I've never been wanted like this. Never felt desire that borders on desperation, that makes my skin feel too tight and my breath come in shallow gasps. His hands map my body with a reverence that contradicts everything I know about him, every search result that painted him as a monster who takes what he wants without asking. But he's asking now, those ice-blue eyes searching my face for permission even as his fingers trace the curve of my hip with aching gentleness.
"Aria." My name on his lips sounds like a prayer and a question all at once.
I answer by pulling him closer, my fingers threading through his hair, and feel the last of my resistance crumble like sand through my fingers. This is insane. We're stranded on an island, I barely know him, and everything about this situation screams that I should be running in the opposite direction. Except there's nowhere to run, and I'm not sure I want to anymore.
His mouth finds mine again, and the kiss is different this time. Deeper. More urgent. His tongue traces the seam of my lips and I open for him, tasting salt and heat and something uniquely him that makes my stomach clench with want. One hand slides beneath the sports bra I've been living in, his palm warm against my ribs, and I arch into his touch with a desperation that should embarrass me but doesn't.
"Tell me to stop." His voice is rough, his accent thicker than usual, wrapping around the English words in a way that does things to my pulse. "Tell me this is a mistake."
"I can't." The admission costs me something, strips away another layer of the careful control I've maintained since my mother died. "I don't want you to stop."
His breath catches, and I feel the tremor that runs through his body, the way his muscles coil with restraint that's clearly costing him. When he kisses me again, it's with a hunger that steals what little breath I have left. His hand moves higher, thumb brushing the underside of my breast, and heat pools low in my belly, urgent and demanding.
Then I feel it. The sharp sting on the sole of my foot, the one with the coral cut. Pain lances through my heel with enough intensity to make me gasp against his mouth.
Nikolai pulls back immediately, his eyes sharp with concern. "What's wrong?"
"My foot." I try to shift position and wince as the movement sends another spike of pain through my heel.
He's off me in an instant, his hands gentle as he examines my foot with the same focused intensity he uses for everything. Blood seeps from the wound, not a lot but enough to be concerning, and I watch his jaw tighten with something that looks like self-recrimination.
His fingers probe the edges of the cut with surprising gentleness. "It needs to be cleaned properly. If it gets infected out here…"
He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to. We both know what an infection could mean on this island, with no antibiotics, no medical supplies beyond what we can improvise. The mood shifts, desire giving way to practical concern, and I feel the loss of it like a physical ache.
He helps me back to our shelter and settles me on the sand with my foot elevated. The careful way he positions me, the concern etched into his features, reminds me that beneath the cold Pakhan exterior lives a man capable of tenderness. It terrifies me how much I'm starting to crave both versions of him.
The rest of the afternoon passes in careful distance. Nikolai boils water and cleans my wound with meticulous attention, his hands steady despite the tension radiating from his body. I watch him work and try not to think about where those hands were, what they were doing to my body, and how much I wanted them to continue.
"I'm going to reinforce the shelter," he says once my foot is bandaged with strips torn from his shirt. "The palm fronds are starting to come loose on the north side."
I nod, recognizing the excuse for what it is. We both need space, need to step back from whatever precipice we were about to tumble over. "I'll work on sorting through the edible plants we gathered yesterday. Some of them need to be used soon or they'll spoil."
We move to opposite sides of our small camp, but I feel his presence like a magnetic pull, my eyes tracking his movements as he weaves new fronds through the shelter's frame. The play of muscles beneath his skin, the focused intensity in his expression, the way sweat makes his dirty blond hair darken at the temples. Everything about him draws me in despite every logical reason to maintain distance.
By the time evening arrives, the tension between us has built to something almost unbearable. We sit around the fire sharing the fish he caught earlier, and I force myself to focus on the practical task of eating rather than the way firelight catches in his eyes.
"Tell me about your mother," I say, desperate to fill the charged silence with something, anything. "You mentioned she used to sing folk songs."
His expression shifts, something vulnerable flickering across his features before his mask slams back into place. "She had a beautiful voice. Used to sing while she cooked, these old Russian melodies her grandmother taught her. I didn't understand half the words as a child, but the sound of it…" He trails off, staring into the flames. "It made everything feel safe."
I start to ask another question, but then I feel it. Something crawling through my hair, tiny legs moving against my scalp. I yelp and jerk backward, my hands flying up to swat at whatever insect has decided to make a home in my tangled locks.
"Hold still." Nikolai's voice is calm, commanding, and his hands are already reaching for me. "Let me see."
I freeze as his fingers thread through my hair with surprising gentleness, searching for the intruder. The intimacy of the gesture, the way his body leans close to mine, makes my pulse hammer in my throat. His breath is warm against my temple as he works, and I catch the scents of salt and smoke and something uniquely him.
"There." His fingers close around something, and he pulls his hand away with a small beetle trapped between his thumb and forefinger. "Just a harmless bug. Nothing to worry about."
He flicks it away into the darkness, but his hands remain in my hair, his eyes locked on mine with an intensity that steals my breath. We're so close I can see the flecks of silver in his irises, can count the individual lashes framing those devastating eyes. My heart pounds so hard, I'm certain he can hear it.
I shift slightly, meaning to put distance between us, but the movement throws me off balance. My injured foot can't support my weight properly, and I pitch forward with a startled gasp. Nikolai's arms catch me instantly, pulling me against his chest, and suddenly, I'm half in his lap, my hands pressed against the solid warmth of his bare torso.
Time seems to suspend itself. His arms tighten around me, one hand splaying across the small of my back, the other cupping the back of my head. I can feel his heart hammering against mypalm, matching the frantic rhythm of my own. The firelight casts shadows across his face, making him look almost otherworldly, and when his gaze drops to my lips, heat floods through my body with enough intensity to make me dizzy.
"Fuck, Aria." My name is a rough whisper, practically a curse.
I know with absolute certainty that if I don't move now, if I don't put distance between us, we're going to cross a line we can never uncross. But I don't move. Can't move. Don't want to move. Because I'm tired of fighting this, tired of pretending I don't feel the pull between us, tired of being sensible and careful and alone.
