Page 39 of Breaking Away

I try rubbing out the marks.

When they don’t immediately disappear, I open my mouth to apologize. Sincerely, I’m wincing over what I’ve done. Regret bloats my stomach. “I can’t believe I?—”

He stills my fussing by circling my wrist with his fingers.

“Sorry I-I …”

“Look at me, Basra.”

It’s a tone that compels obedience. Flat, direct, and quiet.

Reluctantly, I do. With the sun coming in and slanting over his face, it’s as if his eyes are pure gold. They search mine. When I try turning away, his fingers hold my chin. “Why do I hate the sound of them?”

“Of what?” I’m whispering, but I don’t know why.

“Your apologies.”

It’s a ridiculous thing to say. “But I’ve hurt you.”

“This?” He holds up his hand. “Did you forget I’m a hockey player, Basra? My whole body is a bruise.”

“Yes, but I don’t like to cause you—anyone pain.”

“I’m aware, Princess.” His tone is sardonic. “But I’m a man who doesn’t mind scratches.” For a second, I think I see his eyes drop to my mouth. “Give me your marks. I’ll wear them.”

That statement…

My brain stops working.

And suddenly I’m thrown back to high school, to that night of prom. I think he’d said something similar after I’d vomited on his shoes…

“I don’t care to hear your apologies, Basra. Stop giving them to me.”

“But I ruined your prom?—”

“Don’t care, Princess.”

Was that when he mockingly called me a princess for the first time—or am I projecting what I want to hear? As if there’s a tangible connection between teenage Dmitri and the grown man rescuing me again today.

My heart thumps as if knocking for attention. Warmth spreads over my cheeks. He really can’t mean what he is claiming. That he’ll bear my… marks?

Tyler hated public displays of affection. There were days I felt like his assistant more than his fiancé. But Dmitri? He doesn’t care if his team notices what I did to his hand? And he doesn’t care if his team is giving him shit for holding back the plane forme? Or about all those extra questions he has to answer because I’m with him?

This must be what it feels like to be a top-performing hockey player. He doesn’t care about anything. Other opinions don’t matter.

I wonder…

Can I ever get to that point?

No, Kavi. You have to be a top-performing… something… for that to happen.

I turn away from Lokhov. My head rests against the window.

“Hey.” His voice is firm.

I glance sideways at him.

“Are you okay holding your camera?”

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