18. Sasha

CHAPTER 18

SASHA

I'm in my bed, staring at the ceiling, my heart still galloping like a wild horse in my chest. It's been a few days since the unsuccessful hit. And although the adrenaline has worn off, the anxiety hasn’t. Sometimes I don’t believe that I'm still here, breathing, hurting inside where nobody can see. I still don’t believe that I kissed Logan right after death danced past us, that I actually had the guts to do something this rash. And now—although he promised he wouldn’t say anything—the fear of being outed clings to my skin.

But there’s a thought that won’t leave my mind, no matter how hard I try to push it down. Something Logan said to me on the rooftop.

We both know it's dangerous .

The sight of his face in crisp high-definition flashes in my mind, every detail carved with precise strokes. His chiseled jawline, reflecting soft twilight hues, appears as an enchanting paradox against his resolute gaze.

Makes me wonder if what he said means he feels the same way I do—rattled over this alarming intimacy that’s grown into something very tangible.

And if that’s the case…

I actually don’t know what I will do. Perhaps, it’s wise to check my theory.

That’s how I find myself padding barefoot into the kitchen a little later that morning, muttering a greeting. The tiles are cold against my soles and my heart is beating way too fast.

Logan's munching on a pastry, a fortress of solitude sitting by the breakfast nook.

"Morning," Logan's voice is gravel mixed with syrup as he replies. "Sleep well?"

"Like a log," I lie, pouring myself a coffee with hands way steadier than my nerves. "You?" I flop down across from him in a chair.

"Enough to keep going." His eyes are concentrated on his plate as if he’s avoiding me. Actually, he’s been doing this—averting his gaze—ever since the kiss.

Did I fuck up?

Am I overthinking it?

Should I let it go?

The questions keep spinning in my head until I’m dizzy. This is bloody frustrating, being in the state of the unknown.

I clear my throat and ask, "So any TV shows you like to watch?"

Logan looks up at me from his plate, expression confused, one brow pinched. "A show?" he asks, chewing on his croissant.

"Yeah, you know, some family drama or sitcom. You follow any of those?"

He seems to be thinking like I’ve asked him to crack the mystery of the world. After a long moment of silence, I add stupidly, "The weather forecast is promising more rain next week." I shift in my seat, feigning nonchalance as I stretch out a leg beneath the nook. My foot brushes against something warm and solid—Logan's ankle.

He chokes a bit on his pastry, coughing as he pulls his foot back. Our eyes are still on each other and I know he knows I did what I did on purpose, but neither one of us says anything.

Instead, I take a sip from my mug to hide the smirk threatening to surface. Because, bloody hell, Logan’s just as guilty.

"So, anything on the agenda today?" he asks, deflecting, his voice a touch too casual.

"Same old, yah? Trying not to get dead." I keep my gaze fixed on his face, looking for signs of fracture in his composed mask.

"Always a good plan," Logan replies.

I do it again. Accidentally nudge his foot with mine, testing the waters that we both know could drown us.

"Do you need something?" Logan's voice finally gives out, crackling a little as our eyes snap into a deadly stare across the breakfast nook. He pulls his foot back again.

"Maybe," I admit, my tone low. The words between us are like a spider's web, delicate and dangerous. And I don’t know why I’m not scared of him, not scared to have him know my secret, the one that can kill me just as dead as the hired gun.

Logan stands abruptly. "I'll be in the living room if you need anything."

I watch him leave, feeling a strange giddiness bubble up inside me. He's hiding something behind that stony facade too, and I'm keen on finding out what. It's not just because I fancy a challenge—it's because, despite the danger, the thrill of this forbidden dance has me hooked, and I can't help wanting more.

Vlad’s out, leaving me with a sense of restlessness.

The memory of our kiss with Logan taunts me, the ghost of his lips on mine. It's a craving I didn't know I had, an itch right under my skin.

I've long since accepted the truth about myself. The tangle of identity cleared up on a fateful day in seventh grade, when Nastya Pavlova hemmed me into an empty classroom during a lunch break—its stale air of forgotten books and oxidized metal still lingers in my head from time to time. I felt nothing when she kissed me. I soon decided to indulge my curiosity, to chart the unknown waters of this new reality within me. I did the same thing Nastya did to me but with a boy. My father found out, of course, and beat the shit out of me while I chewed back a scream. Because making sounds only infuriated him more. Then, came the next school year and I was on my way to London and away from the family that would never accept—even rumors—that the younger son of Yuri Solovey was gay.

But now, this fear I’ve been clinging to for so long has morphed into something different with Logan around. And this stupid determination to find out if he truly finds me as attractive as I find him has me doing silly things. Has me flirting.

