Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Grigori Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova, Jackie Pike, Hayden Pike, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Ilyasexual Shane Hollander, BAMF Shane Hollander, Homophobic Language, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Bodyguard Shane Hollander, Bratva, Whump, characters in peril

Language:

English

Collections:

Hollanov Big Bang 2026

Stats:

Published: 2026-09-24 Words: 45,985 Chapters: 16/16

you are a runner and i am my father's son

Summary

Ilya’s mouth quirked, and again his eyes flicked across Shane’s face, assessing.
Shane held his gaze. He’d read the file. Ilya Rozanov was the same age he was, but 26 looked a lot different when it had never had to be responsible for anything. Shane could already tell that Rozanov was going to make his job significantly more difficult for no reason except that he could—and best of luck to him. Shane had worked with difficult principals before, and when it came down to it, the job was very simple: keep them alive, keep your opinions to yourself, and go home at the end of the posting.

Or: Someone is threatening the life of Ilya Rozanov, son of Russian Diplomat Grigori Rozanov. Shane Hollander is the Parliamentary Protective Service Officer assigned to his detail.

Notes

A huge thank you to @roseszain for betaing, and to @fae-shrooms for the art! <3 <3 <3

 

You are all INCREDIBLE and I adore you - I'm sorry I'm not keeping up with comments as well as I'd like to, but they make my heart so full <3

Chapter 1

Shane got out of his car and straightened the knot on his plain red tie. He looked at his reflection in the driver’s side window, and he despised what he saw.

He crossed the street, fallen red-gold leaves brushing against his ankles. The air was warmer than it seemed like it ought to be, an été des Indiens that had a couple of guys jogging by in shorts and tank tops; absently he eyed their form, judged it.

Hayden opened the apartment door at his knock, his smile fading when he saw Shane’s face. “You okay, man? All’s well that ends well, right?”

Shane nodded tightly, bit his lips closed. Hayden looked like he was thinking about saying something else, so Shane just kept walking, let Hayden close the door behind him and go back to his post by the window in the kitchen.

Marleau, seated at the kitchen counter, looked up from his newspaper and grimaced. “He hasn’t come out of his room yet.”

Shane gritted his teeth. “Fine. I’ll go in.”

He had to steel himself before raising his fist to knock on the door.

It was just like Rozanov to insist on doing it like this: naked in his fucking bedroom, having draped himself strategically to show off his chest, his shoulders, his abs, his fucking hipbones. Everything he ever did was to get a reaction out of Shane, and all Shane ever did was give him what he wanted.

He closed his eyes and knocked, a quick tap-tap of his knuckles.

“Is that you, Hollander?”

“Yes, sir.” He opened the door, and saw precisely what he’d expected: Rozanov, naked, with a cigarette in one hand and a book in the other, the spine cracked and folded backward in a way that made Shane’s own spine prickle with sympathetic discomfort. The sheet was a white diagonal across his hips.

“You look terrible,” Rozanov said. “Rough night?” He was teasing, yes, but there was also a wariness in his eyes as they darted across Shane’s face, searching.

Shane kept his eyes three inches above and to the left of Rozanov’s face. “I’m submitting my resignation from this detail, effective at the end of the week.” It came out clean and level; he’d practiced in the car. “I’ll speak to Scott, and he’ll transition you to—” Rozanov made a scoffing noise “—another security lead, someone with more experience in—”

“More experience in what? I was told you are the best.” He lowered his book, his expression gone clinical, as if humiliation was an interesting weather pattern moving across Shane’s face. “What’s wrong, Hollander? Bad trip? Say something you regret?”

Shane swallowed hard, lifted his chin. “I don’t remember last night very clearly,” he admitted, “but I know that I behaved completely unprofessionally.”

Rozanov took a drag of his cigarette, leaned sideways to tap the ashes into the empty glass beside the bed. “It’s unprofessional to save my life? Because you did, probably.”

“You know that’s not what I am referring to.”

“Mm.” Rozanov dropped his cigarette into the glass, leaving it smoldering, a thin ghost of smoke rising toward the ceiling. “You are resigning because you kissed me.” He sat back into the pillows, lifted a knee so that the sheet covering it fell, exposing his leg up to the hip. Shane resolutely did not look. “This is not such a crime. People kiss all the time.”

Shane did look at him then; Rozanov’s eyes were narrow. “I don’t,” he said quietly. “You are my principal. I violated every professional code, and while that may not matter to you, it does to me, and—”

“Fuck’s sake, Hollander,” Rozanov snapped, “so you behaved like a person for once in your life.” He spread his hands, the gesture half-contemptuous, half-baffled. “You will leave me over this?”

It was an odd way to phrase it; Shane could only attribute it to Rozanov’s occasionally unpredictable struggles with English. “You’ve wanted me gone from the day I got here,” he said, because it seemed relevant. “This is you getting what you want.”

