Page 42 of Break Me Open
He shrugs one shoulder. “I get bored. You’re interesting data.”
“Glad I can contribute to the great Russian boredom crisis,” I mutter.
He steps a bit closer, nibbling at my personal space, poking the line to see how tightly it’s tied. “What’s wrong, Caiden?” he asks. “And please don’t insult me by saying ‘nothing.’”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say anyway.
He raises an eyebrow. “You are a catastrophically bad liar.”
“Says the man who lies for a living,” I snap.
He hums, conceding the point. “Yes, but I’m good at it. That’s the difference.”
His gaze drifts over my face, calculating my expression. “You packed your bag earlier.”
My stomach drops. “You were in my room?”
“Your door was open,” he says. “And the room looked like you were preparing for a hasty extraction. Very... British.”
I look away. “Maybe I like being organised.”
“Maybe you were distracting yourself from something.”
I laugh. “Do you psychoanalyse all your allies, or am I special?”
His mouth quirks. “You are very special.”
“I was thinking about home,” I say quietly. “About what happens after this.”
“And?”
“And I don’t know,” I admit. “About any of it.”
His face softens slightly. It’s subtle. If I didn’t spend half my time staring at him, I’d miss it. “Home will still be there,” he says. “This will not.” He gestures vaguely around us, stepping closer. “Men will change. Bases will close. The weather will always be shit.”
“Comforting,” I say.
“I’m full of comfort,” he replies blandly. “It’s not the place you’re worried about, is it?”
His gaze drops to my throat, watching my Adam’s apple bob as I swallow, then back to my eyes. “Why do you care?” I ask, meaning it to sound sharp. It comes out tired instead.
He holds my stare. “You are in my brother’s orbit,” he says. “That makes you my problem.”
“Your entertainment, you mean?”
He considers my words, then tilts his head. “Sometimes it’s the same thing.”
I shake my head, exhaling hard. “You’re unbelievable.”
“So I’ve been told.” Silence drops between us. Somewhere behind us, laughter bursts from the direction of the barracks, then fades. “You should go in,” he says eventually. “You look like you’re freezing.”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
He steps closer again. This time, I step back into the fence on instinct. The problem now is that I’m pinned between metal and him with no effort at all. “What are you doing?” I whisper.
“This,” he says quietly. “I’m doing this.” His hand lifts slowly. If I really wanted to, I could step aside or swat him away. But I don’t move, I’m frozen in place. His fingers grip my jaw. They’re warm and calloused, but too gentle for the way my nerves react. He turns my face a little, angling me toward him, and the base noise falls away like someone turned down the volume.
“Tell me you don’t want me,” he says. “Say it properly, and I’ll walk away and never touch you again.”
