him. Learning from his lover was humiliating.