Page 15 of Runt of the Pack
Grey eyes widen, surprise and something more primal flashing through them as Vlad takes in our compromising position. I brace for him to retreat, to re-establish careful distance between us. But he just cradles me closer, his calloused thumb tracing delicate shapes on my shoulder.
“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to take such liberties,” Vlad rasps, voice still husky with sleep. His stare drops to my lips and the air suddenly feels electric, charged with possibilities. I wet my dry lips unconsciously. Vlad tracks the movement, leaning infinitesimally nearer...
Abruptly, he seems to recollect himself, releasing me to roll onto his back with a muttered curse. Disappointment pierces through my yearning as inches of cold bedsheet now separate us. I want to reclaim Vlad’s warmth, to admit how deeply last night affected me. But vulnerability strangles the reckless words unspoken.
Silence swells uncomfortably. Seeking distraction, I rise briskly and don my robe. “I’ll make us some coffee,” I murmur without meeting Vlad’s eyes. His gaze follows me, heavy as a touch, as I flee the charged room still tingling from our unguarded embrace.
In the kitchen, I try to re-center my scattered emotions. You’re playing with fire, I scold myself as I light the stove, thoughts churning darker than the brewing coffee. Getting attached to this fascinating stranger will only end in heartbreak when he leaves. I’ve weathered enough loss in isolation—I mustn’t crave more.
I glance out the window as the coffee begins percolating. Snow heaps in towering drifts, sparkling under the pale predawn light. No sign of it melting anytime soon. We’re well and truly snowed in, Vlad and I.
Two mugs in hand, I cautiously re-enter the bedroom. Vlad has risen, raking a hand through his rumpled hair. His toned chest and scarred arms gleam bronze in the pale sunshine, making my pulse skitter. He accepts the coffee with a murmured thanks, fingers grazing mine and igniting sparks once more.
We sip the scalding brew side by side atop the tangled sheets, stealing glances when the other isn’t looking. The potent brew helps clear some of the sensual cobwebs from my addled brain. But our shared awakening replays vividly behind my eyes, kindling reckless thoughts of where such dangerous intimacy might lead.
As much as I may yearn to explore this magnetic pull further, I know pursuing it would be utter folly. This interlude out of time will end soon, Vlad returning to his rightful place and me to mine, alone. I would do well to remember that, and not seek more than has already been gifted.
“Let me top you off,” Vlad offers, taking the coffee pot to refill our mugs. The domesticity of sharing a morning drink strikes me. He could just as easily have fled to the kitchen, preserving distance. But instead, he lingers, drawn to my company as I am to his.
I tell him about my pressing commissions for Yulia, the progress I’m making on the Saint Petersburg cityscapes so they’ll be complete before the roads turn impassable for the season.
Vlad listens attentively, grey eyes focused on me over the curling steam. “Your patron must be very successful to support so many artists,” he comments.
I explain Yulia’s hotel connections while Vlad asks thoughtful questions, seeming genuinely interested in my humble artistic pursuits. He doesn’t brush off my work as mere hobby pieces, as so many do. The realization warms me. Perhaps we connect on levels beyond the obvious physical passion simmering dangerously between us.
When I mention needing to take the finished pieces into town once the snow melts, Vlad sets down his mug decisively. “I’d be happy to accompany you, ensure you get there and back safely. The roads can still be treacherous… As I’ve learned firsthand.” He gestures ruefully to his healing wounds, coaxing a small smile from me.
I hesitate, but sense only sincerity in his offer, not manipulation. “I’d welcome the company,” I say softly.
We share a lingering look of perfect understanding. The moment stretches, more than reasonably. I break it by standing abruptly, pulse racing.
“Well, I should get back to work. Wouldn’t want to keep Yulia waiting on her paintings.” I force an airy laugh, avoiding his piercing gaze. “I’m afraid life around here is pretty simple and dull. You’ll likely get bored.”
As I turn to flee, Vlad’s firm hand seizes my wrist with an iron grip, halting me in my tracks. “Nothing about you or your life is boring to me, Anya.” He says it with such stern conviction that a thrill rushes through my veins. My breath hitches as our gazes lock once more, his stormy eyes holding me transfixed.
Mercifully, his grip soon relaxes, allowing me to slip free and regain my scattered composure. Vlad rises smoothly from the bed, restoring careful distance between us.
“Come,” he says. “I’ll fix us some breakfast before you lose yourself in work. A shower can wait until after.”
I just nod mutely, skin still tingling where he grasped me. His sheer determination to care for me even in my own home sets my heart racing dangerously. Steadily, Vlad has begun dismantling my defenses, one fragile brick at a time. Yet I cannot bring myself to shore them back up, to re-enforce the barriers his patient siege threatens to breach.
Not when keeping him near promises such exquisite torment.
14
ANYA
I add the finishing details to the ornate iron lampposts along the snowy Saint Petersburg embankment, heeding Vlad’s advice not to become so absorbed in work that I forget basic needs. After being hunched over the easel for hours, my neck and shoulders ache terribly with tension. I rinse my brushes and stand, rolling my stiff joints with a groan. A hot shower might help relax my overtaxed muscles.
Setting my palette aside, I tread quietly down the hall to the bathroom. The mirrors are still hazy with remnants of steam—seems Vlad recently finished his shower. I turn the tap to let the water heat up again, filling the cramped space with fresh billows of steam. The soothing spray will feel heavenly after being stationary, painting all morning.
I’m unbraiding my hair when the pipes begin to groan and knock loudly. “Damn loose couplings,” I mutter, making a mental note to ask Vlad to look at them later. Stripping off my paint-specked clothes, I step under the streaming water, moaning in relief as the heat begins penetrating my sore limbs. I stand motionless, letting the tension slowly dissolve from my neck and back.
Abruptly, the pipes give a great shuddering gurgle. Water pressure surges, blasting me in the face. Then the spray cuts out completely with a dying wheeze.
“Oh, no! No, no...!” I gasp, blindly groping for the taps. But it’s too late—the ancient water heater has clearly given up the ghost… So much for a soothing shower.
Cursing at the icy drafts now penetrating the steamy bathroom, I grab my towel and start blotting the rivulets from my skin and hair. At least most of the paint and grime rinsed off before the pipes failed. I ring out the sopping mess of my braid as best I can, teeth already chattering. Note to self—chop more firewood for a scalding bath later to make up for this.
