Page 8 of Ascendent
“We need to keep this quiet. Secret. Let me do that. Please, don’t try to push things. Keep this hidden. Safe.”
“I won’t push,Sashunya. But don’t let secrecy kill this.”
Sasha shook his head. He pulled Sergey closer, dragging him until their hips pressed together, their bellies. “I’m yours,” he whispered. “You have all of me. You always have, from that first night.” He leaned in—
Sergey’s apartment door flew open. The heavy wood creaked, hinges screaming, and the door slammed back into the jamb. Footsteps thundered into Sergey’s apartment.
Pure terror flooded Sasha’s gaze. His spine went rigid, and he fled the bed, leaping over the side to grab his clothes and pull up the sheet all at the same time. Sergey rolled, searching left and right for his pants and trousers.Govno, Sasha had pulled them off at the foot of the bed! He couldn’t reach—
“Sergey! Where the hell are you?”
Sasha froze.
Sergey slumped and sighed. He closed his eyes. “I’ll be out in a minute!”
Of course, Ilya wouldn’t listen. Sergey heard Ilya’s heavy boots stomping all the way through his apartment, all the way to his bedroom. Sasha bounced on one foot, trying to shove his leg through his jeans and pull them up. He was shirtless, his chest as red as the Russian flag. Sergey flipped the edge of the sheet over his naked crotch as Ilya’s footsteps came closer.
The bedroom door pushed open. Ilya strode in as if he owned the place.
For the past month, he practically had. For weeks, Sergey hadn’t wanted to do anything but mope after giving everything he had to the country during the day, and he stayed stubbornly ensconced in his apartment walls in the evenings, where he remembered Sasha’s smile. Where he could relive the times he’d heard Sasha’s laughter, when things were simpler and his heart wasn’t broken. After spending the day rebuilding Russia, all he wanted to do was come back to Sasha. But Sasha hadn’t been there like he said he would, and instead, Sergey had tried to live in his memories.
Ilya had put up with exactly none of that. He’d dragged Sergey out for dinner and drinks and late nights at the gym after Sergey didn’t feel quite so broken and old, and had recovered after the Arctic. Basketball games in Moscow, and then hockey games. He kept Sergey moving. Kept him from wallowing when all Sergey wanted to do was replay memories and the soundtrack of ‘what if’.
Of course he would burst into Sergey’s apartments the morning after he thought Sasha had ripped out his heart again. Of course.
Ilya froze inside the doorway, his boots stuttering to a stop on the old wood floor.
Sasha froze, his pants just zipped up, the fly undone. His chest heaved, rising and falling like he was about to pass out.
Sergey smiled at Ilya, tilting his head to the side. “Hello, Ilya. What the fuck are you doing here?”
Ilya stared at Sasha for a long moment. Eyes narrowing, he whipped to Sergey. His voice dropped. “What the fuck ishedoing here?”
Sergey grinned. He looked down at himself––naked, just a sheet corner over his lap––and then back at Ilya. “Oh, come now, Ilya. You are not the head of the FSB for nothing. I know you’re smarter than that!”
Ilya didn’t care for Sergey’s humor. He scowled at Sergey before turning to Sasha, his glare going frigid, downright Stalinesque. “Fucking him over last night wasn’t enough,hmm? You have to do it here, too?” He cursed, bitter Russian spitting from his lips. “When the fuck are you leaving? Hurry up and get it over with!”
“Ilya—”
“Seryozhaneeds to realize that you arenevergoing to stay! You willnevercare about him,neverlove him!”
“Ilya—”
“Seryozhadoesn’tneedyou! Doesn’t need what you’ve done to him! I wish you’d never crawled into the Kremlin! Or into our lives!”
“Ilyukha!” Sergey stood, dropping the sheet. He towered over Ilya, completely naked. “Out.Now.”
Ilya glared at Sasha before he stormed out. Sergey heard him in the front room, dragging out a chair at the dining table and flopping into it. Heard the slam of a crystal tumbler and the slosh of vodka being poured.
Sergey turned to Sasha.
Sasha had flinched with every one of Ilya’s words, full body shudders that had him folding over until he dropped, crouching on the floor with his hands laced behind his head. He stared at nothing, his face stone.
“Sasha…” Sergey swallowed. What could he say? Ilya’s fears were his own. He’d told Ilya everything, every single thing that had happened between him and Sasha. When he’d found Sasha hiding in Shipunovskaya, elation had carried him straight to Ilya, hope filling his fantasies that he could bring Sasha home, convince him that everything would be okay.
Ilya had reminded him of how Sasha had left not just once, but over and over again. That Sasha hadalwayschosen to leave, to flee the hard parts, to escape his feelings for Sergey. Flying to his death in the Arctic. Running from Sergey when Sergey admitted his own feelings. And leaving for good, after everything. After all they’d become together, under the ice.
He’d made the decision on his own that their love wasn’t worth the risk, or the struggle.
