Chapter 8 - Raya #2
The jacket situation happens a few days later when he’s trying to get it on to go and check the car, an idea I have already told him is terrible with one working arm.
He ignored me, naturally. I watch him attempt the one-armed shuffle for about thirty seconds before I cross the room and hold the jacket open for him.
I reach around to sort the other side over the sling, and suddenly I am standing much closer than strictly necessary.
There is a brief still moment where neither of us moves.
I can smell him, the leather of his jacket, and the sharp, clean scent of the saline I used on his shoulder.
His breath catches, a tiny hitch in his chest that brushes against my collarbone.
For a second, I forget to breathe. I think I’m losing my goddamn mind.
He doesn’t step back. His massive frame blocks out the light from the living room window, trapping me in the narrow space between his chest and the front door.
I can feel the heat of his body cutting through the fabric of my sweater.
My hands are still resting against the heavy leather of his shoulders, my fingers frozen against the seams. I want to pull away.
Every logical piece of my mind is screaming at me to create distance, to remember who he is and what his family did to mine.
But my boots feel glued to the floorboards.
Yakov lowers his head an inch, his gray eyes darkening into a stormy, intense shade as he looks down at me. The cocky, teasing facade he usually wears at the kitchen table is gone, replaced by a raw, heavy gravity that makes my knees feel weak.
“You’re shaking, Raya,” he whispers, his breath warm against the sensitive skin of my temple.
“It’s cold in this hallway,” I lie, my voice a thin, shaky splinter.
“It isn’t the cold,” he says, his good left hand slowly rising from his side.
He doesn’t grab me. He doesn’t force me against the door.
Instead, his long fingers gently brush against my jaw, his thumb tracing the curve of my cheekbone with an exquisite, terrifying tenderness.
The contrast of his rough, scarred palm against my skin is an electric shock.
“Do you need me to warm you up, malysh?”
“I’m helping you with your jacket, moron,” I whisper, my eyes tracking the slight movement of his throat as he swallows. “Because you’re incompetent with one arm.”
“Mm.” A low, rough chuckle rumbles deep in his chest, vibrating directly against my collarbone where our bodies are almost touching. “A tactical vulnerability. I’ll allow it. But don’t pretend you don’t feel the air changing in this room. It’s insulting to both of our intelligences.”
I step back, clearing my throat, tearing myself away from his hand before the heat in my face betrays me. “There.” And brush some imaginary fluff off the front of it.
He looks at the jacket, then at me. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” I smile; I mean that literally: don’t mention it, let’s pretend I didn’t try and sniff you.
Fuck. It’s clearly being stuck in such proximity.
This wouldn’t be happening if we were normal people in the real world.
Would it? I go back to the two-year-old local newspaper and read the same page three times.
By seven o’clock, the domestic isolation of this place is driving me up the wall.
To keep myself from pacing the floorboards like a caged animal, I take over the kitchen, throwing together a basic pasta dish out of the canned tomatoes, some dried herbs, and penne from the pantry.
Yakov sits at the table, watching my every move.
He’s still shirtless, all the time, the dark Cyrillic script along his left ribs flexing slightly every time he repositions to accommodate the medical sling.
If he wasn’t shot, I’d swear to god he’s doing it with the sole purpose of driving me crazy.
I slide a heavy porcelain bowl of steaming pasta in front of him, dropping a fork down beside it with a loud clack against the wood.
“Eat,” I instruct, sitting across from him, pulling my own plate close. “And don’t complain about the lack of fresh basil.”
Yakov picks up his fork with his left hand, his movements slightly awkward but controlled as he stabs at the pasta.
“We’re currently hiding from my father and your brothers in a safe house, Raya.
” A slow, lazy grin spreads across his face.
“I think I can handle a lack of fresh herbs. My culinary standards adjust to the threat level.”
“Good. Because if you criticize my sauce, I’ll take that sling off and strangle you with it, okay?”
“Hmm, I might enjoy that,” he chuckles, taking a bite. He chews slowly, watching me across the small table. “It’s actually good. Where did a Volkov princess learn to manipulate garlic this well?”
“Hardly a princess, Yakov. Everyone in the family can cook. If we ever have a drink, Sofie and I sneak into the kitchen and make a midnight feast out of leftover steak and stolen vodka. Feeding the hangover, Sofie calls it, so it’ll go easier on us in the morning.”
“Midnight larceny,” Yakov nods sagely, wagging his fork at me in approval. “Highly commendable. My dinners involved a lot more vodka and a lot less fun.”
“I gathered that from the Dostoevsky obsession,” I say, winding a tight cluster of penne around my fork. “You eat like a man who expects someone to pull his plate away at any second.”
His grin drops, a fleeting shadow crossing his eyes before his face locks back down. “Old habits die hard, malysh.”
We eat in charged silence for the next ten minutes, the only sound the scrape of silver against porcelain. But as Yakov leans back in his wooden chair, finishing his portion, I freeze.
There is a small, bright red smudge of tomato pasta sauce sitting underneath his bottom lip. It sits in stark, ridiculous contrast against his hard jawline and the serious shadow of his stubble. It makes him look almost... human.
Before my brain fully registers the madness of the decision, my hand moves across the wooden table. I lean forward, stretching my arm across the space between our plates, and press my hand against his face, smoothing the pad of my thumb directly against his skin.
Yakov goes still. His eyes widen in stunned disbelief as my bare skin makes contact with his mouth.
I don’t pull away immediately. I swipe my thumb outward, wiping the red smudge cleanly away from his lip.
His skin is hot, the texture of his stubble rough against my palm, and his lips are surprisingly soft beneath my touch.
My fingers tingle as my eyes meet his. “You had—” I start, my voice cracking slightly in the quiet room.
“I know,” he says. “Thanks.”
I pull my hand back like I’ve touched a live wire, my thumb burning where his skin met mine. Then, the bastard has the absolute cheek to grin at me. It’s a slow, arrogant smirk that tells me he knows exactly how much that split-second touch unraveled me.
“You’re a menace, Mykros,” I whisper, picking up my fork with trembling fingers and giving my full, aggressive attention to the remaining pasta in front of me.
“I am an injured man receiving excellent spousal care,” he replies, his voice laced with an infuriating satisfaction. “Keep it up, Raya. I’m becoming addicted to your hospitality.”
One week in, I can’t even be bothered with the TV anymore, and the book I brought to bed with me has been open at the same page for half an hour now. “I don’t suppose,” I turn to where he is sitting beside me on his laptop, “that sneaking out to the movies is on the table?
“Nope.”
“Thought not.” I stare at the ceiling. “Do you ever have trouble sleeping? Generally, I mean. Not just—” I gesture vaguely at the sling.
He looks down at his arm; I think he’s considering whether to tell me the truth. “I’ve always struggled,” he eventually admits.
“What do you do?”
“When Yaroslav and I were small, we shared a bedroom. Our father didn’t like it, tried to split us apart even then, but our mother wouldn’t hear of it.
She told him that to separate twins was to part two halves of the same soul.
That it was a travesty against both God and nature.
When it came to her, he’d do anything, so he let it stand.
We’d make up stories while we lay there in the dark. Taking turns.”
I turn my whole body and lie on my side facing him, propping my head up on my hand. I find I really want to hear whatever Yakov has to say about his childhood. “What kind of stories?”