by James, Tate
Even though Portia's dead and gone.
Still, Arsen loved her just as much as the rest of us, so if anything, he's just proving how badly Natalia is getting to him. He'll never admit it, but we all know it's true.
"Okay, enough of that," Hawke snaps, shooting Arsen a look that could damn near kill. "Is she in the shower?" This question is directed at Mace, who gives a silent nod back. "Good. Then let's discuss the other piece of unresolved team business. The bet."
Hawke’s eyes simmer as he rubs a hand over his stubbled chin, and I frown. But then again, I'm not surprised. Hawke is an idiot who doesn’t know what he wants; I’d all but forgotten about that stupid bet we made. Feels like ancient history to be honest.
"The bet," Mace repeats when none of us speak. He sounds irritated as shit right now. And that’s rare, Mace getting annoyed with Hawke.
"All bets need a winner," Hawke replies, folding his arms over his chest and eyeing up each of us. "And our little mark did spill the info we were hoping for."
I scoff.
Can't help it.
Somebody here has to be the bigger man and stand up for Natalia. Never in a million years thought that person would be me, but well, here it goes.
"She left a list on a pew. That's not confiding in or confessing to any one of us in particular. This bet was stupid from the get-go, and it's even stupider now. We can't play with that girl anymore."
"Did you have some out-of-body experience when you went into that coma?" Arsen snaps, rising up from his chair in an instant and flicking his still burning cigarette into the brush without a care. Like, that shit is dry; we could all burn if he starts a fire. But ... he'd probably get off on that, huh? His name is Arsen for a reason. "Like did you wake up with a halo and wings, hands folded in prayer?"
Arsen gets in my face and my nostrils flare. I'm still recovering. I can't fight him right now: I'd lose. Much as that pains my healthy ego to admit that.
"Back the fuck off," I growl out, bristling as a smile twists that crazy bastard's face into a mosaic of cruelty. A hard object stabs into the side of my skull, and it only takes me a fraction of a second to realize that Arsen's got a gun to my head.
"Did nearly dying turn you into a saint, Colt?" he taunts as Hawke, Mace, and Weston stiffen. They can try to disarm him, but ... it's going to be a close call.
I'm not ready to die, I'll be the first to admit it. Used to be my motto to die young and leave a beautiful corpse. The thing is, Portia's been gone for a while now, and even if her death hurt like a bitch, life just goes on. It goes on, and it never stops. I'm not ready for it to go on without me, not when I know that I'll be forgotten and wiped away in a hot second.
"Don't make me regret bringing you back here," Hawke growls low in his throat. I don't know what, exactly, happened with Arsen after the shoot-out, but if I survive this moment I'm going to ask. Hawke owes me that much, at least.
I’m also pretty sure that as soon as I’m out of danger, Hawke is going to wring this bastard’s neck. Arsen’s behavior is out of control, and there’s nothing our fearless leader hates more than losing control of his team.
“Arsen, I’m warning you …” Mace growls out, backing Hawke up, but I know that he won’t risk my life just to make a point. No, he and Hawke will wait for Arsen to cool down, and then they’ll run him into the ground as punishment.
At least, I hope so. Because Arsen without a leash is a terrifying thought.
"Shut up," Arsen snaps, his hand shaking. The way he looks at me with those ice-blue eyes betrays all of the emotions he doesn't want to admit he's feeling. "Tell me: if I pull this trigger, and you survive a second time, what will you do?"
"For one, I won't waste my time making stupid ass bets on the back of a girl who's supposed to be our teammate." I reach up and Arsen lets me push the barrel away from my skull. Mace moves forward, but Arsen just swings the gun around to point it at him next.
"No, don't touch me. I'm warning you right now." After a moment, he slips the weapon back in its holster and backs away toward the front steps, past Mace and Weston.
They let him go, their eyes wary, like hunters watching a wounded bear.
"Make a new bet if you want," I say, feeling my heart pick up speed. "I'm not all about that."
