Page 86 of Devotion

“Wha?!” She giggles.

“I swear to God, I nearly passed out.” Gamma particles warble at the edges of my vision, red and green spots dancing.

“I think I did blackout for a moment.” She peeks over the edge of the bed. Right before she flops down on top of me, snuggling into my arms.

“I’ve never felt anything like you.”

“And you never will, lover,” she whispers, pinching my chin between two fingers and forcing me to look at her.

“I never want to,” I say sassily.

“Careful saying these sweet nothings. I might have to take you again.”

“I will actually die if you do.”

“Same. My body is depleted.”

“I need water or a meal or a ten-hour nap. Oo! Or maybe vodka!” I say in my best-worst Russian accent, eliciting a scowl and a slap across the ass from her as I bounce up from the floor. I shake my ass just a little on my way to the kitchen.

“Yes, vodka! Pour me a glass.”

“Geezus! A glass? I was gonna take a shot.” Dammit, the stuff is growing on me.

“Babies take shots. Have drink with me like man.”

“I mean, if we have any grapefruits or cranberry juice…” The flat stare that I get around the corner has me snorting with laughter. “I’m kidding. I’m kidding. I would never ruin perfectly good vodka with juice.”

“You ever put fruit in my vodka, you get a fruit in your ass.”

“Whoa! Don’t tease me with a good time, Vanya. We’ll get to that stuff later.” I wink, hopping out of view. Her snarling growl of…anticipation? Promise?

Either way, it sends shivers up my spine.

A few shots and a delicious meal of potato soup and bread with cheese later, we’re on the couch, wearing slightly more clothing than we’ve had on in quite some time. The afternoon sneaks up on us, napping for a few hours.

“Wake up, Shakal. I want to hit something.”

“You are the most incentivizing alarm clock.”

Before I know it or want it, we’re out back training for the rest of the day. I’ll admit, once I stopped wanting to puke, the exercise does me a whole shit ton of good.

Target practice proves that we can both hit a fly from fifty yards. Vanya does not like flies.

Sparring renders the usual results, both of us scraped, panting, and contemplating heading inside for another romp in the sheets. My only advantage this time is the lack of a certain black-and-tan-furred ally to keep me on the ropes.

Vanya’s worried about Skanda.

But until we can make our way back to St. Pete’s there’s no way to know anything for sure. If we get to go back. There’s been a conspicuous radio silence ever since we left the city.

Aside from one message alerting all Volk nearby to lay low.

So we lay low.

And wonder where the fuck Pyotr is. Where the fuckanyoneis.

Sparring and practicing with Vanya is the only thing keeping her occupied enough not to go rushing headlong back into danger. So I will spar twenty-four seven.

Not that I don’t want to figure things out myself.

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