Page 9 of Break Me Open
Niko spots me and grins. “Ari!” he calls. “We were just talking about you.”
I drop onto the bench beside him and set my tray down with a thud. “Ty vryosh,” I say.You’re lying.“You were talking about yourself. You just happened to use my name.”
“Oh look, he can detect bullshit. We’re saved,” he snorts. “Caiden, Ari is the reason I have permanent stress headaches.”
“Varrik,” I greet him dryly. Varrik’s posture straightens, and his expression flicks from relaxed to formal.
“Sergeant,” he says with a nod. “Your brother’s been very efficient.”
Niko makes a small, pleased noise. “You hear that?” he says under his breath in Russian. “Efficient. That’s better than ‘pain in the ass,’ I’ll take it.”
“Don’t get cocky,” I reply. “He’s British. For them, that’s practically a love confession.”
Niko smirks, then switches back to English. “Don’t let him scare you off, Caiden,” he says. “He’s only dangerous if you’re stupid.”
“Or if you’re boring,” I add.
Varrik’s mouth quirks. “I’ll... try to avoid both, then.”
I stab a forkful of potato and immediately regret it; it tastes like wall insulation. “The kitchen staff should be court-martialled,” I announce.
“That’s rich,” Niko replies, “from a man who once ate tinned fish that expired before I was born.”
“Expired dates are a capitalist conspiracy,” I say. “This is a war crime.” Varrik huffs a tiny laugh. Good. I prefer to see what people do when they let their guard down.
They slip into easy chatter. Training rotations, mutual complaining about the cold, then a story about some idiot in B Company who tripped over his own rifle and sprained his ego. I eat just enough that no one nags me, all while watching the way Varrik’s eyes move.
When Niko talks, Varrik looks at him like he’s listening with his whole body. It’s not obvious, but there’s that attentive tilt. The kind that says ‘you’re important data, don’t miss anything,’ and it bothers me.
“Problem?” Niko asks lightly.
“The cook is a criminal,” I say. He nudges my knee under the bench. ‘Behave.’ “For the record,” I tell Varrik, “he’s only efficient because they never promoted him high enough for the power to go to his head.”
“Keep talking, I’ll put you on latrine duty.” Varrik’s lips quirk into a smile that he tries to hide, and fails.
After a moment, Niko stands abruptly, scraping his chair back. “Coffee,” he declares. “Before I have to listen to another minute of you complaining like a bitter old woman.”
“Who’s complaining?” I ask.
Niko rolls his eyes. “Want some?” he asks us both.
“Yes,” I say reflexively.
Varrik shakes his head. “I’m fine, sir.”
“Suit yourself,” Niko shrugs, wandering off toward the urns. And just like that, we’re alone at the table — well, alone in the middle of a noisy hall full of men, which is practically private by military standards.
I curl my hands around my mug, even though the coffee’s cold. “You stare too much,” I say conversationally.
“Sergeant?”
“You watch people. A lot,” I say blandly.
“I’m trained to be aware of my surroundings,” he says, swallowing hard.
“That’s the official answer. But your awareness is... selective.” I flick my gaze to Niko’s empty chair, then back.
“I wasn’t—”
