“Not true.” She turned her head a fraction, and could see his hand on her shoulder. Not gripping, not hovering; his touch had always been a blend of respectful, but sure. Full of caring. It was his left hand – his bad hand. The back of it still bore a spiderweb scrawl of thin, silvery scars. The gunshot wounds in the forest she’d healed with one touch; she’d felt the bullets worm their way from his flesh; felt his body reknitting. But the old hurts, the ones that were already scars the first time they’d met, she’d only been able to smooth and suppress.
Her gift only worked on fresh wounds. The old ones would always be a part of him, as unshakeable as the sun lines at the corners of his eyes.
In her own selfish way, she loved the marks. They proved he was a person who’d made sacrifices; someone who, despite his stoic silence, felt deeply, and passionately.
She felt his face in her hair, the warmth of his breath against her scalp. “Deshawn said we could stay if we wanted.”
She’d already figured as much, but nodded. Anxiety tugged lightly at her stomach. She trusted Deshawn, and she was grateful for Lionheart’s help keeping Rooster safe. But. They were warriors. They weren’t the Institute, but they had a mission. Rooster was a Marine, and she was an engineered weapon. What little she’d seen of Rob Locksley, he didn’t seem the type to let resources go to waste.
No, she told herself firmly. If they asked for their help, it wouldn’t be the same. Not even a little bit.
She eased back a fraction so she could tip her head back, rest her chin on his chest and see his face. “What do you think?”
She wasn’t expecting the anguish that she found in his expression. His gaze slid away from hers and his mouth tucked in at the corners, a frown that looked restrained. “I think I can’t keep you safe.”
“Rooster.”
“So.” He shrugged, uncomfortable. “I think these people are okay. And I don’t know what else to do.”
He stood head and shoulders above her, but she wanted to gather him close and stroke his hair, soothe him as if he was a child.
She stared at him until he finally made eye contact again. “I don’t care where we are, so long as we’re together,” she told him, willing him to understand how much she meant that.
He stared at her a long moment, studying, until the little crease between his brows smoothed, and a softness stole across his stern features.
To her surprise, he lifted a hand and carefully tucked her damp hair behind her ear, callused them brushing gently across her cheek afterward, again and again.
“You came,” she said again, softer this time, the wonder and love settling over her afresh.
The tiniest smile touched his mouth. “Always.”
When he leaned down, she stood up on her toes so she could meet the kiss halfway.
46
“If I don’t go back to work, I’ll get fired,” Sasha reasoned. He gripped the doorframe between the kitchen and the living room and told himself it was just to have something to do with his hand, and not because he was swaying on his feet again.
Withdrawal, Trina had declared it, a hand pressed to his sweat-damp forehead. She’d prescribed – non-professionally, of course – plenty of rest, fluids, and foods that would be gentle on his stomach. Sasha knew that his wolf metabolism would purge his system sooner than that of a human, and that this was only temporary, but he felt terrible. Shaking from the inside out, in turns hot and then cold, nauseated and crampy.
At the kitchen stove, Nikita hummed a disagreeing sound and flipped another pancake onto the plate he held, already heaped to a level that made Sasha’s stomachache worse. “No working. Working isn’t resting.”
Sasha huffed with annoyance, and told himself the sound wasn’t as unsteady as it had been yesterday. (It was, but he refused to acknowledge the truth.) “But I missed so many days already–”
Nikita set the plate down too forcefully with a sound like it might break, and turned to face Sasha, expression carefully blank – too blank – his knuckles white where he gripped the spatula. “I said no.”
Sasha gave a truly sad excuse for a growl. “You’re not my mother.”
Something flickered in Nikita’s eyes before he doubled down on the blank impassivity. “No. She would make you borscht instead of pancakes. Like a good nurse.”
He moved with deliberate care as he set the spatula aside, moved the skillet off the eye, and took the plate to the table where a fork, napkin, and bottle of syrup already waited. He pointed at the pulled-back chair. “Come eat.”
Sasha’s stomach grumbled, even as his tongue grew thick and salty with revulsion at the idea. Instead, he folded his arms, stuck his chin out and said, “I can’t lose that job. The tips alone–”
“Shut up about the fucking job,” Nikita snapped in Russian. “You can’t even comb your hair, so I don’t want to hear one more word about the job.”
And there was the anger that Nikita had been keeping so carefully under wraps the last three days.
In the car on the drive back, and now here at home in their apartment, Nikita had been unfailingly gentle and attentive. Soft smiles and gentles touches. Offers of blankets, and socks, cool washcloths on Sasha’s overheated throat and face. He’d cooked, and puttered quietly around the apartment; the floorboards didn’t even creak when he tiptoed from one room to the next. He’d helped Sasha bathe when he was too shaky to stand upright in the shower, had washed his hair and used the much-hated hair dryer to blow it out after. He’d been as sweet and overwhelming as any mother.
He hadn’t been much like himself at all. Not once had he shown the fury Sasha knew he must feel.
It was a relief to see it now.
“I know you’re very angry,” Sasha said.
A muscle ticked in Nikita’s jaw.
“Because I was stupid enough to let myself get caught–”
“No.” Nikita sliced a hand through the air to cut him off, eyes flashing again. “I am – I am – enraged. That they hurt you. That they touched you. I’m not angry with you.”
“But…” The room titled, and Sasha didn’t think it was just the dizziness. “I was so stupid. I went off alone, and I didn’t think…”
He trailed off when Nikita let out a growl of his own, this one sharp and punched-out, forceful. “That was stupid. You were stupid. But I can’t–” He sucked in a sudden breath, and then couldn’t seem to stop.
He was hyperventilating.
He was panicking.
Oh, Nik.
Sasha pushed off from the doorframe and went clumsily around the table to throw his arms around his best friend, who was very much melting down. Sasha pressed his face into Nikita’s throat and whimpered, wondering if this was the first time since this whole ordeal began that Nikita had allowed himself to feel any way about it. Had he strapped his emotions down tight under that old black coat and put one foot in front of the other? Yes. That was his way.
“I’m sorry,” Sasha said, stroking the tense line of his back. “I’m sorry I made you worry.”
Nikita pressed his nose and lips to Sasha’s temple, his breaths short and harsh. He squeezed Sasha tight, and tried, unsuccessfully, to swallow the wounded sounds that gathered in the back of his throat.
“You take very good care of me.”
Nikita sniffed hard. Sasha felt warm, wet droplets at his hairline.
They stood that way for a long time, the morning sunlight stretching slowly across the floorboards like a lazy cat.
In a suspiciously thick voice, Nikita said, “I’ll talk to Brian. He won’t fire you.” Because he had Rasputin’s gift for persuasion, and he would use it in this case, to ensure Sasha got to keep the job he liked best.
“Thank you.” Sasha blew a warm breath against the side of his neck, gratified by the goosebumps it raised. “Help me eat the pancakes? My stomach still isn’t so good.”
Nikita made an assenting sound and let Sasha pull back.
Nikita was the last to let go.
They sat across from each other at their wobbly café table and Sasha smothered the pancakes in syrup, to which Nikita rolled his eyes. They were red-rimmed, but Sasha didn’t comment.
Instead, he said, “Tell me what happened.” Because he’d felt too poorly up ‘til now to hear the whole story.