We watched each other closely, and when my expression fell, Vik’s turned sullen.
I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing, simply brushing my fingers against his as I swept past him and opened the door to the pantry.
Mina took one look at me, and her brows rose to her damn hairline. “Oh.”
Great. I looked that good, huh?
My cheeks heating, I ran a hand over my hair and refused to look at her. “So, I’m just gonna go.”
“Uh huh,” she muttered distractedly, inspecting me without shame.
And just because I wanted to avoid a situation, I slunk out the back door, just as Mina said, “Wow, Vik. Just wow.”
I didn’t wait to hear his response. I just needed to get out of there as quickly as possible.
I was moister than an oyster, horny as hell, and I needed to do something about that.
Call it self-care.
2
Nastasia
I woke in the morning with the strangest feeling I dreamed it all. I mean, I knew I hadn’t. I wore the evidence right there on my skin. The marks on my back from being thrown up against a wall, the slight beard rash on my chin, along with semi-swollen lips were more than enough to convict.
It happened, all right.
Confirmed twice over when I checked the text Vik sent me at 11:00 p.m.
Vik: We good?
It was the first time we’d connected via phone in almost two months.
I wondered if I should text back or not. Opening the line of communication was a dangerous thing for us. We could go from zero to a hundred real quick.
If history was ever to repeat itself, a single text could change everything.
My body felt light, having found my release for the second time that night, and I panted, throwing down my vibrator before checking my phone. My stomach tightened as I stared at the open screen, and because I was mildly satiated, I ran my legs over my silk sheets, savoring the feel of them as I texted back.
Me: Of course.
His response was immediate.
Vik: Good.
I should not have engaged, but hell, I was only human. Like an addict, I was already itching to text him back, but if I had proven anything to myself over the last few months, it was that I was stronger than I gave myself credit for, even if that strength was costing me my happiness momentarily. A heavy sadness went through me as I placed my phone on the nightstand and attempted to sleep, but it was difficult.
A mile a minute, my brain ran with thoughts, and while I tried to calm, unsurprisingly, they had the opposite effect.
The thought of him alone in his bed with nothing but me on his mind had my body turning restless. My mind took me back to the pantry scene, and, sweet Jesus, the harsh angles of his face had my legs squeezing together tightly, a dull throb below my belly. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut through diamond. A strong jaw that just begged to be nibbled. There was something endearing about that slightly crooked nose, one that had clearly taken a hit a time or two in the past. The heaviness of his brow gave him an air of being perpetually pissed off, but his sapphire-like eyes seemed to soften that part of him. His stance was one of cool conviction, almost an air of nobility to his gait. And those lips—ugh—full and lush and inviting, with a thin scar running through the left side of them.
I had kissed that scar a thousand times, and I ached to kiss it a thousand more.
Vik exposed a nerve I buried deep inside me.
Worst of all, he unlocked the box I’d buried even deeper than those feelings, where a single ember of hope still burned. So, when I received another message ten minutes later, my stomach knotted in anticipation.
Vik: Not gonna apologize, because I don’t regret it.
I read it once and again, then closed my eyes and groaned quietly, mock crying. With a sigh, I blew out a breath and muttered, “Of course you don’t, you beautiful bastard.”
It was such a defiant, bold response that I couldn’t help the smile that tipped my lips. The reply was purely Vik, brazen and insolent. My smile stretched wider. He was a fighter. Always had been. It was something that was ingrained in his very being.
A memory came out of nowhere, taking me back to the night that changed everything.
Nastasia
Age 17
The music blared, and every time the bass hit, I felt it everywhere. My heart pounded along to the beat, and I closed my eyes, swaying away to the song, feeling light and breezy. Not surprising, as I was six beers in.
Sounds of laughter, singing, and conversation surrounded us. Teens took up space on the sofa, passing along the one blunt they managed to get their hands on. Girls and guys danced too close to each other, alcohol lowering their every inhibition. Girls sat on the laps of their boyfriends with a sweet smile, as if we all couldn’t see hands sliding under skirts and moving in a way that promised pleasure.
And Anika stood by my side, sipping from her red cup, looking miserable.
She looked miserable a lot lately, but every time I brought it up, she would try her best to convince me she was fine. I left it alone, knowing she would tell me when she was ready.
Look, I was not the type to attend high school house parties, but Anika was a cheerleader, so a handful of times a year, I would make an effort to show my friend that I accepted that side of her and do my best to mingle with her preppy friends, even though they secretly made me want to barf.
Talk about shallow waters. The “like” girls was what I called them, because they, like, spoke like this.
It was only 9:00 p.m., and I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d last. The only way to get through these parties was to drink enough to get blitzed, and I was already halfway to fucked up. It was easy to tell, because I was actually having fun.
Lucky for me, Anika actually cared about her mind and body, and she never drank more than a single beer, leaving me free to let loose, knowing she would be watching me closely. She was a good friend.
Anika sighed, scanning the room with a pout. “I’m so bored.”
I was before, but now, I was not. Dancing on the spot to a beat only I seemed to hear, I moved my hips slowly, turning to face her. I hated to see her so glum.
I was going to fix that.
The only reason I offered what I did was because I was happily buzzed. “Let’s dance.”
“Really?” Anika’s face lit up. I did not dance at parties. Ever. She, of course, knew better than to give me a moment to think about it. Putting down her drink so fast it spilled, she took my hand. “Let’s go.”
The blatant change in her demeanor made it worth it though. I smiled as she led me to the center of the crowd, and she moved so fluidly to the music that I quietly understood why Anika did what she did. Dance was simply a part of who she was. An extension of her soul.
When we were five, I was making mud pies and secretly sniffing markers. Anika wanted to be a ballerina. She twirled and stretched and begged her mother to learn how to French braid so she could wear the most intricate of ballet buns. She stood on the tips of her toes, and even at that age, she was committed.
Meanwhile, I had no commitments to anything.
I went to almost every performance of hers, and Anika was amazing. She had the ability to make you feel things with her effortless movement.
I never understood why she quit.
But she always did some type of dance. She moved on to jazz, then contemporary, and when her school workload started to rise, she settled for cheerleading. It wasn’t dance exactly, but she enjoyed it, and that was all that mattered.