Page 12 of Golden Eagle

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“Nik.” Sasha thought he did a decent job of keeping his voice even. “What are you doing?”

They stood at the sinks in the men’s room, still at the club, the lurid blue neon shining down on the black tile of the floor and walls, and rendering Nikita’s normally-pale complexion downright ghastly. He cupped water in his palms, splashed it on his face, and used his wet hands to slick his hair back off his forehead. Skin pallid, the bags beneath his eyes dark as bruises, he looked sick. He couldn’t have eaten at any point in the past twelve hours, and the only blood he’d had for weeks had been pig – and that sparingly. Small sips from the same pint out of the fridge that couldn’t possibly be good anymore.

Nikita braced his hands on the edge of the sink and stared at his own reflection a moment, water dripping off his chin, darkening the chest of his plain black t-shirt. He’d put his jacket on, the soft, faded denim one with the Romanov patch, the one whose collar Sasha liked to scent out of instinct. Ready to leave the club; ready to go out front and meet the woman he’d told to wait for them.

Sasha’s heart knocked hard against his ribs. “Nikita,” he tried again. “This is a bad idea.”

Nik turned to look at him then, finally, his gaze eerily flat. “It was your idea,” he said, with a note of accusation.

“Yes.” Nikita must be able to hear his pulse, the awful throbbing of it, so forceful it hurt, made it hard to breathe. “I thought that you might…you’ve been very…” He didn’t want to say it, the words foul-tasting on the back of his tongue.

“It was your idea,” Nikita repeated, firmer, jaw clenched tight. “You want to have some fun? Want me to show you the ropes?”

He could see it all too vividly: clothes crumpled on the floor, a tangle of sweaty limbs, and the scent and sound of someone who wasn’t pack, who wasn’t even a friend, in Nik’s bed. In the place where Sasha offered his throat, and held his best friend as shivers wracked him; where they clung, and swallowed down things they should have said seventy-seven years ago.

Nikita had a woman every now and then, and, occasionally, a man, his jaw always tight afterward, like it was now. But Sasha was never there for that. He would send him off with a shaky smile, and a sip of blood, wanting to ensure that he stayed well in control of himself, that he didn’t do anything he’d regret.

But now Nik wanted them to be together. To take that woman home. To–

He swallowed convulsively against a surge of bile in his throat. He was madly, desperately afraid for that to happen, and he didn’t even know why.

(Don’t you, though?a mocking voice in the back of his mind asked.You know.)

“It’s been weeks since you fed properly,” he said, aiming for reasonable, though his voice trembled. “If you want to – want to go home with her. Just. Let me feed you, first.” He reached to unzip his jacket with an unsteady hand. Adrenaline chased through him, chilling him. He didn’t want to send him off, no –stay, please, just come home and stay with me, and talk to me, and let me touch you again, he wanted to say. But he wanted to be fed from, so badly; wanted the heat and weight of bodies pressed flush together, the prick of the fangs, Nik’s breath hot as it fanned across his skin, as he panted, greedy –needingSasha. He wanted to be needed.

“I’m not feeding from you,” Nikita said, turning away, head hanging down between his shoulders. Hands bloodless where he gripped the sink. Wet hair flopping back over his forehead. He looked at the verge of something – smelled like it, too. Tense, and frantic, and sweating.

“Nikita, you need–”

“I saidno!”

Sasha reeled back. The words, the tone, hit him like a slap. “Why not?”

Nikita breathed raggedly, the sound bouncing off the porcelain below.

“Why not?” Sasha repeated, and the back of his neck prickled, hackles raising. His wolf pressed up close to his skin, riled. “The drugs are gone. I won’t make you sick. You alreadyaresick,” he said, voice hardening. Anger bled through his despair, and he latched onto it, glad of its strength. “You’ll end up biting that poor woman, and it’ll be my fault because–”

Nikita’s head whipped around, pale eyes narrow, blazing, teeth bared. “Because I can’t control myself?”

“You can barely stand!”

As if to prove otherwise, Nikita straightened his arms, and drew himself upright. He held onto the sink, though. Bared his teeth in a grimace. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. And you’ll be furious with yourself if you hurt an innocent mortal. Here.” He shrugged off his jacket, and laid it over the neighboring sink. Tipped his head to the side, exposing his throat. “Have a drink, and–”

“I will not use you!” Nikita shouted, a growl punching out of him that rattled the mirrors on the wall. It echoed through the cold, empty room. As did the silence that followed.

Sasha finally sucked in a breath when his lungs started to hurt, staring at his friend’s face, the pain etched into it, his elongated fangs.

It hurt to breathe, and his voice came out small. “Is that what you think? Really? After all this time? That you’re using me?”

Two hectic spots of color bloomed along Nik’s sharp cheekbones, and he turned away, hanging his head again, ashamed. “I drink your blood,” he growled, rough and low. “I take your life into my body. There’s not another word for it butuse.”

“Nik.” Sashaached. “I’m a wolf. I was meant to give you blood.”

Nikita shook his head.

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