Page 48 of Break Me Open
By midday, I’m strung so tight I could probably be used as an antenna. The lack of reaction is somehow worse than if he’d sauntered up mid-briefing and whispered something filthy in my ear. He kissed me back, shook my entire internal architecture loose, and now he’s acting like it was just another episode of ‘how much can I fuck with the visiting Brit.’ Which, yeah. It probably was.
The rational part of my brain — the small, exhausted, and apparently on fire part — tries to use that as fuel. It’s good that he’s not making it a thing. That makes it easier to forget. You can move on. Let it go, I tell my brain. The rest of me doesn’t want to move on, one part specifically.
By the time afternoon comes, I’ve made a decision. Pretending nothing happened isn’t working. Ignoring him? Impossible. So instead of trying to dodge the fire, I’m going to walk straight into it. On my own terms. It’s a terrible plan. Iknow it’s a terrible plan. But it’s the only one I can look straight at without my stomach doing backflips.
I catch one of the Russian corporals I’ve been working with, Yuri... something, loud laugh, terrible English, good with wiring, as we’re packing away gear.
“Armoury,” I say, tapping his clipboard and then myself. “Inventory check? British weapons. Before the next joint exercise.” He squints, but the idea of extra bureaucracy seems to satisfy something in him. He rattles off a stream of Russian that I mostly assume means “yeah, fine, whatever, you love paperwork, go for it,” and waves me toward the building with the weapons stores.
I know Ari’s rotation. I check the board every morning. He’s due to sign out some kit for his own squad training in about half an hour. Which is plenty of time for me to get in there first and work out what the hell I’m going to say.
The armoury is cooler than the rest of the base. The Russian quartermaster on duty logs me in with a grunt, barely looking up from his ledger. He doesn’t give a shit why I’m here as long as I don’t shoot myself in the foot in his domain.
Rows of racked rifles line the walls. Holsters, webbing, and cleaning kits, all labelled boxes and stacked neatly. It’s weirdly soothing, all that order and potential violence. I do a few actual checks, just so I’m not entirely lying.
What am I going to say? ‘Hey, remember the other night when you rearranged my entire sense of self and then left calmly like you’d just demonstrated a field strip? Wanna chat about that?’ No. ‘What the fuck was that?’ Better. Shorter. It has the benefit of sounding like anger.
Heavy footsteps approach down the corridor outside. Even before I properly hear them, some part of me knows it’s him. My heart kicks hard and my palms go slick. I wipe themdiscreetly on my trousers and pretend to be engrossed in checking the bolt of an AK that isn’t mine.
The door creaks open, but I don’t turn around. I hear the quartermaster grunt something, and there’s the low rumble of Ari’s voice speaking Russian. I hear the scrape of a ledger being moved, the clink of keys, then, “Lance Corporal,” my name in his mouth is one thing. My rank in that tone is another.
I look up, then over. He’s in his fatigues, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and dog tags glinting in the harsh light. “Arseny,” I say, before I can talk myself out of it.
There’s a tiny shift, and one eyebrow lifts in amusement. He steps past the quartermaster’s little desk as the older man shuffles into a back room, muttering about inventory. Now it’s just us among the guns. “How’s your paperwork?” he asks casually, like we’re in the mess hall, and not standing on top of the grenade I’ve brought in. “Productive?” he adds.
I know he remembers me using the word, and the fact that he can pull shit like that out of his mental filing cabinet makes me want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure. “What the fuck was that?” I snap, ripping it straight out and throwing it on the floor between us.
“You’ll have to narrow it down, detka,” he says. “I do many questionable things.”
“The other night,” I bite out. “Behind the shed. You—”
“Ah,” he says softly. “That.” He leans back against the nearest rack, crossing his arms over his chest. “You didn’t like it?” he asks, like he already knows the answer. “You didn’t sound like you didn’t like it.”
“That’s not the point,” I snap, heat flaring up my neck. “You can’t just do that and pretend that nothing happened. Like it’s some fucking... experiment.”
He considers for a second; his grey eyes are sharp and unreadable. “What would you have preferred?” he asks. “That Ifuck you against the fence the first time I put my mouth on you? Very romantic, Caiden. Your British films have lied to you.”
My breath stutters and the image hits so vividly that I have to grip the edge of the steel table beside me. “That’s not—” I start.
“What?” he says, pushing off the rack, closing the distance by two lazy steps. “Not regulation? Not in the handbook? You could write a memo. ‘Dear Sergeant Zakirov, please refrain from kissing me unless you intend to fill out form seventeen-b afterwards.’”
He’s too close now. The smell of him threads through the cold armoury air and wraps around my brain. “You think this is funny?” I grind out.
“A little. You’re very cute when you’re furious, detka.”
“You messed with my head,” I say, quieter now. “You’ve been messing with it since I got here, and then you...” I break off, my jaw clenching hard enough, I feel a crack. “You don’t get to do that,” I finish pathetically. “Not when...”
“Not when what?” he murmurs. “Not when you might like it?” His voice dips low. “Not when it might mean something?”
He takes one more step. My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my fingertips. “I’m not—” I start. The old, ingrained words try to climb out.I’m not like that. It’s not like that. It was a mistake.They won’t come because he’s standing right there, and we both know they’d be lies. He watches my face like it’s a mission brief, every micro-expression logged and analysed. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” I mutter.
“I don’t want you to say anything,” he says. “I want you to decide what you want. Then either walk away or don’t.”
Simple. Like it’s not the hardest fucking thing anyone’s ever put on my shoulders. “If I walk away?” I ask.
“Then I’ll find someone else to play with,” he says lightly, lifting a shoulder. “I get bored easily.”
It’s a provocation, and I know it. I feel the spike of jealousy all the same; it’s fucking infuriating. Even the thought of him backing someone else into some dark corner, then saying their name the way he said mine, puts a sour taste in my mouth. “And if I don’t?” I ask.
