“No,” Yakov whispered, the word heavy with a pity Adrik couldn’t stand. “He’s not in New York, Adrik. He must have gotten away. No one knows.”
“Damn it! I need to know where he is.” Adrik choked out the words raw and bleeding.
“No contact with him. Too dangerous for both of you. There’s something else.”
“What else?”
“Word reached your father,” Yakov paused. “Sergei was your lover.”
Adrik stood stunned. “No!” He pulled a cigarette out and lit it inside, something he never did. “We weren’t lovers. Never happened.”
“Your own blood has put a price on your head. Watch every shadow, Adrik. Keep your distance from strangers. Make no friends. Call me if you need me.”
The line went dead. Adrik stared at the wall, the silence of the room now a suffocating weight. Sergei had been his world since he was ten years old—his teacher, his protector, the only person who had ever truly looked at him and seen a human being instead of a soldier.
The grief came first, a cold tidal wave that left him gasping, followed closely by a white-hot, transformative rage. They hadn’t just separated him from Sergei; they had ripped the soul out of him.
Following the click, a stillness descended, the sudden absence of sound more striking than the buzzing of the phone. It pressed against Adrik’s eardrums until he felt like his head might burst. He stayed frozen, the phone still pressed to his ear, his breath hitching in shallow, jagged bursts. His own father wanted him dead. The man he had stood beside for twenty-four years wanted him dead.
A low, animalistic moan escaped Adrik’s throat. He slumped against the wall, sliding down until he hit the floor, his head buried in his knees. The grief was a physical weight, a crushing pressure on his lungs that made every breath feel like inhaling broken glass. He could almost smell Sergei’s cologne—sandalwood and tobacco—and the memory of it made him want to scream until his lungs gave out.
His father’s face flashed in his mind—that arrogant, stony expression that demanded total submission. His brother’s cruel, mocking smile. They had looked into Sergei’s eyes—the man who had protected their family for over a decade—and they wanted to destroy him just to send a message.
Adrik stood up slowly. He didn’t just want them dead. He wanted them to feel the same void he was staring into. He wanted to burn the world that had told him love was a death sentence.
He picked up the vodka bottle, stood in front of the window, and let the tears fall. For the danger that never seemed to end. And somewhere in the back of his mind, Hans lingered—another risk, another temptation. Trouble he wanted, even when he knew better. He needed to free his mind of his old life once and for all.
Adrik stayed by the window, vodka bottle heavy in his hand, the burn in his throat nothing compared to the ache in his chest. He didn’t think he’d ever see Sergei again. He’d known therisks of leaving New York, but he hadn’t expected the loss to hit this hard.
The cottage felt too quiet, too foreign. The wooden beams creaked with the wind, the pine walls smelled faintly of smoke from the fireplace, and the silence pressed down like a weight. New York had been chaos, but it had been his chaos. Here, the silence only reminded him of what he’d lost. He took another swig, but even the vodka couldn’t numb the storm inside him. His thoughts kept circling back to Hans. That laugh, that grin, the way he’d leaned in at the bar like he wasn’t afraid of him. Adrik had told himself Hans was just a distraction, a mistake even. But Hans stirred something in him he couldn’t control, and it felt risky. He wanted Hans. Not just for one night, not just fuck around and forget. He wanted more, and that scared the hell out of him. Because wanting meant weakness. And weakness got people killed.
Adrik stepped out onto the back patio to finish his cigarette. The chilly German air bit at his skin, the sea wind carrying faint traces of salt. He thought about Hans at the local gay bar. Too easy. Too risky.
He exhaled smoke into the night, his chest tight. He should walk away, keep his distance, bury the temptation before it grew. But Hans had already slipped past his defenses. Adrik could feel it in the way his pulse quickened just thinking about him.
Adrik stubbed out his cigarette and stepped back inside. The cottage was quiet except for the faint creak of the old wooden beams. He wandered toward the front window, vodka still warming his chest, and froze.
Hans was there. Standing outside, staring at the cottage like he’d been drawn to it. Adrik’s pulse kicked hard. He hadn’t expected to see him again so soon, hadn’t expected Hans to find this place. For a moment, he didn’t know what to make of Hansbeing curious, bold, reckless. Maybe he’d knock, maybe he’d come in. God, Adrik needed him now more than he wanted to admit.
He grabbed his leather jacket, shrugged it on, and stepped outside. The cold air hit him, sharp and bracing. But Hans was gone. No footsteps, no shadow, no trace. Just empty streets and silence.
Adrik swore under his breath, scanning the dark. He walked toward the sea, boots crunching against the frozen sand, until he stood at the shoreline. The water stretched out black and endless, with the moonlight breaking across the waves. He looked around, hoping Hans might be here, but he was alone.
He didn’t know where Hans lived. Didn’t know his number. Didn’t know anything, really. He felt a dangerous unease when Hans came to his mind, as if he had let a viper into his thoughts. And now, standing at the edge of the sea with the wind biting at his face, waiting for someone he couldn’t reach, someone who’d already slipped away.
The waves rolled in, indifferent, and Adrik stayed there, staring at the horizon, wondering if trouble had just walked out of his life before it even began.
Adrik stood at the shoreline, the Baltic stretching out black and endless, but his mind wasn’t on the water anymore. It was on Hans again. The way Hans had appeared outside the cottage, staring as if he were drawn to it.
Adrik’s chest tightened. He’d been taught since he was a kid: trust no one. Rule number two. And yet here he was, replaying Hans’ laugh, the way his eyes had locked on his, the way he’d made him want things he shouldn’t. That want was dangerous. It made him vulnerable.
He scanned the dunes, the empty shoreline, and the shadows stretching long in the moonlight. Alone. But was he really? He could almost feel eyes on him, waiting for him to slip.
Adrik’s thoughts spiraled.
Fear gnawed at him, sharp and relentless. He pulled his jacket tighter, turned his back on the sea, and walked fast toward the cottage. His boots crunched against the sand, his pulse hammering. By the time he reached the door, he was shaking.
Inside, he locked the door, checked the windows, then checked them again. The cottage felt too small, too exposed. He picked up the bottle of vodka and took a swig, but it didn’t settle the nerves. He couldn’t shake the image of Hans outside, staring at the cottage like he wanted something.
