14. KAVI

14

KAVI

Somehow I've fallen forward and resigned myself to more humiliation because bad days can always get worse to a point where you accept everything is cursed…

Two big hands catch me at my hips before I hit the floor.

Considering who was right behind me, I know a chivalrous plane phantom hasn't saved the day.

"Kavi," says Dmitri, sounding pissed as if the clumsiness is on purpose.

"Lokhov," I snap back, using his last name purposefully when other times I use it randomly, my mind switching between that and Dmitri for no reason other than what feels right in the moment.

"I got you," he grumbles.

He certainly does have me. My body is bent in downward-facing dog, and with his reflexes rescuing my face from smashing into an armrest, Dmitri has pulled me backwards from my hips, almost up against his hips so now it only looks like he's smashing me from behind, doggie-style.

Wouldn't it have been better to let me fall? Especially because now I can't help but imagine the exact same pose, but him pulling back and pushing back into me. Thickly.

The seat of my shorts dampens and not because I'm wondering if thickly is a real word.

Fuck.

Before I can scramble away, I'm lifted and set neatly back on my feet. Lokhov isn't even winded by having to reposition my entire body. Instead of letting go, his hold shifts up to my shoulders. Knuckles whisper along my spine. Not on purpose, since I sense his body stiffening behind me. More like with supreme patience (annoyance) he's guiding me into the seat like I can't possibly move unsupervised any longer.

"Roads and now planes," he mutters.

"Hey!" Plopping down on the seat, I glare up at him. There's a rant brewing inside me, but it stops at the strangest sight. His mouth. One side is slightly up, at an angle I've never seen.

"Are you annoyed or laughing at me?" I accuse.

"Lokhov doesn't laugh," supplies one of his teammates.

I see no one is bothering to hide how much they're eavesdropping. Great.

"Go away," growls Dmitri, realizing the same. He doesn't sit, but reaches up to tug on a clasp above him. With a whoosh, a curtain drops, blocking us from the others.

When he catches me gaping at him, Dmitri shrugs as if this is normal behavior. "I had it installed, because I like to sleep on the flights with no interruptions."

"Bro, someone put down this barrier," Hughes yells. "Where did you go? We've been separated!"

There's a snigger.

Oh, wait. That's me.

"Don't encourage him," chides Lokhov, finally sitting down beside me.

Twisting to face him, I scrutinize his mouth. "I'm seeing things."

"There's medicine for that."

"Did you… smile?"

He looks offended. "No."

"Do it again," I order.

"Do what again?"

Instead of telling him, I reach over, my fingers hovering above the scar notching his mouth. Quickly, I tap the right corner where his upper and bottom lip meet.

Both his eyebrows shoot up.

"Not too much," I say. "Just enough that the person has blue balls, wondering if you're actually laughing at them or not."

"I give you blue balls?"

"You give everyone emotional blue balls."

His throat flexes, but I'm more distracted by the mouth.

Why are his lips so damn plush? I almost rub along the crease but yank my finger away just in time.

He doesn't blink. The way his pupils press on me is unsettling. Golden-brown. Predator-still.

Between my crease (the naughty one), a low throb echoes.

What am I doing?!

Shifting backwards, I swing my bag to settle on my lap, pretending the zipper on there is fascinating. Meanwhile, more announcements sound overhead. I don't hear the words, too focused on the inner shakings of my womb. Can a uterus be rattled? Mine sure feels like it is. Unfortunately, not in a bad way.

It started when he asked me if I was okay. I almost dropped my bag because it felt like my answer mattered to him. The downward-dog situation didn't help either. It exacerbated things.

Regardless, I should not be feeling anything.

I'm here to escape Tyler's ambush. Also to make a point, that I'm not as sad and option-less as everyone thinks. To do that, I need to be seen with Lokhov at his game. Not fall into pseudo-fucking poses around him.

A hand reaches across my chest right as I'm redoing my ponytail. Bad timing, as my breasts have expanded, so that arm brushes against the edge of my nipple.

Dmitri curses.

" Excuse me!" I snap. "Why is your hand there? "

"Because you can't follow instructions."

"I will not be treated like some child?—"

By my hip, I feel him palm something. A strap pulls across my waist.

"Relax, Princess," he rasps. "I'm only buckling you up. Didn't you hear the announcement? We don't leave until everyone's seatbelt is on."

Click.

Oh.

"I could have done it," I huff, jabbing my thumb in his direction.

"Sure."

