Page 100 of Break Me Open
He tilts his head. “As usual.” He kisses me once more, quickly, then steps back, already pulling the mask into place. The soldier, brother and man with responsibilities stacked on his shoulders. Before he opens the door, he glances back at me. “You’d like him,” he says.
“I already do.” That softens something in his expression.
Then he’s gone.
I spend the next few hours doing exactly what I’m supposed to do — paperwork, equipment checks, and a conversation about nothing with a man whose name I immediately forget. I keep my hands busy because if I don’t, my brain fills in the gaps with things I’m not ready to deal with yet. It’s dangerous territory.
By dinner, the mess is louder than usual. Word has travelled — because news of babies does that. They ripple outward, pulling attention in their wake. I grab a tray and move through the line on autopilot, my eyes scanning the room without really meaning to.
Then I see Niko.
He’s sat near the centre; his arms cradled around something impossibly small, wrapped in a blanket that looks about three sizes too big. His expression is wrecked in the best way: awe, terror, pride, all jumbled together.
People hover, someone claps him on the shoulder, someone else leans in too close, then Niko looks up, catches my eye, and grins.
Oh no. Shit.
Before I can escape, he’s waving me over with his free hand, and I approach slowly, like the thing in his arms might explode if startled. “Come here,” Niko says, already shifting the bundle. “Meet him.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say weakly.
“Too late,” he says, and then there’s a baby in my arms. He’s warmer than I expected. Heavier, too. His face is scrunched in deep concentration, tiny fists tucked up near his chin like he’s preparing for a fight. His hair is dark and fine, his skin is pink and new, and when he opens his eyes — something in me caves.
“Oh,” I breathe. Niko watches my face like he’s just won a bet.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s the look.”
“He’s...” I trail off, because there’s no word that fits.Smalldoesn’t do it justice.Perfectfeels embarrassing.
“He’s Vladimir,” Niko says. “Vlad, if you’re not trying to be formal.”
The baby makes a small, indignant sound, and I laugh before I can stop myself. “I think he hates me,” I say.
“No,” Niko replies. “That’s just his face.” I adjust my grip instinctively, my thumb brushing the edge of the blanket. Vladimir settles, his eyes fluttering closed again, like he’s decided I’m acceptable.
“Ari’s going to be unbearable.”
Niko snorts. “He already is.” He leans closer, voice dropping. “I like the sound of Uncle Caiden.”
I choke. “Don’t.”
“Oh, absolutely do.” He grins. “You should see your face.” I look down at the baby again; there’s something soft and terrifying blooming behind my ribs.
“The Zakirovs are going to be the death of me,” I whisper to Vladimir.
“Probably,” he agrees. When I hand the baby back, my arms feel oddly empty. I take my seat and eat mechanically, and the noise of the mess fades into the background. Across the room, I watch as Niko rocks his son carefully, murmuring something too quiet for me to hear.
The next ten days don’t pass so much as collapse. Time stops behaving properly, and mornings bleed into nights. I blink, and suddenly it’s dark again, Ari’s hand gripping the back of my neck, his mouth finding mine in whatever corner we’ve stolen for ourselves this time. It isn’t frantic, exactly. It’s focused, as if we’ve both decided, without saying it out loud, that if the world is going to take something from us, we’re going to make it work for it.
The watchtower is Ari’s idea this time. Again, this should have worried me more than it does. He gets me there just after dark, steering me toward the ladder. I’m expecting the usual: cold, metal, a quick kiss if we’re lucky. What I’m not expecting is the sight that greets us at the top.
Blankets. Actual blankets. Laid out carefully against the wall and on the floor. A thermos, a bag with food in it, and mugs.
I stop dead.
I look at him, back at the setup, then at him again. “Ari,” I say slowly, “is this a picnic?” He shrugs, already kneeling to adjust the blankets like this is completely normal behaviour. “You carried all this up here?” I snort.
“Yes.”
