Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
nyx
Thinking of him pulls me back to the past, to the way we trained together.
His moves were different, unpredictable, a fusion of techniques I'd never seen before. He once told me he learned Systema as a kid, picking it up during summers spent in Russia with his father - before the relationship soured. It’s not widely practiced in the West, and the way he described it stuck with me: 'Control under chaos. ' It fit him perfectly.
“Nope, Nyx. Stay in the here and now.” I whisper to myself, a constant reminder to pull back to reality.
My heart and mind have been locked in a brutal game of table tennis ever since I saw him.
Usually, reminding myself he's responsible for my mother's death - and Ashley's - does the trick. When I reach outside the quarters, I plan my route - two laps around the perimeter, maybe three if I have it in me by the end. My last cardio session before we’re called out.
I hate it. Loathe it. But I need it - unfortunately.
The full perimeter is about a mile. First lap, easy pace, fifteen minutes. Second, interval sprints.
I check my phone and it's 1715 hours, locking it into my shorts zipper, I head off as the sun sets beyond the tree line. I’m taking in the scenery for the easy jog, just to get used to my bearings.
The metal gates are mostly rusted, and there's sporadic signs that say, 'high voltage’, but Graves told us it was turned off years ago.
Turning them on would attract too much attention, basically heating up our position on a grid.
We're so secluded here that there's not too much of a threat, but you can never be too careful.
Plus, the CCTV they've confirmed is now running is robust apparently. But Adam has already penetrated it a couple of times now. So, yeah, there’s that.
I weave through the approaching tight passage, rows of green metal electrical cages stretching ahead, a lone flattened one offering a shortcut across where the weeds have overgrown.
I slow, testing its stability before moving forward.
Just as I shift my weight - a hand clamps over my mouth.
I’m slammed backward into the cold metal, breath hitching.
Instinct immediately kicks in. My knees loosen, one hand clawing up my attacker’s arm to break their grip, the other driving for their throat, but they block it with their forearm.
I pivot fast, preparing to land a knee to the groin, when a voice wraps around me like a serpent.
“Fucking hell, Brodie! Calm the fuck down - it’s me.
” The deep, smoky voice freezes me mid-strike.
My attacker rips off his balaclava, and I recoil.
Noc’s dressed in all black everything, almost imitating the tactical gear of our own.
The mask, the cargos and long-sleeved t-shirt, even right down to his combat boots.
And as if 'it’s me' will calm me, it sends me fucking feral. With his hand still on me I turn my hip into the metal so I'm on my side, pulling his arm with me and bending it so it’s folded, bringing him closer to throw my elbow in his face. But his movements are as swift as vapor, he drops and takes my feet out from beneath me. Just before my ass lands with a thump on the ground, his hands shoot out under my elbows, softening the impact. He pins me to the cold rusty metal, but I don’t think it's that which has caused the shiver on my spine. “Stop fighting me for one goddamn second.” His voice strains, “I need to speak to you. Please.” My hand stops mid-way from putting the heel to his face. I wish he didn’t use that word. Yet again, another weakness.
It was so rare to hear him say please, that whenever he did - I'd do any request that came after it. But I manage to hold steady and firm. “What, were you tired of checking over your shoulder, Noc? Was the insomnia hitting you differently when you knew I was coming?” My laugh is bitter. I hope I've been roaming this bastard’s thoughts since we last met, just like he’s been in mine.
“Oh I have nightmares about you, Malyshka, just not in the way you think.” I frown, not understanding his words. But the rational need inside me surges, to hear what’s so important he came all this way.
“Ten seconds, Noc, and I don't have the same patience I did all those years ago.
Spit it out, or I'll sing like a fucking canary that you’re here and you'll wish you had died when you went over that cliff.” He sighs and looks down at the ground, eyes coming back up to meet mine.
They look tortured, conflicted, and almost defeated.
“When we first met at the club, I told you there was a lot you didn't know.” My eyes narrow as he speaks.
