14. Sasha

CHAPTER 14

SASHA

I stride past the looming buildings sprouting all over this campus, the soles of my trainers kissing the sun-seared pavement with a rhythmic thud. Vlad's been absent these past few weeks–flitting in and out of the city, wheeling and dealing. At this point, I wonder if he’s truly busy or if he's avoiding me. Or maybe he’s not even real. I can’t remember the last time we properly spoke.

Logan's been my shadow instead, very corporeal and silent. But even he's not himself lately. There's a gloom about him that sticks tighter than his own skin. His mum's unwell, that much I've sussed out, but he clams up whenever I broach the subject. He's got walls and he doesn’t seem to want to let me in.

"Be back in a tick," I told Logan earlier, wanting to dodge any gawking eyes on campus. He grumbled something about duty and always watching me, but his furrowed brow eventually smoothed, and he stayed put in the car after I explained that a lad with a security detail would draw way more attention.

Now, here I am, trying to slot myself into this academic jigsaw where every other piece seems to fit without struggle.

The buildings here are different, new, blocks of glass and steel and white metal sheets. Native plants sprawl over the dry terrain where the campus stands. Occasional bunches of cacti reach up to the cloudless sky. I feel a bit like those poor cacti clinging to the idea that a normal life is somewhere within grasp.

But I don’t think for people like me it’s possible.

Still, my brother tried to pretend things were dandy. Vlad's instructions were clear: "Get back to your studies, Sasha. Design was always your thing. So do that. Get your diploma."

Easy for him to say.

I pull out the campus map I grabbed earlier, studying it with furrowed concentration. The paper rustles in my hand. A normal student would blend in seamlessly, but I'm a square peg, rough around the edges, trying to push through the round hole of university life.

A bead of sweat traces a line down my back, and I curse the Vegas heat under my breath. It's an oven out here, and I'm half-baked already. I shove the map back into my backpack and wipe my palms on my jeans. There's no shaking this feeling of being a right misfit, a lost lad in a landscape that doesn't know the meaning of mayhem or blood debts.

As I wander past the admissions building, the quietness is almost suffocating. Occasionally, I see a bloke passing by. Probably someone like me, catching up on their units before the fall semester. I’m used to the noise of the uni back in London. I never had to take summer sessions there. And I suddenly long for the comfort of Logan's presence, the soundless strength of him. Even with the secrets wedged between us, he's the closest thing to a rock I've got in this swirling tide. It’s unfortunate that I have a crush on him, but as long as I don’t act on it, we are going to be fine.

" Nravitsya tebe zhara sdes' ?" The words slither through the air in Russian, heavy as the heat itself.

My heart lurches into my throat. I haven’t had anyone speak Russian to me in a long time. Except Vlad. But I’d recognize him in a heartbeat. And this voice doesn’t belong to him.

I spin around. There stands a man. A big one. He’s decked out in sparkly jewels—a massive ring on almost every finger and a heavy chain around his thick neck. A permanent smirk flaunts an ostentatious golden tooth.

"It's a bit too hot for my liking," I reply politely even though every single hair on my body stands.

The man steps closer, and there's an edge to him that sets my nerves jangling. He doesn't belong here, not with that bling screaming louder than any campus bell. He’s not just an accidental Russian worker here who somehow telepathically figured out I speak the language in question.

" Kak pozhivaet Vlad ?" His voice is a grating rumble.

My mind starts spinning.

Vlad... This has to be connected to the bombing…

Bollocks. I should have let Logan come along. There’s no one here anyway to gossip about a potential student with a bodyguard.

I muster bravado I don't feel and ask, "Who are you?" I pause to swallow to dislodge the tightness in my throat and add quickly, "I’ll pass your name along to Vlad, if you want to say hello."

His smile—it's chilling—grows bigger.

"You are asking the wrong questions," he says with a heavy accent. "And you are asking the wrong person too, Alexander."

There’s a threat there, hiding among those words, but I can’t decipher their true meaning. "I’m not following."

"You should be asking your brother about what really happened to your father."

The world tilts, my pulse thundering in my ears. Seeds of doubt take root deep within me, watered by fear.

What games are these, where even the board is hidden?

"What’s that supposed to mean?" My voice is a thin veneer over the panic bubbling beneath.

The man merely flashes another gold-toothed smile, his eyes glinting with some unspoken secret.

" Do svidanya ... for now," he says in Russian, his farewell a dark, sinister promise.

He turns on his heel and starts walking away. And although I want to run after him and shout my demands until he explains, I’m frozen, glued to my spot as if my feet have grown goddamned roots.

After the man with the golden tooth disappears into the landscape of the campus, I finally bolt. My legs carry me faster than thought, each step pounding against the pavement echoing the rapid beat of my heart. I sprint across the premises and toward the parking lot. I'm a blur among the meditative vibe of summer session. I’m a blur with tunnel vision and a raging pulse.

The Navigator that comes into view is a small relief. But still.

Logan's there, leaning against the car, his figure a solid fortress in black pants and a tight T-shirt. As I approach, his stance shifts. His gray eyes are alert, scanning me from head to toe like radar pinging for threats.

"Fucking hell," I gasp out, my breaths coming in sharp, staccato bursts.

"Christ, Sasha, what happened?" His voice slices through my fog of fear, grounding me back to reality.

"Nothing," I lie, trying to steady my breathing. "Just... got a bit turned around is all." But my erratic pulse betrays me, and I know Logan's not buying it. He sees right through the facade. He always does.

"Talk to me," Logan insists.

"Can't... not here," I manage between gulps of air, my gaze darting around us, half expecting the golden-toothed toad to reappear. Every shadow seems ominous, every whisper of wind carrying danger.

"Fine. Get in the car," Logan decides, ushering me toward the safety of the vehicle with a protective arm that feels like a shield against the world.

I slam into the passenger seat and try to get my breathing back to normal. My backpack is on the floor by my feet.

Logan's gaze locks onto mine, unyielding. "Out with it, Sasha," he demands. It's a tone that accepts no argument, one that commands attention without raising volume. I can't help but find comfort in the authority of it. Strangest thing but I don’t have to inspect how my mind works.

"Did someone follow you?" Logan asks when I give him no answer.

I shut my eyes and draw as much air in my lungs as I can. I’m a Solovey. Although I hate it, I have my father’s blood running through my veins. I can do this.

Then I exhale and turn to face the man who’s been protecting me all this time. "Logan..." My words stumble out, tripping over a tongue that feels too thick. "I need you to teach me how to shoot."

The air between us tightens, charged with the weight of my request. His eyes narrow slightly, a spark of something unreadable passing through them.

"Teach you to shoot?" Logan echoes, disbelief edged with a concern that burrows deep into my chest.

"Yes."

"Your brother will kill me."

"He doesn’t need to know," I argue.

Logan continues to stare at me.

"No matter how hard he tries to protect me, it’s not enough," I say. "My family’s shady dealings are catching up to me and if I can’t protect myself—at least the bare minimum—I’ll be dead soon. And fuck, I don’t want to be dead, Logan."

There's a pause, pregnant with unspoken words and tension that wraps around us. Finally, he nods, jaw set in a hard line. "Alright. You win. I’ll do it."