He jerked his head at the hallway.
I ignored that and dug the remote from under a cushion. “I can watch telly, right? Locke said something about screens, but I wasn’t fucking listening.”
Viktor kissed the inside of my wrist. “You can do anything if it feels good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I liked that idea, but Viktor fell asleep before I could figure out what that meant for my messy self. Proper asleep, face smooth and vacant, despite the growth on his jaw that was more my style than his.
The TV bemused me. I couldn’t remember how anything worked. Or what I wanted to watch, if anything. Just that I craved this dull moment with Vik—one where he wasn’t crawling the walls for something else and I wasn’t hurling my guts up in a borrowed bathroom.
I found a Royle Family rerun and put that on. It didn’t hurt my brain. Nor did the Goldie documentary that came on next. It was all good—I was all good, and I felt like smoking, distracting myself by kissing Vik’s neck. Cos I wanted him to wake up. Cos I missed him—Ineededhim, cos the longer I was alone, the more my mind wandered and I started thinking about shit I didn’t want to think about.
Logistical shit.Gangstershit that was gonna pull Vik away from me before I could ride again.
That could be months.
So? I’d barely ridden the whole time I’d been on Satsuma Island, but I’d driven. I’d fought. I’d protected Vik. What good was I to him if I couldn’t do any of that for the foreseeable? And even if I could, my heart knew I had to give Jean some time. Iwantedto give her that time.
But I wanted Vik too. I loved him. And he loved me. But when the dust settled, what the fuck did that mean?
You don’t need to worry about that.
Too late, luv. Too late.
“Asher.”
I blinked.
Vik had shifted onto his back. Wide awake, he stared up at me. “What is wrong?”
“I don’t want you to leave.”
“Where would I go?”
“Back to Jake. To the island or to your gold fucking tower in Moscow. I don’t know.”
Amusement flared in Viktor’s eyes. He pressed his lips together, trying to hide it, but I knew him, and even if I was slowly working myself into a weird-as-fuck panic attack, I loved to see it. “I do not have a gold tower, in Moscow or anywhere else. And I have no plans to leave you. Why would you think that?”
“You don’t live here.”
“Neither do you, by all accounts.”
“My nanna’s here.”
“I know.”
“Vik, I can’t ride. I can’t fight.”
“I know that too. Do you think that is how I see you? As a tool—a weapon?”
“I’m definitely a tool.”
Viktor frowned, my shit humour whizzing over his head. “I am not going to leave you. I was hoping you would allow me to stay.”
“What?”