“It's true, I've done some bad shit, but it’s not what you think.” I scoff, not needing to hear it if this is how it's going to go. But his grip bands around my arms. “You have been told lies about me, Brodie. A lot of them. I don’t have the time to explain it here, but I need you to hear me out. Meet me somewhere, anywhere of your choice. Bring a fucking Semtex to stick to me if it makes you feel better. But I need you to hear the truth. Please.”
His face twists, pained with every word.
It clamps around my ice formed heart, splintering it just enough to make me waver.
I know he’s lying. But the lovesick fool buried deep inside me refuses to let go, desperate for answers, clinging to whatever scraps he’s willing to offer me.
He’s handing them to me on a platter, and I know better - but I need to hear them.
I test the waters, thinking fast, pushing for a place he’d never take me if he were serious - somewhere too dangerous. If he hesitates, I’ll have my proof. “How about we meet at your place? You have a home here, right?”
His laughter is a low rumble, smooth, and unbothered. But he doesn’t pause. “Yes, I have a home. And if that’s where you want to meet, we will.” Turns out, I’m the one now scrambling. I didn’t actually think he’d agree to this.
“What, you’re just going to let me into your home? Knowing the risks?”
His gloved covered thumb traces my arm I didn't realize he was still holding. “I don’t care about the fallout, Brodie. I can't walk away from you again without you hearing everything I have to say. I’ve tried, because it’s for the best. But not anymore.
” I want to believe those words, I desperately do.
But I know better. He has something planned, and I refuse to be blindsided.
“Fine. We’ll meet at your place. Then, we’ll head to dinner - somewhere of my choosing.
You don’t get to know. I pick.” If I can get inside his home first, then take him somewhere crowded, somewhere deep in the city, he’ll have fewer opportunities to pull anything - hopefully.
It’s a wildcard move, but I have something else up my sleeve.
“Deal.” He doesn’t hesitate on that answer either, it stirs something unwanted within me.
“Give me your phone.” The softness I glimpsed from him earlier is gone, replaced by the usual Noc - controlled, unreadable, and frosty.
I don’t argue, I just hand it over. He types swiftly, the sharp ding of a notification sounding a second later.
He hands it back, pulling his own from his pocket.
Another ding. My gaze flicks to the screen as his name appears on the message.
Lev. Ice burrows into my chest, sharp and sudden.
I force down the lump in my throat, swallowing the reaction before it can surface.
I open the message to read his home address, along with a link on an online map.
It’s on Krestovsky Island, right in central Saint Petersburg, a luxury area no doubt.
I look at him giving me a once over, his eyes roaming over my bare legs in my shorts.
His gaze stops at my wrist that exposes the scar that Volokov gave me.
His jaw grinds so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t pop.
His eyes briefly shut, and when they spring back open, they're a complete thunderstorm.
I suddenly feel self-conscious, not because I care that my skin is flawed, just that I rarely look at my wrist due to the memory that comes with it when I do.
This is likely the first time he's seen it clearly in the light from when he brushed over it in the club.
I tuck it at my side, catching the way his eyes drift over my tank top, landing on my exposed shoulder - another scar.
Another mark because of him. “I hope you’re teaching your girlfriend to aim better.
” I force my tone to sound dull, detached, trying a little too hard to let it slip out bored and unaffected.
But the word girlfriend is laced with something I didn’t intend. It backfires.
His laugh rumbles over me. “Natalia isn't my girlfriend, Brodie.” He glances at the ground, swallowing deeply. “She's a means to get by.” His eyes come to meet mine, and they flicker all over my face, searching my reaction.
“Wow, romantic. I hope she knows that. Women don’t tend to shoot other women for a man unless they were besotted by them.” Smirking, his focus goes to my lips, his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip before coming back up to look at me. “That jealousy really does turn me on by the way.”
I shove him out of my safe circle. “You really need to get your fucking head checked out.” I bark. When I look at him, his features are soft, a lopsided grin showing – it threatens my own. Stirring a yearning in me that was long forgotten. How normal those last few seconds felt between us.