Page 97 of Nemesis

“No?”

His eyebrows lift. Then he flicks his tongue over my lips, tasting them. My core heats.

“I didn’t!”

“You’re not allowed to smoke,” he berates. “It’s bad for you.”

“I’m allowed to do whatever I want.”

He turns his head toward Kirill, who’s suspiciously quiet as he walks beside us. “Don’t give her a cigarette again.”

“Hey—”

“Yes, sir,” Kirill says with a salute. “By the way, Octavia was flirting with the hot⁠—”

“No, she wasn’t,” Vas snaps before I can get in a single word. Kirill is such a crafty little bitch.

I sigh in defeat, overcome by sleepiness at the sway of each step. “It tasted awful, anyway.”

By the time I return to my room after shooting practice with Nik, warm afternoon light bathes the bed. I collapse on the edge, stretching out my tired arms. It’s strange to remember this room as it was when we first came to the Siderov compound nearly two months ago. Back then, it was gaunt and lifeless.

Now, you can’t turn your head in a single direction without seeing an artifact of our new life. Two empty cups sit on the bedside table from the coffee I brought up earlier. Comfy, extra-large articles of clothing that I insist on sharing with Vas hang about. A brush on the vanity lies forgotten from the last time he detangled my wayward hair after the shower. Even the sage green color of these crumpled sheets was chosen specifically by him on our shopping trip, after I insisted he make the decision.

I’m not sure why, but in the unusual quiet of the room, I climb to my feet. A soft breeze whispers through the open window as I kick off my boots and turn my feet out into first position. My hand finds the wooden bedpost, fitting into my palm like the familiar grooves of a barre. There was a time when this position felt as natural as breathing, but all it takes is one experimental bend backward to realize something has changed.

My new, bulkier thigh muscles, which allow me to tackle and lift, have trouble zipping up against one another in the awkward hyper-extended position. The vanity mirror projects a strange image. My upper body doesn’t look remotely lithe and willowy anymore. There’s no way it could, with the amount of muscle I’ve packed on.

I look sturdy. Formidable, even.

The realization leaves me more confused than anything else. Muscles in the mirror flex, rippling back with foreign control. The type I was never allowed to maintain, let alone celebrate.

Maybe I don’t want to look breakable anymore.

I jump at the sound of the door’s whine. Another figure appears in the reflection, standing in the doorway with a small smile on his face.

“How was your call with your sister?” I ask, turning with a giddy feeling filling my chest. Vasiliy’s hair hangs in haphazard, inky waves over his brow, and something about it reminds me of those abstract vines tattooed across the entirety of his upper body.

My blood heats inconveniently at the memory of our kiss outside the fight club. We hold each other in sleep each night, but I think that has more to do with trauma than lust. I have both in spades, but the compulsion to wrap my body in his is fueled by something far deeper than sexual frustration. He’s given me stolen kisses and heated words, but we haven’t moved past that.

Some part of me is terrified to push the bounds of our relationship forward.

What if my issues ruin what we already have?

He’s my best friend. My closest confidante.

Losing him is not an option.

“She is very excited to meet the ballerina.” He flashes a handsome smile, but I can taste the bittersweet flavor in his words. He’s been calling Anya to check in every week, but nothing can substitute for actually visiting her.

The only problem is, once he’s in Russia, he has to answer to his uncle.

“You’ll see her soon,” I promise, stepping closer. “We’ll find a way. Maybe my dad could take a call with him and your old boss?”

He sighs, wrapping an arm around my waist with the closeness we’ve grown used to. “I’m not sure it will help at this point. They probably wrote me off as a defector the first week I disappeared from my station in New York. There’s no way word hasn’t gotten around about me being seen with your family’s syndicate.”

“I’m sorry.” My arms pull away from his neck. “This is all my fault. I got you into this mess from the start, and now everything is all fucked up. You can’t even visit your little sister.”

His hand slides over my ribs, preventing me from moving away. “None of this is your fault.”