"Don't sure me."

"What else do you want me to say?"

"Nothing."

Lokhov takes that to heart, or maybe scary silences are truly his default mode. We don't talk as the plane readies itself for take-off or when it lifts into the sky. Unfortunately, mid-ascent, turbulence rocks us around.

I'm crossing and uncrossing my legs with every tumble. Normally I take something to settle my stomach before flights, but in the chaos of today, I've forgotten.

As we fall a few inches, I'm close to whimpering.

Out of nowhere, an upturned hand is held out, waiting by my knee.

He can't be serious.

He is… ?

It's a silent offer.

Allowing me to… hold on to him.

There's that stupid uterus wobble again. But no. I shouldn't risk it getting worse. I'll just bear it?—

The plane rocks to the side. I shoot out and grip his hand, vice-like, with no mercy.

Our pilot comes on to apologize, promising everything should smooth out soon. Unfortunately, not before my arm snakes around Dmitri's arm. It's sturdy, warm, and smells good. Logically, I know he can't save us when we plummet to our death, but his physical strength is some weird salve for my anxiety. Especially when his other hand finds my knee, squeezing it with what I assume is reassurance. Or a reminder that I'm acting like an idiot.

Eventually, the plane stabilizes. Fluffy clouds come out and the sky warms to a mauve-purple. We're nice and even again.

I'm about to sag in relief, but then I see my nails have pressed indents into Dmitri's hand. Nothing to do with the altitude, my stomach plummets. Have I hurt him? And for what? Because I'm weak. Scared.

I try rubbing out the marks.

When they don't immediately disappear, I open my mouth to apologize. Sincerely, I'm wincing over what I've done. Regret bloats my stomach. "I can't believe I?—"

He stills my fussing by circling my wrist with his fingers.

"Sorry I-I …"

"Look at me, Basra."

It's a tone that compels obedience. Flat, direct, and quiet.

Reluctantly, I do. With the sun coming in and slanting over his face, it's as if his eyes are pure gold. They search mine. When I try turning away, his fingers hold my chin. "Why do I hate the sound of them?"

"Of what?" I'm whispering, but I don't know why.

"Your apologies."

It's a ridiculous thing to say. "But I've hurt you."

"This?" He holds up his hand. "Did you forget I'm a hockey player, Basra? My whole body is a bruise."

"Yes, but I don't like to cause you—anyone pain."

"I'm aware, Princess." His tone is sardonic. "But I'm a man who doesn't mind scratches." For a second, I think I see his eyes drop to my mouth. "Give me your marks. I'll wear them."

That statement…

My brain stops working.

And suddenly I'm thrown back to high school, to that night of prom. I think he'd said something similar after I'd vomited on his shoes…

"I don't care to hear your apologies, Basra. Stop giving them to me."

"But I ruined your prom ? —"

"Don't care, Princess."

Was that when he mockingly called me a princess for the first time—or am I projecting what I want to hear? As if there's a tangible connection between teenage Dmitri and the grown man rescuing me again today.

My heart thumps as if knocking for attention. Warmth spreads over my cheeks. He really can't mean what he is claiming. That he'll bear my… marks?

Tyler hated public displays of affection. There were days I felt like his assistant more than his fiancé. But Dmitri? He doesn't care if his team notices what I did to his hand? And he doesn't care if his team is giving him shit for holding back the plane for me? Or about all those extra questions he has to answer because I'm with him?

This must be what it feels like to be a top-performing hockey player. He doesn't care about anything. Other opinions don't matter.

I wonder…

Can I ever get to that point?

No, Kavi. You have to be a top-performing… something… for that to happen.

I turn away from Lokhov. My head rests against the window.

"Hey." His voice is firm.

I glance sideways at him.

"Are you okay holding your camera?"

My cheeks flash hot. How does he know I have it with me? That my camera is in here?

"I bet it's heavy," says Lokhov. "I have a private compartment on the plane in case you want a break from keeping it on your lap. It's secure and professionally padded for valuables."

My arms close around it tighter. "I, um, should be okay."

"Let me know whenever you are not."

I look at my lap, not sure why the offer is making me feel emotional.

Some people carry around water bottles they can't be separated from, and I have this. My camera. In my backpack are dozens of memory cards, as if I'm afraid I could run out. Sometimes I wish I could photograph all day, and sometimes the possibility terrifies me.

Overall, I don't have a clue what I'm doing, but part of me is so desperate. I really need to figure out what happens next in my life.