Page 6 of Break Me Open
He catches my eye over his shoulder and gives me a tiny nod. I roll my eyes back at him, just enough for him to see. Yes, I’m here. No, I’m not behaving, same as always.
My gaze drifts past him back to the new cluster of uniforms. There’s one that draws my eye. Short dark hair clipped too neatly — like it’s constantly bullied into regulation —and broad shoulders underneath the greenish-brown of their kit.
He stands like he’s permanently braced for impact, weight slightly forward, but his hands don’t fidget, which is interesting. Most men hold still with their bodies and give everything away with their fingers. This one’s hands are calm; it’s the rest of him that looks like it wants to vibrate off the floor.
He’s not at the centre of their little pack, but he’s not hanging off the edge either. The other soldiers keep glancing at him, not their sergeant.
I note that for later.
The projector hums and spits light onto the peeling white screen as our CO clears his throat and launches into liaison structures, interoperability, and how privileged we all are to suffer through joint drills together. The translator near him murmurs into a mic for the Brits, but I don’t need the translation; my English is fine, my patience is not.
“...Lance Corporal Varrik will be heading up the tech integration from the British side,” the CO says in Russian, then again in slow, careful English. My attention sharpens the second his name is out of the CO’s mouth. Varrik doesn’t move when he’s introduced.
“My pleasure, sir,” he says in English. His voice is lower than I expected, slightly gravelly in fact. He doesn’t glance back at me, which is good. Someone’s given him a briefing on the scary Russian at the back, apparently, or he’s just got good instincts and hates showing interest.
Both options are annoying.
So, that’s his name. Niko mentioned Varrik once in an email, very casually — which is how I know he was excited. ‘A new smart guy, overthinks everything, and will either be someone you like or someone you eat alive. Hard to say which.’
I hum under my breath and let my eyes wander over him again. His profile is sharp, nose straight, jaw angled like it’s been clenched since birth, and his mouth set in a neutral line that reads more like default concentration than practised blankness.
Now and then, his eyes flick sideways in a quick scan, counting exits, cataloguing who’s paying attention, and who’s trying not to yawn. He looks like someone who thinks three steps ahead and hates himself because it’s not five.
I could work with that.
The briefing crawls by into routes, call signs, and radio protocols. The British sergeant mangles three major Russian place names in a row, and everyone politely pretends not to wince.
I run my brain in layers, taking everything in.
Top layer: operational details, just enough that if someone asks me later, I can parrot it back with added sarcasm.
Second layer: bodies in the room, who stands too close to whom, who’s already decided they hate this cooperation project, and who keeps glancing at the clock.
Final layer: the neat, dark-haired Lance Corporal who keeps not looking at me.
“Questions?” the CO asks, and the usual half-hearted murmurs follow. Another sergeant asks something about training rotations; the translator fumbles a verb; someone writes down the wrong coordinate, and I watch Niko silently lean over and correct it without making a thing of it. Varrik says nothing and keeps his mouth shut.
Eventually, mercifully, we’re dismissed. Chairs scrape, paper rustles, and bodies shift back into their usual places now that the performance is over. Niko is immediately swallowed by three people who ‘just have one tiny thing’ to go over. Hegives me a helpless little shrug, and I pull a face back. Translation: your fault for being popular.
The Brits start peeling off as a group and then fate — or the floor plan, or whatever — makes a choice I approve of. Niko breaks free from his little crowd, turns, and intercepts them, falling into step beside the neat Lance Corporal like they do this all the time.
I watch them walk toward the back of the room, which, unfortunately for them, means towards me.
Niko spots me loitering by the wall and grins.
Perfect.
“Ars!” he calls, like there’s only one Arseny in the world. “Come meet the poor bastard I’ve been making run comms drills all week.”
My eye twitches at “Ars.” I let it slide, for now.
The Brits go a little more rigid when they realise I’m the target. Except Varrik. He continues his trajectory while the rest of his friends shuffle away. Niko drifts to a stop just in front of me, and I remove myself from the wall. “Sergeant Arseny Zakirov,” Niko says to Varrik with the bright, easy warmth he uses on terrified privates and generals alike. “My brother.”
Then, in Russian, under his breath so it barely moves his lips: “Vedi sebya.”Behave yourself.I bare my teeth at him in something that might pass for a smile.
“Ya vsegda vedu sebya khorosho.”I always behave.He snorts, already half-turning away as someone calls his name from the front. “Play nice,” he throws over his shoulder, then peels off back into the crowd.
And just like that, he leaves the British Lance Corporal alone with me.