"I’m going to hit the gym," I suggest a couple of days after the footsie incident. Another plan is already hatching in my mind. "Fancy keeping me company, Muscle?"

"Sure," Logan replies, his voice devoid of any emotion.

Down in the gym, I start my routine, limbs stretching, muscles warming. Then I peel off my shirt, discarding it without ceremony. In the mirror, I catch Logan's reflection. He's looking away, a subtle shift, but I notice. He's avoiding the sight of my bare skin, and that small act fans the flames of my curiosity even more.

"Can't handle it, Logan?" I ask, my voice echoing slightly in the space.

"Nothing I haven't seen before," he says gruffly, but there's a tension in his jaw that wasn't there moments ago.

"Then why look away?" I probe, hopping onto the treadmill, setting a pace that'll have sweat slicking down my back in no time.

"I’m here to protect you," he answers curtly, but his eyes are flint, striking sparks I’m desperate to ignite into something more.

"Right," I say, dragging out the word. "Professionalism."

As I run, the rhythm pounds a mad beat, matching the thrumming of my heart. Each step is a dare, each breath a challenge thrown into the charged air between me and my bodyguard. And all the while, I can feel his gaze, heavy and heated, even when he thinks I'm not watching.

"Enjoying the view?" I ask some time later, unable to resist the jab.

"Doing my job," he shoots back, but there's a crack in his armor, a slip that tells me he’s just as caught up in this madness as I am.

"Keep telling yourself that," I reply, the corner of my mouth lifting in a smirk that I know he can see, even if he pretends not to.

The treadmill whirs to a stop, and I step off, every inch of me screaming with the exertion and something else—something wilder. It's a dance, this thing between us, one where the steps are unknown and the rhythm could change at any second. But I'm learning his moves, and the thought sends a shiver of anticipation down my spine.

Ready for crunches, I drop to the floor, my back hitting the cool mat with a soft thud. The gym's air is thick with the stench of sweat and rubber, a heady mix that does little to distract from the thoughts swirling in my mind.

"Hey," I call out casually, as if I'm not orchestrating every single move. "Mind giving me a hand? Keep my feet from slipping, yeah?"

He strides over, all gruff efficiency, and drops into a crouch, and presses his palms against my trainers, anchoring me to the floor while everything else feels like it's floating away. I focus on my breathing, trying to keep it even, but the proximity is like a live wire sparking under my skin.

"Thanks," I grunt between lifts, watching him through half-lowered lashes. "Wouldn't want to end up arse over tit."

"Focus on your exercise, Sasha," he replies, his voice as steady as the pressure on my feet.

I continue, exhaling sharply with each rise, feeling the burn in my muscles and something fiercer in my veins. It's a dangerous game, this mingling of veiled glances and accidental touches, but it's one I can't seem to stop playing.

Then, in a calculated move, I push upward too far, my face hovering inches from Logan's. Our eyes lock, time stuttering to a halt. There’s a charged silence, filled with words unsaid and breaths not taken.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Logan grabs my arm with one hand to hold me in place, his other hand is still on my foot. His voice is low, a growl laced with anger and something else, something that sounds a lot like apprehension.

"Trying to figure you out," I reply, my heart drumming a frantic beat. This is more than just a test now; it's a precipice we’re both toeing.

"Stupid boy," he hisses. His grip tightens on my arm, fingers digging into flesh. "If we get caught, I'm the one who'll be in trouble. You're Vlad's brother—nothing will happen to you. But I’ll lose my job."

"And I could lose my life," I shoot back. Being Vlad’s brother means nothing when you don’t meet the Solovey family's expectations.

The tension holds us captive, like a physical force, until finally Logan releases me and gets up, stepping back as if scorched. I sit up, the room spinning slightly, the flutter in my stomach a confused mix of thrill and dread.

"I'll be outside," Logan says.

And with that, he leaves me alone.

It seems like yet another failed attempt on my part.

Bollocks.

I almost give up, trying to get Logan to talk to me about the kiss or anything at all for that matter. For the next few days, he’s quiet and only responds to my questions with one-syllable words.

Occasionally we’ll have a small conversation, but his deflecting skills are impressive and it’s nearly impossible to make him open up whenever the chat moves into a touchy territory.

But deep down the challenge still lives. And while I don’t actively make any plans, I use the opportunities that rise up. Like the one tonight when the house is emptier than ever with Ivan gone on some errand for Vlad and the security only patrolling the perimeter.

I find myself in the pool, testing it properly for the first time ever since I moved to Vegas.

The coolness of the water wraps around me like a blanket, each stroke a reflection of my own restless thoughts. I'm swimming to outpace them, but it's no use. Logan’s face floats into my mind again, surprised and confused.

