Page 71 of Ascendent
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Grisha laughed. “Do you honestly think I stayed with the Puchkov government? Do you thinkanyof us followed that asshole’s government? We are true Russian patriots!”
“You went with Moroshkin. You and everyone else, didn’t you?” His mind raced. “The weapons. You’re the one collecting them for Moroshkin’s men.”
“You were always a little slow. Pretty, but dumb.” Grisha’s eyes gleamed. “There are so many of us. You and yourhuisosdon’t stand a chance.”
Sasha’s throat clenched hard. Hishuisos? His cocksucker?
“You know, I thought we’d really killed you. Imagine my surprise when thatgoluboipresident pinned a medal on your chest.”
“Don’t talk about President Puchkov that way!”
“President Puchkov?” Grisha’s eyes sparkled. “Don’t you mean your faggot lover?”
Sasha hissed, sucking in cold Siberian air until he thought his lungs were going to burst.
“I thought you were just a brown nosing little shit, some kind of publicity stunt for Puchkov’s bleeding, Western heart. I thought he must have plucked you from the snow, felt sorry for the little cocksucker. I thought, just another reason why Puchkov is a pussy.” Grisha grinned, all sharp teeth and malice. “But then I saw you two together. I saw that look in your eyes. You gave yourself away, you know. The way you hungered for a man to take you. Do you remember General Severov? He visited our base on an inspection. I saw the way you looked at him. The way you never once looked at a woman. You wanted to suck his cock.”
Sasha’s hands trembled. His arms. His legs. His mind spun, his thoughts electrifying, crashing into one another.No! I worked so hard to give nothing away! I buried everything! I was so careful!
More than anyone, he’d hoped to one day tell Grisha the truth. His wing mate. A man he’d thought was his friend.
“I saw you look at ourpidorpresident the same way, in the pictures the newspapers have printed. And I saw him look at you, too.” Grisha winked. “So. You’ve managed to suck off the president,hmm? I always knew Puchkov was a fuckingpidor. A weak, western, American faggot, with his cocksucking American president friend.” A slow, smile, all the history of their friendship rolling up in the sneer of his lips. “What do you think the world will think of Russia’s butt fucking president? How do you think they’ll react when they know he likes to fuck his little fighter pilot hero?”
Roaring, Sasha rushed Grisha, tackling him into the dark hangar. Grisha shouted, shocked at the attack. He gasped for breath as Sasha punched his diaphragm. But, a moment later, Grisha scissor kicked, knocked Sasha off him.
Sasha sprawled on the concrete. He’d been here before, thrown down by Grisha, cool concrete beneath his cheek.Never again.
He leaped to his feet. Shucked his jacket and raised his fists.
Grisha laughed. “You couldn’t fight me before,pidor! What makes you think you can beat me now?” A flick of his wrist, and a switchblade appeared, glinting in the slanting light.
Sasha sprinted for him.
He crashed into Grisha, tackling him low around his waist with a bellow. Grisha swung the blade underhand, going for Sasha’s chest. He grabbed Grisha’s wrist, twisted. Felt bone give, and then break.
They hit the ground, sliding on the slick hangar deck. Grisha snarled, cursed, and tried to claw at Sasha’s face, his back, tried to pummel him with his one good arm. Sasha ripped the switchblade free from Grisha’s fluttering hand. His broken arm bent back at a sickening angle.
Grisha wrapped his hand around Sasha’s throat, tried to dig his fingers into Sasha’s windpipe. “Fucking faggot,” he spat. Spit flew from his words, sprayed Sasha’s face.
Sasha slammed his elbow into Grisha’s face, once, twice, a third time. Grisha’s skull bounced off the ground. His eyes burned, growing brighter with each slam, each crunch of bone on bone. He snarled up at Sasha. “I’m going to tell the world about you and him. I’m going to tell everyone about your fucking lover. You disgust me, you—”
He slammed the blade he’d grabbed into the side of Grisha’s throat.
Grisha’s words died in a gurgle, in a burst of blood fountaining from his open mouth, in the arterial spray fantailing out of his neck. His eyes widened, shock eclipsing his hatred. “Sasha—” he burbled.
Sasha leaned close. Grisha’s blood was warm on his skin, the spray of Grisha’s severed artery dripping down his cheeks, his nose. He tasted copper and iron. “How does it feel,” he hissed, “to be beaten by apidor?”
Impotent rage clouded Grisha’s eyes. His legs kicked, thrashed beneath Sasha, but his strength was ebbing. The fight was bleeding out of him. He struggled to speak. His glare seared Sasha.
“Never again,” Sasha growled. He twisted the blade in Grisha’s neck, watched Grisha writhe, arch off the floor, try to scream—
He wrenched the blade free.
Grisha collapsed. His head rolled to the side. Sightless eyes stared into the distance, into nothing. His chest didn’t rise.
“Your soul will languish in the dead lands,” Sasha breathed. “You will never escape your hate.”