"First person to get her to confess her love gets double the money," Hawke says, and my mouth drops open. His face has gone hard and cold, his hands squeezed into fists by his sides. If this man doesn't start learning coping techniques for his anger, he's going to end up in an early grave.
"Are you serious?" I start, but Hawke just steps forward and grabs me by the front of my belt. I guess since I'm not wearing a shirt, that's the only place he can grab for good leverage. Our faces are inches apart, but to be quite honest, I'm having an even harder time reading him than I am Arsen.
"Last bet was to get her to spill info. Well, this time, I want her to spill her heart. All of it. Do your worst, boys." Hawke releases me, and I stumble. Luckily, Weston's there to catch me. On his way out, Hawke pauses next to Arsen and puts his mouth very near the other man’s ear. I think the only reason he holds back is because he isn’t sure what he’ll do to Arsen if he gets started on him now. Probably kill him. As if to confirm my thoughts, Hawke continues. “You pull that shit again, and I will put you in the ground. Now get your ass inside and start scrubbing toilets, you maniacal fuck.”
Hawke takes off into the dark woods to go god only knows where.
There's nothing out here in this Podunk shit part of Oregon.
Oregon.
Half the population is made up of aging hippie liberal douchebags, and the other half is aging right wing nutjob psycho-religious hicks. Ugh. I miss the city already.
"You alright?" West asks, but I shrug him off, feeling Arsen's eyes on me. He can smell weakness, and the last thing I need is to wake up in my bed at night with him hovering over me, carrying a knife.
"Fine."
I storm up to the side door and wrench it open only to see a small-statured girl whip around the corner and pound up the stairs.
Huh.
I bet she heard us, I think as I lick my lower lip.
If she did, she'll have two choices: she can run away again, or she can finally figure out how to stand and fight. And I don't mean physically, because she's clearly made great strides in that arena. Nah, the Russian princess will have to decide if she's strong enough to take her seat on the opposite side of the chessboard and move her own pieces.
I just hope she calls checkmate on both Arsen and Hawke, sooner rather than later.
The universe knows she's the only one with the power to do that.
Too bad she isn't aware of that just yet.
Chapter 6
Natalia
Two weeks later, and I still haven't figured out how to channel the anger I felt that day when I overheard the guys discussing their filthy ass bet.
With a scream, I throw myself at Hawke and he shoves me off, sending me flying. I stumble, and end up bruising my shoulder on the training mat before he puts a knee to my back.
"I could kill you right now," he says, completely devoid of any emotion. "Last bet was to get her to spill info. Well, this time, I want her to spill her heart. All of it. Do your worst, boys." Please. He pretends to be the upstanding leader type, this lawful-good badass who’s all morality and shit.
He's just as bad as Arsen.
Worse.
Arsen is a psycho who wears his crazy for all the world to see. Hawke just hides behind a stern face and a strict obsession with rules and protocol.
"You're angry," he says, just a simple observation. "You have been for weeks. And you've been a useless liability during every single session since. Did that praise I gave you go to your head?"
"No," I grind out, hands fisting on the black, worn surface of the training mat.
"Then get up, clean yourself off, and take a walk. While you're outside, ask yourself if you really want this. The last thing I need is
some angry, spoiled princess pulling my team down." Hawke releases me, and I suck in a sharp gulp of air.
Shaking, I push myself to my feet and stalk out of the room, past Mace and up the stairs, my hand sliding along the old banister. There might be six people in this house, but I may as well be communing with ghosts.
Most everyone seems to be avoiding me.
The only person who actually stops by to see me is Arsen, and even then, only when he thinks he won't be caught. He pushes me up against walls, and yanks my pants down, fucking me until I can't breathe.
It's become a game for us, to see how much we can fuck without getting caught.
We've managed at least one or two sessions a day since the incident on the porch. He did put his gun to Colt's head, I remind myself, but somehow I knew he wasn't going to pull the trigger. No, I'm more upset about the bet.
The bet.
Please.
