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And it had been, for a long time.
It was a part of her life in myriad ways; it meant more to Mila than a mere career might to anybody else. Skating had been the one thing she shared with her mother. She’d been responsible for her mother’s career ending, but every time Mila was on the ice, she felt as though she were doing something important, something her mother deserved. She skated because she loved it, but it was impossible to discern how much of that love came from the sport and how much came from a place of sadness—grief that her mother had resented her, even when she’d loved Mila, grief that her mother hadn’t been able to continue skating once Mila had been born. Sadness that her mother was no longer here to see Mila perform.
She stretched for half an hour, testing her ankle more and more. It gave a dull throb from time to time, but no sharp bursts of pain, nothing to worry her. Excitement began to hum in her bloodstream even as other thoughts shifted and took hold.
If she were better, staying here would become less justifiable. She’d simply be hiding, running, and she didn’t want to do that. Particularly not when running meant sheltering with Leonidas, who every moment was taking over a part of her mind and soul. Her heart?
She pushed the thought away with angry vehemence.
She had no heart. It wasn’t permitted. She’d been alone a long time, and she would continue to be, because the alternative was to open herself up to someone, to love someone in a way that might derail her just as her mother had been.
Her professional success was all she needed.
It was generally accepted that Mila Maxwell was the hardest working figure skater on the circuit. She trained at least twice what was considered the norm. She ran for fitness and health, and when she wasn’t on the ice, she was practicing either her dance routines or her gymnastics floor workout, both of which had been choreographed by world leaders to keep her nimble for figure skating. She also swam, and practiced some of her moves under water, to help with fluidity and timing without the high impact of other more aerobic workouts.
There was no ice rink here, but the alternative exercises were available to her. Grinding her teeth against another throb in the region of her ankle, she played one of her songs in her mind, listening to it for a moment before she began to move, modifying the routine slightly as she went, to remove the likelihood of renewed ankle injury.
It was like being rolled on the breeze. She felt the motions in her core, shifting effortlessly in time with the silent soundtrack, reminding her arms how it felt to react to the beat, her body to roll, closing her eyes and imagining the familiar feeling of gliding, of the ice-cold atmosphere against her exercise-warmed skin, the crowd’s silence and then collective gasp, and applause, the feeling of success and completion. She moved with the wind at her back, memories firing through her; she moved as she’d been born to, the skills innate, her destiny unquestionable. But her body had other memories, memories that fragmented her focus, that would flash into her mind and make her shiver, or gasp. The fevered, desperate way they’d come together, the pleasure he’d given her again and again, his body so great at anticipating her needs, at making her wild with need then answering her wants, over and over.
She trembled just remembering, and then, remembering wasn’t enough. She wanted him again, with a force that shocked her, that made her angry, too, because she couldn’t allow him to shift her focus.
With renewed determination, she moved, her ankle twinging a bit now. She ignored that as well, blotting out pain, Leo and most of all, any promise of pleasure.
The ringingof his phone woke him from the most searingly hot dream, but on waking, he realized it wasn’t a dream so much as a collection of memories, a string of recollections, hot and passionate, that made him reach out, looking for skin, to connect with Mila’s naked flesh.
Only she was gone, and the realization brought a frown to his face.
The phone continued to ring and with impatience, and barely a hint of his focus, he answered.
“Xenakis.”
“You know, if every single one of your brothers and mine answers the phone that way, the greeting begins to lose a hint of specificity.”
“Cora.” Usually, he had all the time in the world for Cora, the sole female in their line of Xenakis, the only woman in a sea of Xenakis men, but today, his mind was completely focused on Mila, and why she wasn’t in bed beside him. He threw off the cover, his body hard, his mind singularly focused as he reached for a pair of boxers and pulled them on.
“Yes,” Cora drawled. “How are you?” The softening of her voice pulled at his heart and a lump formed in his throat. He swallowed past it.
“Fine. You?”
“Leo,” she sighed. “I mean it. How are you really?”
Guilt chased grief. Guilt that he wasn’t thinking more of Konstantinos, and the void that would be left in their lives. Was he using Mila purely as a distraction? To push away his sadness? That was what he’d thought initially, but now, he wasn’t so sure. Last night hadn’t been about distraction, though hell, it had worked. He’d felt a thousand things though, and all of them revolved purely around Mila.
Nonetheless, the void was there, low in his gut, a part of him now, whether he thought of it or not. The world had changed shape; there was no denying that.
“I’ll survive.”
He could practically hear her wheels spinning. “Thanasi’s been asking about you.”
Leo shook his head. “We spoke yesterday.”
“He’s worried.”
“Thanasi can’t help but worry. It’s his default setting.”
Leo moved to the window and looked out of it distractedly, eyes on the vines to the west, the hue of the sky, an emptiness inside of him splitting open.
“I told him I’ll go home, soon.”
