Page 30 of Hold the Line

I’m breathing hard, fists clenched at my sides, eyes burning as I stare him down in the hallway, waiting for him to say something—anything—while my heart tries to beat its way out of my chest.

“Cole… does the entire building need to know you hate me?” Viktor asks like he’s trying to talk down a wild animal. Which, to be fair, might be accurate right now.

“Yes!” I huff, the word flying out before I can stop it, sharp and childish and full of every bit of frustration I’ve been carrying. My chest is still heaving, eyes burning as I glare at him. Then I see it—his mouth twitches, just the tiniest bit, like he’s fighting the urge to smile. The absolute audacity of this man makes something snap in my brain. I reach blindly to my left, grab the first thing I touch off the coat hanger—a soft black scarf—and hurl it at his stupid massive chest with everything I’ve got.

The scarf hits him square in the torso and flutters uselessly to the floor. Viktor doesn’t even flinch. Of course he doesn’t.

“Do you want me to explain myself here in the hallway?” he asks, still way too steady.

“Yes!” I throw back, arms crossed tight over my chest like that might keep me from doing something even stupider.

Viktor tilts his head slightly, studying me with that hyper-observant intensity that always makes me feel stripped bare. “Do you want me to get on my knees and beg you to let me inside?”

“Yes!” I say automatically, still riding the wave of pure rage, before the actual words register in my brain. My eyes widen. “Wait… what?” I choke out, voice cracking hard as heat floods my face. The image of Viktor—6’6” of quiet, terrifying defense—on his knees in my sister’s hallway suddenly short-circuits every rational thought I have left. My stomach flips violently. I hate him. I hate how easily he can still do this to me.

“You— you’re ridiculous!” I yell as I point an accusing finger at his chest. “You don’t get to just show up and say shit like that! What the fuck is wrong with you? You think begging is going to fix a month and a half of you treating me like I don’t exist? Like I’m some kind of inconvenience you can ignore until you feel like dealing with me? God, you’re such an asshole!”

I’m breathing hard, still glaring up at him, but some of the sharp edge of my anger dulls just a little. The sheer ridiculousness of the moment—of him offering to beg, of me actually considering it for a split second—cracks through the wall I’ve been hiding behind. My shoulders slump slightly as the exhaustion from the last week and a half crashes over me. I’m so fucking tired of fighting this. Tired of missing him. Tired of pretending I don’t.

I drag a hand down my face, muttering a curse under my breath, then step aside reluctantly, holding the door open wider. “Fine. Get in here before the whole building hears me losing my mind.”

Viktor doesn’t hesitate. He steps inside, ducking slightly under the doorframe, and the second he’s past the threshold the apartment suddenly feels way too small. I close the door behind him with a soft click, leaning back against it for a moment as I try to steady my breathing.

Lena appears from the hallway leading to her bedroom a few moments later, clearly drawn out by the yelling. She takes one look at Viktor standing in the middle of her living room and then swings that sharp, pointed big-sister glare straight at me—like I’m the one being unreasonable here. I roll my eyes hard, crossing my arms tighter over my chest as she gives me a look that says don’t fuck this up before she turns around and disappears back down the hall without a word. The apartment door to her room clicks shut, leaving Viktor and me completely alone in heavy, suffocating silence.

I’m still leaning against the front door, heart pounding, when Viktor speaks again.

“Soroka…”

I spin on him instantly, glaring with every ounce of frustration still burning in my veins. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I was scared. I still am. But clearly me pulling away is doing more damage.”

I blink at him, completely thrown. The anger is still there, simmering under my skin, but confusion cuts through it like a blade. “Scared??” I shriek, my voice pitching higher than I mean for it to. “What the fuck are you scared of?? I don’t bite!” I throw my hands up, pacing a short step away from him before spinning back. “Well… actually at this point I might. Turn feral, start barking too.”

Viktor raises one eyebrow at me, that almost-smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth again like he’s fighting not to react to my ridiculous threat. The sight of it only makes me more flustered, my face heating up as the weight of his words starts to sink in. Scared. Of what? Of me? Of us? After everything, that’s what he’s been hiding behind?

Viktor sighs, and then one of his big hands comes up to cup my face. His palm is warm and rough against my jaw, thumb brushing lightly over my cheekbone, and for a second his dark eyes go impossibly soft. It steals the breath right out of my lungs. I’m still pissed, still vibrating with hurt and anger, but that touch—gentle in a way only he ever is with me—makes my brain blank. Before I can pull away or snap at him again, he starts talking.

In Russian, clearly thinking I can’t understand a word of it. I freeze, staring up at him as the words pour out.

He tells me everything. How terrified he is of becoming his father. How his mother used to be bright and loud, just like me, full of life and laughter, until his father slowly dimmed that light year after year. How he’s spent four years hating every second of keeping his distance from me, because he’s convinced that loving me would mean eventually ruining me the same way. How every time I laughed or chirped or got too close, it reminded him of what his mother lost, and it scared him so badly he chose silence instead.

I stay quiet for once, the muscle in my cheek ticking harder with every word, anger building in my chest like a storm. He’s been carrying all of this—alone—for years. Because of some fear that he’d turn into the man who broke his own mother.

“Listen here, you big Russian emotionally constipated man!” I yell, shoving at his chest even though he barely moves. “I do not know your father, but I damn well know you! And you are not that! You are gentle! You are protective! And you are only violent when you’re protecting the ones you fucking love! You are not cruel!”

Viktor’s eyes widen, shock flashing across his face as he realizes I understood every single word. Then his gaze drops sharply to my mouth. He growls—actually growls—low and dangerous in the back of his throat.

I slam my mouth shut, pressing my lips together hard, suddenly guilty. In the middle of all this spiraling last week, I’d stormed down to Lena’s shop in a fit of pure rage and gotten a tongue piercing myself. The silver barbell is still new, still a little swollen, glinting when I talk. I’d done it because he wouldn’t stop staring at my mouth, because I was so fucking angry at him for wanting me and refusing to have me.

For a second Viktor looks completely torn, like he doesn’t know what to react to first—the fact that I understood his Russian confession, or the shiny new metal in my tongue that is clearly pissing him off.

Viktor’s hand shifts on my face, fingers sliding from my jaw to grip my cheeks firmly between his thumb and forefinger, pressing in just enough to force my mouth open. I whine at the back of my throat, a pathetic little sound I hate myself for making, but I don’t fight him. My lips part under the pressure, and the cool air hits the silver barbell piercing through my tongue. Viktor stares down at it, his eyes locked on my open mouth with an intensity that makes my stomach drop. His frown deepens, brows pulling together as he studies the new metal like it personally offends him.

“You learned Russian?” he asks, still speaking in Russian, his thumb pressing a little harder against my cheek as if he needs to keep me right there, exposed.

I nod as best I can with his hand holding my face, heat flooding my cheeks. I try to explain, the words tumbling out slurred and ridiculous because of the way he’s gripping me. “Y’eah… been learnin’ it f’r years… off th’ internet…” It sounds completely fucked up, all muffled and messy, my tongue moving awkwardly around the fresh piercing. I feel stupid and vulnerable and way too turned on for how angry I still am.

Viktor doesn’t let go. He just keeps staring at the barbell like he’s trying to decide whether he wants to yell at me or do something else entirely. “Why did you get it?” he asks, switching back to English. His voice is low, controlled, but there’s a dangerous edge underneath it that makes my skin prickle.