RANGER
Asher.
He said my name.
My real name.
The one I’d spent the best part of spring and summer last year ribbing him that he didn’t know. That he’dneverknow if he didn’t cheat or give me a reason to tell him.
I hadn’t told him. Not cos I hadn’t wanted him to know, but because messing with him had been too much fun. Trying to guess if he was in it for a laugh or if he actually gave a shit. Walking away from him the week before he got took honestly believing he did.
This was the first time I’d seen him since, and as I slowly rose from my perch on his front porch, two things occurred in rapid succession.
One: Viktor Petrenko was more beautiful than ever.
Two: he was high as a motherfucker.
Neither of these things were particularly shocking. Vik had always been gorgeous to me, and Jakov—Jake—had warned me about the rest of it.
“He is not well and I do not know how to help him anymore.”
Ominous words that sent a shiver snaking down my spine as Viktor scooped his dropped strap from the ground and staggered closer, those meadow-green eyes bloodshot, confused, and as full of pain as the tortured scream that had shattered the dawn. The ragged sound that had made Lida whine and paw my leg, her claws raking a new rip in my fucked-up jeans as I’d held her back from bolting to theelectricfucking fence.
Viktor came closer. His hazed gaze shifted from me to Lida and back again, hands slowly rising to brace on his head as his bewilderment deepened. “You are not here.”
His splintered voice tore me up. I needed to touch him more than I needed air in my fucking lungs, but I forced myself to stay still. To let him figure this shit out for himself. To let him come to me.
He came for the dog first. It surprised me that she’d remained at my side, but what did I know? About anything, except that it hurt even worse that I’d never seen him and Lida together? That every time I’d been around this dog it was cos Vik was dying.
He’s not dying. He’s sick.
Really fucking sick. He reached us and crouched low, hiding his face, giving me all the time in the world to drink in his copper-streaked hair and golden skin. Except, it wasn’t golden anymore. As the warmest sun I’d ever felt beat down on us, Viktor’s skin was the colour of grey milk.
“Viktor.”
I breathed his name like a prayer.
A plea.
Look at me.
Believe in me.
In the tangibility of my fucking body, at least. I didn’t ride my hog a thousand miles for him to think I was a ghost.
Look. At. Me.
Slowly, he did, raising his gaze from Lida’s chest, treating me to an unobscured view of the bruised shadows smudged beneath his eyes and cheekbones that could cut fucking glass. The weeks’ worth of growth on his jaw was sexier than it had any right to be, but everything else could fuck all the way off with how hard it tossed my gut.
Viktor was still crouching with the dog.
I held out my hands.
He took them but didn’t rise, and I was so fucking scared that if I made him, he’d crumble to dust. Like, evaporate or some shit, as if I was the one out of my mind enough to believe I was seeing things.
“Vik.” I said his name again, a murmur this time, squeezing his fingers—hiscoldfingers. “Give me something, ay? Or I’m gonna think you’re not pleased to see me.”
Confusion returned to his gaze. For a loaded beat, he didn’t move.
