Twenty-Three
Caiden
I’ve lasted more than a day. Which, frankly, is a miracle.
One more day of pretending the broom cupboard incident never happened.
One more day of acting like Sergeant Ari didn’t have me up against a wall with my hand around his cock.
One more day of pretending I wasn’t still tasting his tongue in my mouth every time I swallowed.
After that, everything started to fray.
I avoid him as best I can — mostly that involves ducking into the nearest room if I hear his voice. If I feel his eyes on me in the mess, I focus so hard on my tray I’m surprised I don’t burn a hole through the beans.
On the training field, I manage a heroic level of pretending he’s just another Russian Sergeant and not the man whose hair was in my hand while he was doing things that could get us both shot.
Theoretically, this is sensible. Men don’t get caught doing what we did.
I know it, he knows it, Niko knows it. Everyone here knows the rules, even if they’re not written anywhere.
So, I avoid him because I have to. If I see him too much, I’ll forget why it’s a bad idea — at least that’s the story I’ve been telling myself.
It’s not the full truth. The other part is, I’m scared of what I’ll do if I’m alone with him again.
I keep replaying it.
The taste of his lips, the low, broken sounds he made while he was trying to stay quiet, the way he’d looked afterwards, and then he’d done that infuriating Ari thing — smirked, straightened his uniform, said something glib and disappeared.
I don’t know what I wanted from him afterwards, but it wasn’t that.
But now, there’s no teasing in passing, no smug grin in the mess hall, only a brief encounter in a corridor and a look across the yard that seared through me and then slid off like nothing.
If I talk to him, I’ll either punch him in the face or beg; I can’t tell which anymore.
So, I throw myself into work instead. I spend extra hours in the comms room, re-checking frequency lists that don’t need re-checking.
I offer to help one of the Russian techs repatch ancient wiring, and nearly blow my fingers off when a cable arcs.
I sit through Niko’s briefings until my brain feels like mush, nodding in all the right places, and making notes I’ll never read.
“Everything okay, Caiden?” Niko asks, frowning slightly.
“Fine, sir,” I lie. “Just tired.”
He looks at me for a long moment, like he knows I’m full of shit. Then he claps my shoulder. “Go sleep, then. Or eat. Or shout at a tree. Whatever British soldiers do to unwind.”
If only he knew.
By day three, I’m holding it together with willpower and caffeine.
It’s late. It’s one of those dead hours where the base isn’t truly asleep, just turned down to a low hum.
My shift in the comms room runs over while we troubleshoot a static glitch, and by the time I leave, my eyes ache, and I just want my bunk.
I head down the side corridor that cuts past the admin offices and back toward the block where the Brits are.
It’s quieter than the main route, tucked between two offices with frosted windows.
I’m halfway along when a shadow moves on the wall beside me.
“Evening, detka.” I jerk to a halt so fast, my knee twinges.
He’s leaning against the door of one of the admin rooms, one foot braced behind him, and arms folded across his chest. He looks like he’s been there for a while, waiting, and the universe finally delivered his prey.
The low corridor light catches on the sharp edge of his jaw and the curve of his mouth.
He’s out of his uniform, dressed down to his shirt and combat trousers, sleeves pushed up, and his forearms bare.
My pulse slams up so hard, my vision narrows for a second.
“Not tonight,” I mutter, turning on my heel.
“I’m knackered.” His fingers catch my wrist; he’s not letting go.
“I didn’t say you could leave,” he says calmly. Which is bullshit, because I can feel the tension in him through that grip. “We’re going to talk.”
“No, we’re not,” I snap, trying to yank my arm back. I glare at him, exhausted, pissed off and done. “We’ve done enough talking.”
“No,” he says. “We’ve done everything but talking.”
“Move, Sergeant,” I say, gritting my teeth.
“No.”
I take a deep breath through my nose and count to three. “Look, whatever you think that was in the broom cupboard—”
“Which part?” he asks, smirking.
“I’m not doing this in the corridor,” I bite out. He tilts his head, watching me like I’m the most interesting thing he’s seen all day.
“Good,” he says, and before I can process that, his hand shifts to my arm, and he knocks his shoulder into the door behind him. The latch gives, and the door swings open. “Inside, then.”
It’s a small admin office with two battered desks, filing cabinets, a corkboard with curling memos in Russian, and a single overhead strip light hums faintly.
