Page 77 of Ascendent
Yuri’s hand landed on Mikhail’s. He squeezed. Mikhail stared at Sasha, his eyes boring holes in Sasha’s soul.
“After the coup,” Yuri rumbled. His voice was harder, tighter than Sasha had ever heard. “After the fighting. When we were all back in Moscow. Mr. Ivchenko called each of us. Said he knew who we were. That the FSB knows everything about everyone. And that he had a request for me.” He nodded to Mikhail. “For all of us.”
“What was that?”
“He asked us, the gay FSB officers, to become President Puchkov’s personal security detail. His original detail was killed in Sochi, and he needed a new protective guard. But… Mr. Ivchenko said he wanted to make sure the detail was loyal. Blood loyal. And honorable.”
His fingers dug into the armrests, into the plastic. He felt his fingernails crack.
“The president, Mr. Ivchenko said, had fallen for someone. And that his new partner required the utmost discretion. And the support of people who believed in the future President Puchkov was trying to create.”
Pitching forward, Sasha braced himself between his knees. He breathed out hard, tried to stop the world from plummeting. He’d left his stomach on the ground. He was going to puke.
“We want the future President Puchkov is trying to create,” Mikhail said. Sasha looked up at him, feeling like he was about to tip forward, tumble from the plane to the Earth, ten thousand feet below. “We believe in him. We believe in his vision. He’s like us.” Mikhail, finally, cracked a smile. It was the first Sasha had ever seen.
“We didn’t know who Mr. Ivchenko meant. Who the president was in love with. You weren’t around for a long time. But, when you arrived at the Heroes Ball––” Yuri grinned. “It was obvious, at least to us. President Puchkov looked happy.”
Sasha scrubbed his hands over his face. He’d wanted no one to know. No one.
But… Was it better to have allies? Almost friends? Ethan and Jack had Scott, the cranky Secret Service agent who seemed to never trust Sasha, or anything Russian, and no matter how many times he was told it was just coffee they were making, he still scoffed and snorted and acted like it was the end of the world. And he still drank it before Jack or Ethan did, every single morning. He’d been their best friend, their ally. Their protector.
What was it like, having a protector? Having friends?
He sat back. Mikhail and Yuri’s hands were laid on top of each other, a gentle, almost delicate touch, so at odds with the beast of a man that Yuri was, and the lithe, spry fighter Sasha had met in Mikhail. “You two?”
Mikhail sniffed. He closed his eyes, crossed his arms over his chest. Yuri beamed, looking down at Mikhail. “Is new,” Yuri said. Adoration flowed out of him. “We met when we fought together in Moscow during the coup. But we only got to know each other now, on the detail.”
“Are you happy?”
Mikhail, his eyes still closed, snorted. He shifted, rolling to get comfortable in the leather seat. His cheek ended up resting on Yuri’s broad shoulder.
Yuri ruffled his fingers through Mikhail’s hair. “Yes,” Yuri said. “Are you?”
Sasha inhaled. Held his breath. “Yes. With him.”
“We want to keep President Puchkov’s government in power. We want to see the change he will bring.” Yuri’s smile faded. “I want to hold his hand on the street. I want to have an apartment together.” He shifted, and his beaming smile returned. “One day. As long as President Puchkov remains in power.”
“I didn’t want to come back to the Ball,” Sasha blurted out. “I ran away. Because with me here, he’s at risk. What if someone finds out? What if someone tries to destroy him because of me? I’m dangerous to him. I shouldn’t—”
“This is why Mr. Ivchenko brought us in,” Yuri interrupted. “So he, and you, will be safe.”
Sasha exhaled.
“Things will get better for us.” Yuri kissed Mikhail’s head. “You will see. With President Puchkov, things will get better. I’m glad you came back.”
* * *
He wokeup as the tires squealed on Moscow’s Domodedovo runway, skipping twice before the jet settled and the engines wailed, and the wind over the wings shook the cabin. Sasha squinted out into the darkness, into Domodedovo’s neon airport. Across the aisle, Yuri was murmuring into Mikhail’s sleepy ear and kissing his temple.
They twisted and turned, wound their way to the government hangars. The pilot waved as they deplaned, and Mikhail led the way to an SUV parked beside the hangar. Sasha recognized the Kremlin tags on the license plate. No one spoke on the drive. The clock on the dashboard read three in the morning.
Yuri radioed their return ahead to the Kremlin, to the security team’s headquarters. Radio static spat back, a sleepy affirmative.
Sasha let his mind wander, imagining surprising Sergey at home. Walking in, waking him up with a kiss. Would Sergey have fallen asleep on the couch by the fireplace? Or would he have curled up with his laptop in bed? Was he still in his shirtsleeves, his trousers? Or had he stripped to his boxers? He loved seeing Sergey in his undershirt and his boxers, his slim legs seeming to go forever, his thin chest wreathed in white cotton. Sergey was the president of Russia, all buttoned up in his power suits. And he was the goofy man who’d stolen Sasha’s heart in plaid boxers, who liked to tease him until he broke out into snorting laughter. Sergey was everything a man could be, he thought. He was a diamond with a thousand facets.
The SUV’s tires rumbled over the Kremlin’s cobbles. He sat up. “Thank you again,” he said. “For everything you do.”
Yuri threw a grin over his shoulder. He said nothing.
