32. KAVI

32

KAVI

Just my luck, I'm being kidnapped. I scream as loud as I can, fighting them off. "You can't take me!"

"It's me," a rough growl of a voice claims, somehow ducking the swing of my arm.

"Who is ME?!" I shriek-ask. Whoever this person is, they're too solid to budge. My measly punches bounce right off them. I'm gathering myself mentally to go for the eyeballs when this rugged shadow man gives me his name.

"Dmitri," he grunts. "It's Lokhov."

Oh.

I settle. We're still in the dark, so I can't see his expression when I hiss out, "Why are you kidnapping me?"

"I'm not."

Isn't he? Instead of putting me down, I'm lifted into his arms, carried away. He walks, apparently with enough spatial memory to get us into the living room without knocking anything over. Gently, I'm lowered onto a couch. Then he disappears. When the lights flood on, I realize he had gone to turn them on.

My eyes water. I'm blinking, half-sprawled on the couch like a disoriented goddess. Not that I feel super glamorous. Dark pinkish-hair sticks out of a toppled-over bun, and I'm wearing pajamas. A silky top and shorts so short you can see dimpled thighs.

Lokhov stares, half-way across the room, frozen mid-step.

I'm frozen, too, that is—for Lokhov is naked. Not fully, but enough. I drag my teeth over my lip, trying not to hyperventilate. He's got sweatpants on… and that's it. No shirt. There are abs. And then there are more abs. And sure, I've seen muscles before. Tyler and the rest of the team packed a lot of them, but Lokhov's body is different. It's meaner. Blunter. There's a happy trail, thumbprint wide, arrowing into his pants.

When he finally reanimates, it doesn't help. Lokhov stalks like caged energy. It's careful and slow. A panther waiting behind wheat stalks. A kind of beast that you don't expect is moving but is, inch-by-inch.

The back of my neck prickles as he approaches.

Clumsily, I raise my chin. "Excuse me. Why were you, um, lurking like that?"

"Why were you sitting in the dark?"

My mouth twists. "When did you get in?"

"Last night." I watch as his eyes travel down the length of me and then stop abruptly, locked on my knee. I look down and see it. The most minor of scuffs, probably from when my leg grazed the edge of his kitchen island or something.

"You're hurt." It's not a question, but a statement. Before I can tell him it's nothing, he's already there, hunched over and inspecting it.

There's nothing to inspect. It's pink, somewhat sore, but there's no blood or anything. My skin was barely scratched.

"It's fine," I say.

Calloused fingers feather along the joint. "Does it hurt to move?"

"Uh. No." To show him, my thumb goes down and buffs out the mark.

"I'll call a physiotherapist to come over. Just to make sure you're okay."

I laugh, but the sound fades when I see his expression. He's not smiling back. It wasn't a joke. "Oh, that's very unnecessary. I'm good."

"If you don't have good knees, you can't move. They're the largest joints in your body. You can't—you don't want them compromised."

Lokhov scans the pink mark again. One hand clenches enough for white knuckles to show. The other one probes to see if my knee is tender. "We should get you checked out to be sure, Basra."

"Um, there's no need. It's really okay and more my fault. I was the one sitting in the dark. This place has a lot of switches and I didn't know which one turned on what, and then I thought to myself, I should make it so you don't notice me?—"

My explanation doesn't make him happy. The opposite happens. Dark eyebrows storm down. Eyes narrow. Head cocks. His scowl deepens. "You living here is not contingent on being invisible."

"… Okay."

"I mean it."

To my shock, he goes down on one knee.

His face is inches apart from mine. "Be loud if you want, Basra. Matter-of-fact, hate me if you want. Turn on all the lights and it won't matter. You'll still have keys to this apartment. Got it?"

Something warm and confusing lodges in my throat. "I'll burn this place down," I whisper, responding very inappropriately to all the things he's just said.

Maybe it was the right response because the corner of his mouth twitches. Whatever intensity was rolling off Lokhov just seconds ago has softened. He gets up.

"Wait here," he orders.

I listen, mostly still processing. The promise of having keys to this apartment, no matter how I behave, flutters inside me. I'm sifting through the meaning. His intention. Can it be true?

When Lokhov comes back, my mouth gapes open. He sits down beside me and lifts my leg so it drapes over his lap. In his hand is an alcoholic wipe and a bandaid.

"I don't like that," I say, pointing to the wipe. "What if it stings?"

"I'll distract you." He tears it open. There's a distinct ripping sound that has me thinking of other squares of foil being opened. Heat curls downwards, treacherously. I fight to keep a neutral face.

"Look at me, Kavi."

I'm staring at the alcohol wipe in his hand. Dmitri's knuckle goes under my chin, lifting my face up towards him.

"Will you show me your work?"

Work… I rub my sternum, wondering what he means when it clicks.

My laptop. The photos I was editing earlier. I cross my arms, more hugging my chest than anything. "No—I don't show anyone my work."

"Aren't you going to send those images to a client?"

"Yes, but that's different." It's localized exposure. For a purpose.

Before I can defend myself, he asks, "When did you switch from drawing to photography?"

My heart stumbles over a beat. "You remember that?"

"Remember what?"

"My drawings."

"In high school, you always used to carry around a sketchbook."

"I still draw." I suck in a breath, ignoring how much more fluttering there is inside me. "But I—um—found I like people in motion more. It's—um—different."

"Is it your thing?"

I don't know how to answer that.

"Is photography what you want to do?" he asks again.

"It won't pay the bills?—"

There's the tiniest of smirks sliding his mouth up. "That's not what I asked. I asked if it's what you love to do."

"Not everything works out," I deflect.

"I saw your editing," he says.

I go utterly still. The thought of him watching me edit?—

I can't believe it. How long did he watch?

It's like I'm suddenly naked and have nowhere to hide.

"You have talent," he tells me flatly, as if there is no doubt.

I press into the cushions behind me.

"How did you learn all that?" Lokhov asks.

"There are hundreds of courses online…"

"How many of them have you taken?"

So many.

"Some," I mumble. "But I'm still—I mean, I'm not a professional."

He's a professional hockey player. Tyler is a professional hockey player. My dad is a professional coach. I'm self-taught and not smart in the way other people are. I have a feeling Dmitri doesn't know I didn't get into college. I should tell him, so he can lose this look on his face. The one that says he's completely impressed by me.

"You have something—" he starts.

"Can we talk about something else?" I blurt out. I know myself. I can't stand the thought of someone praising my work because then I get inside my head, wondering if they are just saying nice things to be nice. That it's not true. That I'm being lied to.

Instead of answering me, he does it. He uses the alcohol wipe. I gasp. It does sting for a second, but then Dmitri is blowing on the hurt-that-is-not-really-a-hurt, before peeling off the bandaid and sticking it on.

My throat is parched dry. I'm flushing and ogling his mouth—which I need to stop doing. And the way my body is squirming is also inappropriate. Quickly, I shift until my leg comes off his lap, and we're sitting side-by-side.

"How?" I ask. "How are we going to survive living together?"

It was supposed to be a hypothetical question I whisper to myself in my head, but I've said it out loud.

Dmitri crosses his arms. "By avoiding each other."

"Yup. Great start."