Page 450 of Eight of Swords, Part Two

Vasily considers.

‘To me, you smell like fresh snow falling at night. Soft, secret heaven.’

Riley blinks slow, weirdly dazed. ‘Is that… nice?’

Vasily smiles, still making circles over his lower back.

‘Is my favourite smell,’ he tells Riley. ‘Reminds me of winters in Rozhenska, when Roman and I would run outside into the gardens and make angels so Mama could see.’

‘My earliest memory is of snow.’

‘Good or bad?’

‘Both.’

‘What do I smell like to you?’

‘Like…’ new home, safety, sleep, kindness, apples, moonlight. ‘S-sort of like, um. Salt and trees and rain.’

‘That is nice?’

‘Yeah, it’s.’ Riley swallows. ‘Very nice.’

‘Fever is passing?’

He wants so much to say yes, to lie and say it’s getting better, going away now, he can go fight, help the others… but his body is gearing up to solidify the safety it craves beyond all else.

Riley can feel it building, taking control of his limbs.

‘No,’ he whispers, tears falling.

Vasily seems to read much just by looking. ‘I’m not going to fuck you.’

‘Then, uh,’ he utters, shaking all over, ‘it’s better if you just kill me.’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘I th-think I’m dying.’

‘I will not let you. Jules would never forgive me.’ Vasily frowns. ‘Tell me what you need. What will suffice.’

Lock. Bond. Bite. Love. Breed.

Riley’s cheeks are already red, but they darken a fraction more when the thoughts bubble through his soupy mind.

Later, he will despise himself for wanting it, even distantly.

More so given that it’s potentially possible.

But in the moment, there is no energy to spend on dysmorphia, no mental space he can allocate to self-hatred. He’s just trying not to die.

And by this terrible rhythm of his heart… he thinks he might.

‘I know you want it,’ he whispers, eyes closed, rolling his hips against Vasily’s answering arousal. ‘It… it’s OK.’

‘You do not want it.’

‘I do, I—’