Page 73 of Katya and the Young God

The rain from the night before has stopped, a hushed sound over the cabin in its wake, and the air is bitter cold against her face. The light from the outside is thin, watery and pale, but unmistakably daytime. Morning.

Still, she slides out from the blankets, grabbing her gun from the night table, in case it isn’t a miraculous recovery from a Demigod. In case it's someone else, someone without her permission, without her best interest in mind.

Without their best interest in mind.

Feet numb from the hardwood floor, she creeps to her bedroom door.

There’s a small sound, like someone sits down, and no further noise. No sound of the dog, no sound of anything else.

She exhales, before turning the knob.

All she sees is the back of Pieter’s head, where he leans it against the back of the ugly floral couch. Sitting up, instead of the prone position she left him in.

No one else.

Still keeping her hand on the gun, she steps in. No one in the kitchen, and Stepan’s fast asleep, stretched out in a ray of watery sunshine on the rug.

Though she makes no noise, Pieter turns his head to her. He blinks at her, as if confused at what he sees, before his eyes fall to the gun.

“Good morning,” he says, before wincing at the motion of talking.

“Didn’t expect you to be awake,” Katya says, and her own voice grates against her ears. She makes a show of clicking the safety back on, of putting the gun on the desk.

He blinks at her, his face strangely blank, before he looks down at the bandages around his bare midsection. “Did you call in a medic?”

“No, that’s all me,” she says, and doesn’t miss the look of relief on his face. “That’s far from the only stab wound I’ve had to fix.”

“I didn’t expect to wake up,” he says, instead of looking at her.

It’s too raw of a statement, and Katya shuffles to her kitchen, to her ultra-modern coffee machine that sticks out from the otherwise rustic appliances.

After such a blood-filled night, her hands shake as she scoops out enough coffee for two.

“Why’d you save me?” He asks, sudden, loud against the quiet whir of the coffee grinder.

“What sort of question is that?” Katya asks instead, staring at the smooth lines of the coffee machine.

Out of the corner of her eye, he makes a move to stand, before grimacing in pain and clearly thinking better of it. His hand presses against the bandages, gingerly, like he’s afraid his own body is going to break.

“I didn’t know I’d be going here,” he says, clearly dodging the issue, and Katya’s inclined to let him. “I just thought...if I’m going to die, might as well do it where my dog is instead of bleeding on the floor of a lab.”

“Sound life decision,” Katya says, swinging around and carrying two cups of coffee over to the couch.

He takes the cup, cradling it like it’s precious, before visibly making himself talk. “It would have been easy for you to let me die,” he whispers, his eyes lost.

“It would have been easy for you to pick me for the human sacrifice,” she tosses back. “I don’t just let people die.” She sits down, avoiding the large bloodstain the best she can. “Especially when they don’t give me nearly enough information on how to help someone else.”

He fixes her with a cool look, the sort of haughty look that she would expect from a Demigod, not from someone who nearly bled out on her couch.

But if the year of experience with Iakov has taught her anything, it’s that Demigods only hide behind that veneer when they’re deeply, deeply insecure about something.

So she holds the eye contact, not backing down, not shying away. He’s in her space, he’s holding her coffee mug, he bled on her couch.

He kissed her.

She’s sure as hell not gonna back down to that.

After a moment, he just raises an eyebrow, and she raises one back.

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