Page 18 of Golden Eagle

A head tilt of concession. “Sometimes.”

He thought the rolling in his gut was only part blood sugar sickness, at this point. “No,” he repeated. “Not interested. We have jobs. We don’t want to join your little crusade.”

A smile, edges sharp; not mocking, but pitying, almost. “You were in that house, Nikita. You fought with Dracula himself. Are you really going to paint this as a crusade? Like it’s something we’re taking upon ourselves? A war is brewing. A big one. Maybe the final one. We’re only gathering what allies we can.”

Silence reigned afterward. A long moment. Nikita never broke the wolf’s gaze.

Finally, Will gave a little sigh and glanced away. “Finish your food,” he said to Much. He himself had only ordered a whiskey.

Sasha’s elbow touched Nik’s ribs, and he mechanically picked up his sandwich and forced a few bites while Much crammed down the rest of his burger.

“We’ll be in town for a week or so, I think,” Will said, sliding out of the booth. He pulled out his wallet and thumbed a few bills down onto the table. “I wrote down my number and the name of our hotel on the back of that card. If you change your mind in the next few days, or you just want to talk, please call. Come on, Much.”

The small wolf wiped his face hastily with a napkin and then slipped out.

Will gave them one last surveying glance, and nodded. “Lovely to meet you both. I do hope you’ll think of us as allies.” And they left.

Nikita stared at the tufted leather across from him, the whole booth still scented with strange wolves, breathing shallowly through his mouth.

“Nik,” Sasha said, softly, beside him.

“How did I get here?”

“What?”

“I passed out at the hospital, and I woke up here.” And for the first time since then, he turned his head to really look at Sasha.

Blue eyes big and full of guilt, Sasha wore the kind of uncertain expression that made Nik want to put arms around him immediately; pull him in close and assure him that everything was alright – thattheywere alright. He’d watched him tear a man’s throat out with his teeth without a backward glance, but with Nik, he was always afraid he’d done something wrong; especially lately.

God, Nik hated himself.

“I carried you,” Sasha said, gaze dropping to his lap. “Mostly. Your feet held you up, a little.” Quick, humorless smile. “The server thought you were drunk when we came in.”

His pulse beat quick and light in his ears, and his next words tasted foul in his mouth. “Why did you – why did you go with them? Why did you listen to them?”

A tiny shrug. “They were bound, I could tell. And they weren’t – they weren’t bad, Nik. I could tell that, too. And they helped us, before. I just…” He trailed off, biting at his lip.

A realization dawned, one that kept Nikita up more nights than he’d like to admit, one that frightened him worse than facing off from Dracula. He alone wasn’t enough for Sasha. He didn’t doubt the love, the caring, the desire to be close – more often than not he’d pushed those things away, lately, bastard that he was – but Sasha hadso muchlove to give. Eventually, at some point, he’d find a pack as loving, welcoming, and warm as he himself. One that could provide him with everything he needed.

It was Nikita’s greatest fear, and yet he sabotaged himself at every turn.

Maybe for the better. Maybe Sasha would be better off…

“I’m scared,” Sasha whispered, and it took Nikita a second to drag himself out of his own pity party and register the words.

“Scared? Of what?” His heart was climbing, was up in his throat now.

Sasha lifted a glance up through his lashes, unintentionally alluring; Nikita’s breath hitched. “I spoke with Dracula, Nik. Some. He’s violent, and he’s frightening – but he’s not like Rasputin was. He isn’t trying to trick anyone. Not that I could tell. He’s…he says there’s a war coming. A bad one.” He shuddered. “I don’t want anything to do with that. But.”

“But nothing,” Nikita said, finding some firm ground at last. Protectiveness he could do. Looking after Sasha, shielding him. He twisted in the booth, so they faced one another fully, and put a hand on Sasha’s shoulder, tight enough that his knuckles turned white, but Sasha didn’t flinch away from the touch.

“Sashka, listen to me.”

Sasha’s eyes widened.

“Whatever this war is, whatever those people” – he stabbed a finger toward the empty side of the booth across from them – “want to fight: that isn’t our business. It isn’tourfight. We lived through our war.” Flashes of memory: blood on snow, the cry of ravens, the stench of burned hair. “It took its pound of flesh, and we don’t owe anyone anything. Do you hear me? Not a thing.”

He was panting through an open mouth, head swimming, heart hammering. Drowning in Sasha’s gaze.

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