Page 66 of Hold the Line

“So… cleaning or lunch?” I ask, rolling up my sleeves.

“Cleaning,” she says without hesitation.

We fall into it immediately, side by side, the way we used to when I was younger and we tried to make the house feel like ours again after one of his benders. Empty vodka bottles clink as we toss them into a growing pile by the door. Old sheets that no amount of washing could ever fully save get stripped and bundled up, still carrying the sour stink of alcohol and sweat. Furniture gets pushed around. Dust and ghosts get swept out with every pass of the broom.

“I want to sell this place,” my mother says as we move into the third room, her voice quiet but firm.

I am on my knees beside the old bed, pulling out a disgusting collection of empty bottles, crumpled papers, and things I do not want to look at too closely. She stands in the doorway, arms crossed tight over her chest, scrunching up her entire face in pure disgust at the state of it all.

I pause, a half-empty bottle in my hand, and look up at her. The house has been a weight on her for decades. A prison disguised as home. Selling it makes sense. It feels like the final nail in the coffin we just lowered into the ground.

“Okay,” I say simply, tossing the bottle into the growing pile with the rest. “We will sell it.”

She nods once, sharp and decisive, then steps further into the room to help, muttering under her breath about the mess her ex-husband left behind.

We are knee-deep in the wreckage of the third room when my mother pauses, wiping her hands on an old rag. She looks at me carefully, the way she used to when I was young and she was trying to read how bad the night had been. “Viktor… do I need to worry about police or anything?” she asks.

I look up at her from where I’m crouched, pulling more junk out, and smile. “No, Ma. I told you, vodka killed him.”

She stares at me for a beat, not quite believing it. “Seriously? Vodka?”

“Yeah.” I toss another empty bottle into the pile with a dull clink. “He even told me some stories from when I was a kid. Two bottles and a half.”

“I’m so sorry you went through that,” she says softly.

I stand up, brushing dust from my hands, and pull her into a brief, careful hug. She leans into it for a moment, small and fragile against my chest, before we both go back to cleaning.

Later that night I lie in my old childhood bedroom, the same narrow bed that still feels too small for my frame. The house is quiet now, cleaned as much as we could manage in one day, windows cracked open to let the cold air chase out the last of the stench. My mother is asleep down the hall. I should be sleeping too, but sleep has never come easy in this room.

I grab my phone and check the time. With the ten-hour difference, it is still early back in Ravensburg. I type out a quick text to Cole:

Take your antibiotics. Don’t make me call the doctor.

I hit send and set the phone on my chest, staring at the familiar cracks in the ceiling. A moment later the screen lights up—not a text, but a FaceTime call. I answer it immediately.

Cole’s face fills the screen, flushed and glassy-eyed, curls a wild mess against the pillow. He is clearly high as hell on the good pain meds.

“Hey, Daddy,” he purrs, voice slow and sweet and filthy, the word dragging out like honey.

A low chuckle rumbles in my chest despite the long day. “Hi, soroka.”

Cole’s grin turns wicked, lazy and dopey from the meds. “Mmm, I like when you call me that in that voice. All deep and Russian and bossy. Did you miss me? Because I’m in your bed right now, wearing your hoodie and nothing else, thinking about how big you are and how much I want—”

I cut him off with a low growl, shifting against the too-small mattress as heat curls low in my stomach. “Careful, magpie. You are already in trouble for skipping your antibiotics earlier. Keep talking like that and I will make you describe exactly what you are doing with your good hand when I get back.”

Cole lets out a breathy little laugh, eyes half-lidded, clearly loving every second of it. “Promise, big guy? Because I’ve been so good and patient and bored without you here to pin me down and—”

“Cole,” I tease affectionately as I shift on the narrow bed. “Stop making both of us horny when you know I can’t fuck you properly until you heal.”

Cole actually pouts—full bottom lip out, glassy eyes wide and dramatic, the expression so ridiculously endearing it makes my chest tighten. Even through the screen, even high on the painkillers and half a world away, he is lethal.

“But Vik…” he whines, dragging my name out in that needy way that always gets him whatever he wants. “It’s been days. I’m dying here. Your hoodie smells like you and I’m so hard and I can’t even touch myself the way I want because of this stupid wrist and—”

I groan softly, closing my eyes for a second. “You are going to be the death of me. Be good. Take your antibiotics like I told you. When I get back I will take care of you properly. Until you forget every minute I was gone.”

Cole makes a soft, frustrated sound that goes straight to my cock, but he nods, still sulking adorably. “Fine. But you owe me so many orgasms. And cuddles. And you have to put my tongue ring back in every single time.”

“Deal,” I murmur. “Now show me that pretty face and tell me how your day was before I decide to make you come just from my voice.”