Page 76 of Sexting the Pakhan

“Do you ever agree without making it ominous?”

“No.”

I hate that I smile.

I hate that he sees.

We walk farther. The water comes close enough once to wash over my toes, and I yelp at the cold. Ruslan catches my elbow even though I’m not falling. His hand stays there a second too long.

I look up at him. He looks down at me.

The beach is empty except for us and the men behind us.

For a second, I think he might kiss me there, with the wind and the waves and my feet half-buried in wet sand.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he says, “The man who made you smaller was a fool.”

My throat tightens so suddenly I almost hate him for it. “That’s a very neat conclusion.”

“It’s an accurate one.”

“You didn’t even know me then.”

“I know you now.”

I look away because that’s too much. Too simple. Too steady. My life is still in ruins, and this man is still dangerous, and wanting him has not become less insane just because he can say one good thing at the right time.

But I keep walking beside him.

That night, he shows up in my room.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask.

“I sleep better naked,” he replies, taking his shirt off.

He’s on me before the laugh fully leaves my mouth, one hand braced beside my head, his weight settling over me with that careful heaviness I’ve started craving.

The sex that night is different. Less frantic at first. He lets me touch him more. Lets me explore the hard planes of his chest, the old scars across his ribs, the faint roughness of his jaw under my palm. I ask about one scar near his shoulder.

“Knife,” he says.

I ask about another near his side.

“Bullet.”

I stop touching him.

He catches my hand and puts it back on his skin. “Old,” he says.

Like that makes it okay. Like the history of violence carved into him is just a list of closed files. I kiss the bullet scar because I don’t know what else to do.

His whole body goes still. Then he says my name in a voice I feel between my thighs.

After that, there’s no more talking for a while.

There are flashes of the days like that, pieces that don’t line up into anything sensible.