Page 4 of Ascendent
He shook his head, banishing his worries. Those were for another time. First, he and Sasha just had to get to the Kremlin together.
First steps first. One thing, and then another.
Sasha walked behind him, his shoes scuffing against the marble foyer of the hotel. Sergey’s security team led the way, and his driver stubbed out his cigarette before jogging around the side of the limo and holding the door open. Sergey stepped back, offering the first seat to Sasha. Would he slide in? Or would he freeze and turn away?
Sasha’s jaw clenched, but he bundled his tux in his arms and hauled his duffel close. He clambered in and slid to the far side, pressing against the window. His tux crumpled in his lap, the fabric bunched and wrinkled, one jacket arm flopping onto the seat, a pant leg dragging in the footwell. He held it like a shield, like it would protect him. From what? Sergey, or the world?
Sergey slid in after Sasha and nodded to his driver. The door slammed shut. Hope, a treacherous thing, was building within him, despite his admonitions.He got in the limo. That must mean something.
Silence, save for the sound of their breathing. Sasha’s fast, heavy breaths through his nose. Sergey’s quiet, slow sigh. The driver mumbled into his radio. Bursts of Russian flew back as the car started, the engine rumbling.
Sergey gripped the edge of the bench seat, his hand stretched halfway into the empty void between them, the no man’s land of darkness and smooth, black leather. His pinky reached for Sasha, a few inches of skin that seemed to scream his desperation.
Nothing. Sasha stared out the window, motionless.
Sergey looked away. Hope was a fighter jet, screaming through the skies in a dogfight with reality. As high as he climbed, he rolled and started plummeting for the earth. He should gird himself now. Sasha was undoubtedly composing a stiff goodbye, an apology and an insistence that his way was the right way. Maybe if he was lucky, Sasha would pretend he would keep in touch while he was training in Houston. A lie to soothe the pain.
Something touched his pinky.
His eyes darted down. Sasha’s trembling hand grasped the bench seat right beside his own. The tip of Sasha’s pinky stroked down the side of Sergey’s little finger. The barest, hidden touch.
Sergey looked up. Fear and agony twisted Sasha’s expression to pieces. The curl of his lips, the downturn of his mouth.I want what is best for you! Only what is best for you!he’d said. The frown lines etched into his forehead, carved into his visage.If you were attacked like I was… I could not live with that!
Was love such a horrible thing for him?
Sergey wrapped his fingers around Sasha’s pinky, an almost hand hold. Sasha’s eyes squeezed shut.
Sergey didn’t let go. Sasha didn’t pull away.
The limo bounced over the open gate to the Kremlin. Cobblestones hummed beneath the tires. The Kremlin Palace rose on the right, St. Basil’s far to the left. Ivan the Great’s Bell Tower cast a harsh shadow across them both.
Sasha’s hand slipped from his and disappeared back into the wrinkled fabric of his tux.
They pulled to a stop at the private residential entrance. No one was around. The Kremlin was quiet. He’d planned the Heroes Ball for a Friday and had hoped his people would enjoy the celebration and the weekend after. That the pressures of the coup, the insurgency, the reconstruction, would bubble over and disperse.
No one was there to see him and Sasha clamber out of the limo.
His security team stood back and the limo driver looked away.
Still, he and Sasha kept their distance. Sasha walked behind him, ever deferential, even when Sergey insisted that he was his equal in every way. No amount of beckoning or slowing his own pace could get them lined up. Sasha seemed eternally set on being a full pace behind. But at least he was there, at least his footsteps shadowed Sergey’s all the way through the Kremlin Palace and up to Sergey’s apartment.
Theirapartment, if he had his way. He’d start that argument later, though. No doubt Sasha would want a separate apartment, keep up appearances that they weren’t together. Part of Sergey knew that was smart. Another part of him was selfish and wanted Sasha by his side, day and night.
Would Sasha still be here in a week to have that argument?
Enough.He had to be in this moment, not borrowing fears from the future.
Sergey guided Sasha through his home, past the dining room and the repaired gaudy gold table, past the sitting room where he and Ilya and Sasha had all spent so many nights together, drinking and laughing and arguing. He wanted those nights back, that warm happiness to return to his apartment. But now, Ilya said Sasha’s name like it was a curse and Sasha hadn’t smiled for months.
He saw Sasha’s gaze track the changes, the piles of destroyed paintings in the corner waiting to be taken away, the torn carpet and scuffed hardwood, the patches of bare flooring. Broken glass panes in the curio cabinets. Missing crystals in the chandelier. New couches. “The Kremlin was destroyed by Moroshkin’s men.” He stopped and pointed to the mantel over the fireplace. “But that survived.”
The bust of Aleksander Pokryshkin, Sasha’s Air Force hero from World War II, sat in the center of the mantel. He’d found it covered in dust and propping open a door, worth no more to the invaders than a hunk of old metal. He still remembered Sasha’s quickly-stifled joy when he’d casually shown it off. Of course he’d brought it out of storage for Sasha. Of course he’d wanted to see Sasha’s smile. Even then, months and months ago, he’d been unknowingly falling for this man.
Sasha stared at the bust before turning to Sergey. His eyes burned, too many emotions tangling in their depths. His eyes were like the fractured ice of the Arctic, the underbellies of icebergs that glinted turquoise and sapphire in the stillness of those black waters. Places no human could ever see. Was he the only man alive who could see into Sasha’s heart and soul?
“Please… Come with me,” he muttered, holding out his hand. He touched Sasha’s elbow, guiding him to his bedroom.
Sasha had never been to his bedroom before. He’d never taken him to his private spaces. He’d never seen the ostentatious four-poster bed, a legacy from the days of the Tsar. Sleeker furniture sat in place of all that had been destroyed. A simple king bed, plain nightstands, a wide, modern dresser. Sasha took it all in, his wide eyes moving around the room. His breath sped up.