I try to sink him with a list of flaws: too old, too simple, perpetually grouchy. Yet, every attempt to drown the idea of him only makes it bob back up, gasping for air. It's risky, this unwelcome fascination—fatal waters for a Solovey who dares to desire another man.

"You should have told me you’d be here," the voice cuts through the splashes.

I twist to see Logan standing at the pool's edge, his arms folded across his broad chest, eyes scanning the area with a vigilance that never sleeps.

"Why?" I ask, wiping the droplets from my face to see him better.

"Because Ivan's not around and I need to know where you are in case something happens."

I take a moment to think about what to say but instead of offering a lame excuse, I challenge him, "Care to join me?" My voice is oddly playful despite the tightness in my chest. "It's not all work and no play, is it?" I step forward, toward the edge of the pool where he is, and put my elbows on the tiles. He looks taller from this vantage point, taller and meaner. "The water is great."

Logan shakes his head, the faintest twitch of a smile threatening the corner of his mouth. "I'm not here to play, Sasha. Or relax."

"Well, you're missing out," I say, pushing off from the edge to float on my back, staring up at the dark sky. "You know, if I'm gonna die, I'd rather go out after a nice swim."

"Your safety isn't a joke."

"Chill, Logan. It's just a dip in the pool. Besides," my voice turns serious, "before any hitman gets within spitting distance, they'll have to face Vlad's private army."

"I have to be ready, army or not," he asserts, his gaze sweeping over the secluded area, ever the protector, while I slice through the water. "And me being wet and naked isn’t ready."

"Wet and naked sounds good to me."

Logan’s jaw clenches and red colors his cheeks.

"You said it," I shout from across the pool.

"You need to stop it, Sasha," he hisses out.

"Come on, Logan. It's not like dipping your toes in will bring the end of the world," I taunt as I watch him stand there, a statue sculpted from duty and stubbornness.

"End of the world, no. End of my job? Possibly," he retorts, but there's something in his voice I haven't heard before—a hint of amusement or maybe irritation.

"Just admit it, you’re scared of water," I prod further, feeling a stupid grin spreading across my face. Getting Logan into the pool has become my personal goal.

"Scared of nothing," he says flatly, but the crease between his brows tells me otherwise. "I've got responsibilities."

"Responsibilities can wait for a minute or two," I argue, relishing the way water whispers freedom along my skin while I glide.

"Not when someone has put a hit on you."

"Ah, right. That…"

I swim up to him and splash some water on his immaculately ironed slacks.

Logan’s expression turns to disbelief. "Really? Is that what you’ve got?"

"Get in," I coax. "Nobody's home anyway."

He drops into a crouch and our faces are close now, so close I can feel his breath on my wet cheeks. My cock stirs in my trunks and I have this urge to grab it to make it stop. But I can’t do it in front of Logan, can I?

Fuck.

"Listen to me, you little shit," he whispers. "If we have unexpected visitors, I’m the only person standing between you and death and you don’t want me disarmed and unprepared."

"You underestimate yourself," I whisper back. "I think you were born prepared."

"Not the point," he deflects.

Again.

That unbreakable wanker.

"Are you getting in or not?"

"I already told you."

"I can tell Vlad you kissed me. You’ll get fired. Then we can hang out as…friends." Frankly, friends isn’t the word I’m looking for, but I’m too restless because of Logan’s proximity to be thinking straight.

Logan's expression hardens, and his jaw clenches so tight I reckon it could crush diamonds. "That was you. You kissed me first, Sasha. And if you even think of lying to Vlad—"

"Then what, Logan? You'll kill me?" I laugh, the sound sharper than I intended. "Or would jumping into this pool right now save you the trouble of waiting in the long line of everyone trying to end me?"

His silence is like a blade hanging over us, and I can almost hear his thoughts churning behind those stormy gray eyes. "So are you getting in, or am I calling my brother?"

The hesitation that follows is palpable. Logan knows the stakes, knows the danger. But then, with a resigned sigh that seems to carry the weight of his entire world, he rises to his feet and begins to peel off his clothes.

My breath catches as he removes his T-shirt, revealing the ink on his torso, on his pectoral and his abdomen. The muscles ripple beneath his skin like some ancient, powerful current as he wrestles out of his slacks. He's all hard lines and brute strength in his upper body and grace in his legs.

Something stirs in me, something primal and hungry, as I watch. If I had any doubts about being gay up to this point, they are all gone now. Wiped by this shameless display of masculinity.

"Happy now?" Logan's voice cuts through my daze as he steps into the pool, the water rising to embrace him as it has me.

"Ecstatic," I reply, but beneath the levity, my heart is racing, pounding out a rhythm that speaks of risk and desire intertwined beyond unraveling. His presence feels like an unspoken confession, and the night suddenly seems darker, charged with an energy that could either consume us or set us free.

