“But nothing,” Nikita said, finding some firm ground at last. Protectiveness he could do. Looking after Sasha, shielding him. He twisted in the booth, so they faced one another fully, and put a hand on Sasha’s shoulder, tight enough that his knuckles turned white, but Sasha didn’t flinch away from the touch.
“Sashka, listen to me.”
Sasha’s eyes widened.
“Whatever this war is, whatever those people” – he stabbed a finger toward the empty side of the booth across from them – “want to fight: that isn’t our business. It isn’t our fight. We lived through our war.” Flashes of memory: blood on snow, the cry of ravens, the stench of burned hair. “It took its pound of flesh, and we don’t owe anyone anything. Do you hear me? Not a thing.”
He was panting through an open mouth, head swimming, heart hammering. Drowning in Sasha’s gaze.
Finally, Sasha blinked and turned his head away; nodded, hair slipping loose from behind his ear and swinging forward to shield his face. “That’s the thing about war, though,” he said, still soft. “It has a way of sweeping people up, whether they want to fight or not.”
It did, didn’t it? That was how Sasha had come into his life, after all. A war had sent him speeding across the wilds of Siberia on a train, bound to collect an innocent boy so he could be turned into a weapon.
Nikita swallowed down the urge to be sick and withdrew his hand.
“You should eat,” Sasha murmured. “And then we’ll go home.”
~*~
He managed to choke down the sandwich, helped along by another glass of vodka. After, he could at least walk home on his own two feet, even if he did stagger a few times, and catch himself against a mailbox, once. He let Sasha worry about unlocking their apartment door when they got there.
He went to the couch, and all but fell on it, exhausted, and weary in a way that had nothing to do with a lack of food.
“Don’t stay there,” Sasha said, relocking the door and going to the kitchen. “You need to lie down.”
Nikita tipped his head back and closed his eyes; listened to the rattle of things moving around in the fridge.
“The shaking will be worse this time.” Ice cubes falling in a glass. “You’ll need more sugar, I think. Where is – ah, there. Hold on.”
Footsteps. And then a sigh. Something landed softly on the table, and then Sasha came close and knelt at his feet. Plucked at Nikita’s boot laces.
Nik cracked his eyes open; his vision was blurred, but he could see the glass of Sprite on the table, the box of crackers, and he could definitely see Sasha unlacing his boots.
A lump formed in his throat. “Don’t.”
“No.” Sasha sounded not just tired, but exasperated. “I’m done with that.” He tugged one boot free and reached for the laces of the other.
“But,” Nik started.
“Shut up.” Sasha made it sound sweet, but he was firm.
Nikita closed his mouth and waited. Perhaps the first smart thing he’d done all night.
Sasha pulled the other boot off, and then set them neatly beneath the coffee table. He stood, and collected the Sprite and crackers. “Wait here,” he said, with the air of a command, and went to Nikita’s bedroom, flipping on lights as he went.
Nik stared up at the ceiling, throat tight when he tried to swallow. I won’t use you, he’d said earlier. And here he sat, utterly useless. A burden.
Sasha would be better off with other wolves – with immortals like Will Scarlet, with a job, and a pack, and…
And away from Nik. Possessive, and needy, and standoffish.
“You’re thinking something stupid, aren’t you?”
“Mm.”
“Come on.” Warm, familiar hands touched his own, and Nik opened his eyes to see Sasha studying him with fierce tenderness, a wrinkle of concern pressed between his brows. “Let’s get to bed.”
Nikita stood, shakily, letting Sasha pull him upright. A sound built in his throat – low and distressed – and he swallowed it down. “I can walk.”
“I know you can.” But Sasha looped an arm around his waist and helped him along anyway.
In the bedroom, the small, dim lamp burned on the nightstand, the one that wouldn’t hurt his eyes too badly after feeding. Nik had hurried out of the room earlier, on the way to work, leaving his blankets in a crumpled heap at the foot of the bed. In just the last few minutes, Sasha had straightened the covers, folded them back neatly; had even emptied the ashtray, and left his smokes and lighter within easy reach. Beside the Sprite, and the crackers, laid out on a clean plate.
Nik shut his eyes, fighting a sudden, overwhelming urge to cry. He’d pushed Sasha away last night, and here lay such simple kindnesses; such automatic, complete care.
He drew in a shuddering breath.
“Lie down,” Sasha said, gently, voice right in Nik’s ear. He urged him toward the bed, and Nikita didn’t fight it this time. He couldn’t.
He lied down as slow and stiff as an old man, on his back. When his head landed on the pillow, it reinforced just how drained he was. Not merely tired, or low on sleep, but flirting with a true vampire sleep. The kind of deep, coma state that needed a wolf’s blood to wake the sleeper.
Just as his sire, Rasputin, had needed.
The thought chilled him to the bone.
Sasha toed off his own boots, and tugged off his shirt, launching it across the room and into the hamper, neat as a three-point shot.
Nikita stared. He could have blamed it on his condition, his oncoming swoon, but that wasn’t it. He’d been staring – stealing glimpses, looking too long, wanting – for decades now.
In the soft glow of lamplight, Sasha looked carved from marble. Pale, and sculpted with lean muscle, shoulder-length hair ruffled from his shirt. His eyes glowed, gem-bright in the dimness. He met Nikita’s gaze, and offered a smile, heartbreaking in its sincerity, in the way it was touched with sadness.
He was beautiful.
Nikita loved him more than anything. He ached.
He swallowed with difficulty, fangs already elongating. “I’m sorry, Sashka.”
“You should be.” Sasha climbed onto the bed beside him, kneeling at his hip, close enough for his heat and scent to wrap around Nik, and comfort him. But he wanted him closer; there was no such thing as close enough. “The next time you try to starve yourself when I’m perfectly healthy and–”
“No,” Nik said, and Sasha went still. “I’m sorry for everything.”
After a moment, Sasha exhaled; his face twitched into a complicated expression, pained at the edges. “Everything is a lot.” He shifted closer; put a hand on Nik’s shoulder, swung a leg over his hips, and leaned down. Delicious warmth and slight weight, bearing him down into the mattress, blanketing him. “Now, hush.” He tipped his head, shook his hair back out of the way, and brought his throat right up to Nikita’s mouth. “Drink.”
He spoke calmly, soothingly, but his heart raced where it beat wildly against Nik’s chest; his breath hitched as their ribcages swelled against one another.
Nikita wanted to touch his face, to tip his chin down, and lock their gazes, and tell him everything. But his gaze latched onto the stretch of pale throat before him, the visible throb of the pulse there. Safe, warm, with his wolf, blood offered….