On my way to my room, I linger, hoping Arsen might find me and join me in the shower. I should be just as angry with him as I am with the others, but at least he talks to me. Well, at least he fucks me. Even Colt, West, and Mace—who didn’t seem all that thrilled with Hawke’s ridiculous bet—haven’t been honest with me. Arsen … I grade on a different rubric. Maybe it’s not fair, but as long as he’s acting semi-normal, I consider that good enough.
I wait a bit longer to see if he’ll show. Hoping he’ll show.
He doesn't, and I end up washing my hair quickly and scrubbing my body until my skin is pink, just to get rid of Hawke's scent.
When I get out, I find both Weston and Colt waiting for me in my room. West is sitting on my bed, smoking a cigar with the window open, and billowing smoke into the cool evening air.
Colt, meanwhile, is going through my underwear drawer.
"You fucking perv," I snap, storming over to him in a towel and ripping away one of the few pieces of clothing I have: a big, ugly wrinkly pair of granny panties.
"You're such a hot, young thing, why wear moth-eaten diapers?" he asks, completely oblivious to the fact that I might be pissed he's gone through my private things.
"Because I'm here at Hawke's mercy," I snap, feeling my frustration bubble up inside of me. "I have no money, and no way to get to a store. No phone, no computer, no access to the outside world whatsoever. I get what he gives me, and what he gives me are ..." I sigh as I look at the awful lump of fabric. "These."
Both of them just stare at me for a long moment, before busting up laughing. Like, not even polite chuckles. Proper, bent over, wiping tears away laughing.
Assholes.
"I'm sorry," Colt wheezes after way too much fun at my expense. "I'm sorry, babe, tzarina, we're not laughing at you, I promise."
Glowering, I fold my arms over my chest—making sure to tuck the offensive knickers under my armpit and hold my towel up all at the same time. "Oh no? Sure looks that way."
"Of course not," Weston snickers. "We're laughing at Hawke. He's developed some kind of weird split personality with you. One minute he looks like he's going to go all caveman and nail you on the training room floor, and the next ..." He starts laughing again, waving a hand at the saggy bloomers which are probably secondhand. Shudder.
I wrinkle my nose, but then again, the bet was all Hawke’s idea, wasn't it?
Smells a bit like self-sabotage. The idiot really doesn’t know what he wants, does he?
"Well, it'll be a cold day in hell when Hawke gets back into my granny panties," I snap, narrowing my eyes at the two of them. I’d go completely without, but chafing during workouts is sort of a thing. Gross, I know, but I prefer panties—but only when working out. Otherwise, commando works just fine for me. "Are you both in here for a reason? Or is this hotel suddenly not big enough for all of us to steer clear of each other?"
Colt gives me a lazy smile, trailing a teasing finger over my bare collarbone, collecting a droplet of water and bringing it to his mouth. Weston watches us with hungry eyes, and I take a precautionary step back.
"Why would we want to steer clear of each other, little princess?" Colt asks me with a predatory smirk. "In fact, West and I were just saying how we should be spending more time together."
I just fucking bet they were. Can't win a love bet when we're barely even coexisting.
I snort. "No thanks."
"Don't be a prissy bitch, Nat," Weston says in a bored tone, blowing another plume of smoke out of my window. "We're going out, and you're coming."
My eyes narrow, and I tighten my arms over my towel. "Like I said, no thanks. Now get out of my room."
"Why?" Colt challenges me, still standing way too close for comfort. "You expecting company? Maybe the crazy kind?"
Ah. So Arsen and I haven't been as subtle as I'd thought.
I take a moment to think about whether that bothers me, then shrug. Fuck them, and not in a good way. I don't have to care what they think of whose dick is between my legs, and god knows I'm not confessing love to Arsen anytime soon, so who gives a shit?
"So what if I am?" I reply, raising my chin and meeting Colt's eyes without flinching. Of all of them, though, he was the one I was least pissed at. He'd actually stood up for me, which was a hell of a lot more than anyone else. Weston included. Then again, neither of them have exactly come forward to fess up, now have they? That’s probably why they’ve all been avoiding me, isn’t it? They’re ashamed. Or at least, I hope they are.