He steps back into the room and waits, holding the door open with one hand, his eyes never leaving mine.
I should say “no, sir” go back to the barracks and pretend I don’t wake up at 0300 remembering the way his breath went ragged when I...
No fucking way.
But my feet move on their own, hello to my non-functioning brain. I walk past him into the room, and the door clicks shut behind me. The soft sound of the lock turning is like a gunshot.
I turn, leaning against the desk. It’s a crappy metal thing with a scarred wood top. There’s a stack of forms in one corner, a chipped mug with pens, and a dead plant in a plastic pot.
Ari leans back against the door, crossing his arms again. For a second, we just stare at each other. He looks annoyingly calm, and I am anything but. “Well?” I snap. “Talk, then.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he says simply.
“No, I haven’t.”
His mouth kicks up. “You’re a terrible liar, detka.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“With what?” he asks, smirking again.
“Work.”
“Ah.” He steps away from the door, slowly, like I’m a skittish animal he doesn’t want to spook. “Hiding in the comms room then.”
I feel my jaw clench. “You’ve been spying on me?”
“Obviously,” he says it like it’s the most boring fact in the world.
“Great. Glad we’re honest now,” I mutter, huffing a humourless laugh.
“I’ve been honest the whole time,” he says. “You’re the one who’s pretending nothing happened.”
My hands curl into fists against the desk. “What do you want me to do?” I demand. “High-five you in the mess? Shake your hand and say, ‘good blowjob, Sergeant, very professional technique’?”
“Don’t talk about it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like it was nothing,” he snaps. “You think I would put my mouth on just anyone in a cleaning cupboard on a military base?”
“Could’ve fooled me,” I bite out. The anger in my tone surprises even me.
“Careful,” he says softly. “You’re not the only one who knows how to hit below the belt.”
“Then hit,” I say, throwing my hands out. “Go on. Get it over with. Tell me I’m pathetic, or stupid, or weak, or whatever else you’ve been thinking while you stare at me across the yard like I’m some joke you like to play with.”
“You really think that’s what this is?” he asks. “A joke?”
“What else would it be?” My voice cracks on the last word. “You acted like it didn’t even matter afterwards. You gave me what... two sentences and then fucked off.” There’s the thing I didn’t plan on saying. I hear it as it comes out and want to claw the words back.
His expression shifts subtly. I see a flicker of shock, then something almost like hurt, masked so fast I’d have missed it if I didn’t know his face more than is remotely healthy.
“I walked away,” he says slowly, “because if I stayed, I would have fucked you against a mop bucket and we’d both be dead by now. ”
The air leaves my lungs as he closes the distance between us in three steps, stopping just on the edge of my space. I can feel his body heat radiating from him. I can smell the faint smell of cigarette smoke and the aftershave that I can now pick out of a crowd blindfolded with sickening ease.
He looks down at me. “You think I don’t care?” he says quietly. “You think this is just... boredom?” He spits the word out like it tastes bad.
“What else am I supposed to think?” I shoot back because if I don’t defend myself with anger, I’ll fall apart. “You act like it’s all some game. You poke and prod, get me riled, then walk off and leave me climbing the walls. You’re fine. I’m the one who—” I cut myself off.
“You’re not the only one climbing the walls, detka,” he murmurs, leaning in. “I just hide it better.” The way he says it, it’s so matter-of-fact, like he’s telling me what the weather is like outside.
“Well, you’re going to get your wish,” I say.
“You wanted me to be honest? Fine.” I hear my own pulse battering in my ears.
“What we did in that cupboard... I can’t just pretend it didn’t happen.
I can’t look at you and see ‘Sergeant Zakirov’ and nothing else.
Not after... that.” His gaze drops to my mouth.
“And if you’re just going to chase me around and treat it like sport then it stops.
Now. I can’t... I’m not going to be some...
some thing you wind up when you’re bored. ”
There’s a moment of absolute silence. Then he laughs. “You think I’m chasing you?” he says. “That I’m the one being clingy?”
“You have been chasing me,” I fire back. “Since the first week. Training yard, showers—”
“And you don’t like it?” he cuts in. “You haven’t been pushing back and then pulling me closer every time I get within reach?”
“I’m trying to survive,” I snap. “There’s a difference.”