And I’m not certain which one it’ll be.

I move closer to Logan, the water between us a mere whisper of space. For a moment, I just stand there, trying to calm the blood in my body. It’s embarrassing enough he didn’t accept my kiss. If he sees my hard-on right now, I won’t be able to face him at all.

Our eyes find each other and I stare at him for a long time, reading him, wondering if we are on the same page about this—whatever it is going on between us. My throat is tight and words won’t come out. He’s quiet too.

Eventually, my thoughts settle. If I’m going to die, at least I can find solace in the fact that I did something for myself. Not for the Solovey family, but solely for me.

My hand reaches up and my fingers graze Logan’s arm. The contact is light as a ghost's touch, but it's enough for his jaw to lock tight, a visible tension seizing his frame.

"Careful, Sasha," he grits out roughly. "This is a dangerous game."

I let out a soft chuckle, the sound blending with the night air. "It's not a game, Logan. Not to me."

"Neither is it for me," he replies, his tone betraying a hint of something more.

In that instant, spurred by his admission, I lean in and whisper in a voice that’s a strange velvet shadow, unfamiliar even to my own ears, "I want a do-over."

Then I kiss him. Again. Press my lips to his like he’s my last hope in this wretched world where my life is just a number. The expiration date keeps being pushed back.

Logan melts, his lips softening beneath mine, moving with an aching tenderness that defies his strength. His tongue finds its way out, caressing me first, then demanding entrance. The world tilts off its axis as our lips crash together for real.

The kiss deepens, and I'm drowning in sensations I never knew existed. Our bodies press against each other, the water around us a cool caress to the fire blazing beneath our skin. For the first time, I feel awake, truly alive, as if I've been stumbling through a foggy dream and suddenly the mist has lifted.

I don’t know how long we stay like this, in the fresh moonlight, water lapping around us like buried secrets from the past. All I know is that this moment is ours and no one else’s, and I never want it to end.

It’s intense and new and makes my brain short-circuit and the next thing I know, Logan steers me backward and presses me against the cool tile of the pool. His lips never leave mine. It's a fierce claim, one that brands me with an ownership I can't escape. Our bodies keep sliding, water acting as both barrier and lubricant, intensifying every touch, every friction of skin on skin.

We keep going until there’s no air in our lungs, until we’re both breathless. If I didn't know how to kiss properly before, I sure do now.

Feeling reborn, I break away just enough to speak in his ear. "Ask for a day off next week."

"Why?" Logan's response is a rumble against the wet skin of my neck, stirring vibrations.

"Because you're taking me on a date," I say, and there's a part of me that marvels at my own boldness, at the sudden reckless need driving my request.

Logan goes quiet and still as a grave.

My heart hammers a frantic rhythm, each beat a drum in the deep end of the pool. The silence looms large, stretching into eternity as I wait for his answer.

"This is ridiculous, Sasha," he finally murmurs, eyes scanning the surroundings with a predator's caution. "Some of your brother's guards could see us."

"They don't come into the house." My retort is immediate, dismissive of the risks. "And right now, I don't give a damn."

"Wrong..." Logan's word is half-sigh, half-growl.

"Does it feel wrong?" My question is a purr, a challenge wrapped in the fabric of my newfound seductive tone.

He hesitates, and in that second’s fraction of indecision, the reality narrows down to the heated space between us. Then, so softly it's almost lost in the sound of our erratic breathing, Logan confesses, "No... it doesn't feel wrong when I kiss you."

"Exactly. I don’t want to die like this…"

"Like what?"

"Not knowing how it is—being with a man. Properly."

"Sasha—"

"Shut up. Just shut up and listen to me." My pulse is wild and loud in my ears. "We both know it’s not some glitch. You’re attracted to me as much as I’m attracted to you, and I promise I can keep a secret. Why fight this? Why not let it happen and see where it leads us?" I don’t understand where it’s coming from—this begging, this insane begging. It’s not me. Not what I would usually do when I have… the urge. I’d go and hide and maybe jerk off. But I would never ask for another man to be a part of my undoing. Except Logan.

"I’ve never been on a date," I press, seeking the affirmation that will tether this connection into something more real. "It’d be nice to know what it’s like before I die."

"You’re not going to die, Sasha. I won’t allow it."

"Fine. And the date?"

Logan's nod is almost imperceptible, a small surrender in the face of our impossible circumstance. "Okay. I’ll take you out on a date."

A mix of emotions rush through me—fear, anticipation, and an aching need. My mind races ahead, painting pictures of moments that could be. A future fraught with danger but alive with the promise of what's unfolding between us.