Colt's green eyes narrow for a fraction of a second, then he clicks his tongue and turns back to my dresser. "You're coming with us. It'll be fun." He looks over his shoulder, giving me a cocky smile. "You remember fun right?"
I don't bother responding with anything more than a glare. Weston is still reclined on my bed, smoking, and the way he's looking at me ... ugh. Why did these fuckers have to ruin a perfectly good situation by lying to me? And yeah, I do see withholding information as lying.
"Here, get dressed." Colt throws a bundle of my shitty shapeless clothes at me and I just barely manage to catch them and hold my towel in place. "We leave in five."
He stares at me a bit longer, running his eyes over my towel like he can see through it, then smirks and heads out the door.
Weston puts out his half-smoked cigar on the roof tiles (we’re a bit sans screens over here) then rises from my bed with cat-like grace. "Don't tell Daddy we're going out," he whispers as he passes me, his breath warm on my ear and the heady, cloying smell of cigar smoke invading my nose. "He'll just ruin all the fun."
Even if he hadn't said anything, I still wouldn't have told Hawke shit. Talk about a fucking party pooper.
When I hear his footsteps on the creaky old staircase, I slam my bedroom door shut and hurry to dress. As much as I want to hold my ground and refuse to go, I'm going stir-crazy. If they're really going to get me out, give me even a few moments of interaction with real, live, sane humans, well then I'm all in.
The clothes Colt picked out do nothing for my body. But it's either the baggy gray t-shirt and black cargo pants, or the sweat-soaked sports bra and yoga pants that I just left on the bathroom floor.
"Fuck it," I mutter to myself, fluffing my wet hair a couple of times and peering into the ancient, yellowing mirror. "What I wouldn't give for a lick of mascara or some concealer."
Not that I need it all that badly, but considering I never used to leave the house without a full face of makeup—not even to run out for vodka and cigarettes—this whole ‘natural; thing makes my reflection feel like a stranger.
"Going somewhere?" Arsen asks from behind me, and I damn near jump out of my skin with fright.
Spinning around, I find him lying back on my shitty single bed. Almost exactly where Weston had just been.
"How did you—" I start, then my eyes flicker to the open window. We're on the second story of the hotel but shit like physics doesn't really seem to apply to Arsen. "Never mind."
"Miss Petrova," he sings in a creepy, psychotic sort of way. It shouldn't turn me on, but it does. Oh fuck, it
does. "I asked you a question."
He uncoils from my bed and crosses the distance to me in two huge steps, pinning me against the dresser.
"I said," he whispers in that dangerous tone, his lips brushing against my ear, "are you going somewhere?"
When I don't immediately answer, his hand snakes up to the back of my head, his fingers twisting in my damp hair then yanking. I hiss a sharp breath of pain, but don't pull away. For one, I like my hair attached to my head. For another ... I'm all kinds of turned-on.
Why, why, why do the crazy ones always get me so fucking hot?
"Look at all this pretty skin," Arsen croons, forcing my head back further and running his tongue down the line of my throat. "Makes me want to wrap my hands around it and just ..." He sucks a deep breath then releases it with a shuddering hiss "... just squeeze." The fingertips of his free hand mimic his thoughts on my upper arm and I know I'll have bruises there tomorrow.
Against my better judgement, a breathy moan escapes my throat and Arsen's pale blue eyes glitter with lust.
"Natalia!" Weston bangs on my door three times in quick succession. "Time to go!"
The sudden interruption sees Arsen's hold on me loosen, and I take the opportunity to slip past him.
He watches me go, his eyes fucking me from across the room as I drop my towel and start to change, right there in front of him. His breath hisses out and he rubs his hand over his smooth chin.
"It's taking everything in me not to destroy you right now," he says, and I can't decide if he means destroy with sex ... or something else. So I ignore him, only to find myself pushed up against the bed, his front to my back, my cargo pants only halfway up my legs. Arsen shoves them down, and I bite my lower lip to stifle a groan.
The doorknob jiggles again, and I can hear West sigh from just outside it.
"We have to go while Hawke's in the shower, or we're never getting out of here."
