Page 12 of Break Me Open
But Ari.
He’s danger, temptation, a very sharp object I should never touch. And yet here I am, lying awake, replaying every second of him looking at me like he could peel me open.
This can’t happen. I won’t let it.
Tomorrow, I’m going to avoid him. Completely. Absolutely no exceptions. No eye contact, banter, or falling for provocations. And definitely no reacting when he smirks or gets close.
For fuck’s sake.
I groan again, rolling onto my stomach and burying my face in my arms. I need sleep, I need peace, I need Ari Zakirov to evaporate from existence.
“Please, God,” I mutter quietly into my pillow, “just make him leave me alone.” He won’t. I know that. In fact, I’m absolutely certain that tomorrow he is going to do the opposite.
He seesme, and for reasons I cannot fathom, he keeps coming closer.
I squeeze my eyes shut and hold myself still.
Tomorrow is going to be hell, but I’m starting to worry that I might like it.
Four
Arseny
The trick about this base is that it never really sleeps; it pretends to. The lights go off in the barracks, the mess hall empties, the yard clears, but there’s always something humming. Generators, distant engines, pipes complaining in the walls, or the wind howling like it’s trying to strip the paint off the buildings out of spite. Up here on the roof, though, it’s the quietest it ever gets.
I shoulder the heavy access door shut with a metal thunk that echoes in the dark, and shove my hands into my coat pockets. Murmansk at night in winter doesn’t justgetcold; itbecomescold. The cold bites at everything it can reach, climbing into your bones and refusing to leave.
I should be downstairs in my bunk asleep. Or even be writing the report I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist for three days. Instead, I’m up here, pacing slow lines across ice-dusted concrete, trying to walk off the buzzing under my skin.
I pull a cigarette from the battered pack in my pocket, clamp it between my teeth, and cup my hands around the lighter. The wind makes a half-hearted attempt to fight me; I win. Of course. A little orange flame flickers, brief and bright, then comes the familiar rasp of smoke clawing down my throat.
Much better.
I stare out across the base while my lungs burn. The blocky shapes of buildings crouch in the dark. There’s the faint suggestion of the airfield beyond, and the runway lampsstretching into the black. I exhale and watch my breath and smoke twist together before they vanish.
“Idiots,” I mutter to myself. Who, exactly, is a good question. On paper, today went fine. A joint briefing where no one shouted or defected mid-PowerPoint. No one accidentally insulted someone else’s entire chain of command, and the CO said ‘interoperability’ only three times.
A small miracle.
The British contingent were... fine. Six of them. All neat in the front row, all lined up, backs straight, trying so hard to look like they weren’t trying at all. And my brother, Senior Sergeant Nikorin Zakirov, golden boy, pain in my ass, did his whole calm, competent, steady-hand routine.
The one that makes junior officers feel safe, and privates forget they’re terrified. Calm, focused, immovable — the good Zakirov brother.
And then there was him. Lance Corporal Caiden Varrik. Of Her Majesty’s Overcompensating Expeditionary Whatever.
Up close, he was all angles and tension, standing as if he was braced for impact. Almost as if someone told him the entire world was his responsibility, and he believed them.
I hate that type.
I take another drag and let my mind rewind — because apparently, I hate myself.
He keeps looking at Niko. It’s not a constant thing where he’s obviously drooling. No, that would have been easy to mock, easy enough to crush. His eyes flicked over him just enough for me to take notice.
The CO talked about insertion routes; his attention was forward. The translator stumbled, and he glanced sideways. There was Niko, pen in hand, correcting coordinates that another officer butchered, and Varrik’s eyes snagged on him for a second, then they moved on.
Most people wouldn’t notice that sort of thing, but most people don’t watch a room as I do. I saw it. The pattern. Always Niko. Always in the in-between spaces. Small flashes of attention when my brother cracked a joke, and the colonel frowned. The almost smile when Niko rolled his eyes behind someone’s back. That slight shift, the first time Niko translated something for his men instead of making them sit through the official version.
Admiration, respect, and the beginnings of something else — if he doesn’t kill it quickly. I can spot that look from twenty metres away and through a migraine. “Idiot,” I say again, flicking ash over the edge of the roof instead.