Something moved across Rozanov’s face, quick as a cloud’s shadow. He eyed his glass as if regretting abandoning his cigarette. “Sit down.”

There was nowhere to sit except the bed. “I’d rather stand, sir.”

Rozanov’s hand went to the cross on his chest—a habit Shane had noted in his first week, filed under tell/stress response—his eyes going heavenward. “When you came here, I thought you were very irritating. That is why I wanted you gone, yes?”

This was firmer ground, and Shane felt himself breathe a little easier. “Yes, sir.”

“You are still very irritating—but you are also very good at your job.” He looked out the window, where the morning light came in gold and indifferent through the curtains. “You were not yourself last night, I understand this. People do stupid things when they have been drugged.” He reached for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand, seemed to think better of it, and left them where they were. “I once—this was in Berlin, I was nineteen—I was given something at a party. And I ended up in a place I had never been to before, with two people I had never met.” His mouth curved. “They were both very enthusiastic. And I was—this is the important part—I was on the phone with my father’s assistant, trying to reschedule lunch.” He looked at Shane, his smile wide and unkind. “I did not stop what I was doing to make this call. She rescheduled the lunch with my father to the following day, did not say a word about it.”

“She sounds very professional,” Shane said coolly.

Rozanov sniffed a laugh, tilted his head. “Yes, so very. I do not hold it against you, Hollander. A little kiss? I have survived worse.” His eyes ran over Shane’s face, slow and appreciative, and Shane felt his cheeks redden. “You have a good mouth. I could imagine wanting more if it weren’t attached to such a…an uptight prick, yes?”

Shane’s mouth—his good mouth, what did that even mean?—tightened. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate that, but I am still tendering my resignation.”

This time Rozanov’s laugh was a little bigger, a little meaner, though Shane wasn’t sure it was directed at him. He dumped the burned out cigarette onto his nightstand, eyed the inside of his glass, shrugged, and poured himself some more vodka from the bottle next to it. “And I am not accepting it.” He took a large sip, made a face, put the glass back down with a sigh. He ran his hands through his hair, a rapid scrub, then pushed himself upright, tucking the sheet more discreetly, a concession.

“You are good at this job,” he said, all traces of humor gone. He held Shane’s eyes, fierce and demanding. “You read a room, you see everything. You are so careful. You were drugged, but you still protected me, and I am alive because of it.” His eyes flicked back and forth, searching, and Shane couldn’t look away. “That’s the only important thing that happened last night, do you understand?”

Shane drew in a shaking breath. “Rozanov—”

“You will stay because you are good, and I need someone good. Whoever Hunter sends to replace you will not be as good as you are. So you will stay. Yes?”

Shane’s eyes were burning, and he couldn’t even have said why. He didn’t know if he felt relief or hurt or gratitude; none of them made any sense. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Rozanov looked away, picked up his book from where it had fallen beside him on the mattress.

Shane shook his head, blinked his eyes clear, pinched away the wetness beneath them. There were other, more important things to discuss than his mortification, his inexplicably wounded feelings. He cleared his throat, squared his shoulders. “In that case, sir, maybe we can talk about who was trying to kill you?”

One Month Earlier

Scott Hunter met him outside the building, shook his hand with a grin. “Shane,” he said warmly. “Find the place okay?”

“Yes, sir.” It hadn’t been difficult; Le Château was a landmark of Edwardian limestone. Shane had arrived early enough to walk the perimeter—he’d been briefed and received all the necessary materials, including a detailed map of the area, the entrances and exits and so forth, but he always preferred to use his own eyes. The loading dock on the side street was half-hidden behind a row of dumpsters and accessible from the alley; there were cameras but no other security. The underground parkade entrance had a gate but no attendant. The lobby entrance was wide with floor to ceiling glass, and the doorman was less than thorough. With 136 apartments, it could easily have been a security nightmare, but fortunately access was limited: the main entrance led to three wings, with six elevators total, each of them accessible only with a keycode. The principal shared an elevator with only one other apartment, which would remain unoccupied for the length of his stay.

Such was the reach of the Parliamentary Protective Service, though perhaps it would be more accurate to say, such were the security requirements of hosting Russian foreign dignitaries in a country that had grown considerably less comfortable with the arrangement since 2022.

Scott rapped on the apartment door, and it was answered almost immediately by a very large man with heavy eyebrows and an aggressively bright smile. “Morning,” he said, and waved them inside.

“Sergeant Shane Hollander, this is Cliff Marleau. He acts as a general aide-de-camp around here—he’s the driver, the cook, and handles the shopping. He can assist you as needed. Cliff, Shane will be running Mr. Rozanov’s security detail. He’ll be joined by Corporal Hayden Pike…” Scott trailed off, and Shane took over.

“Yes. He’ll arrive later this morning. I wanted to get the lay of the land first. He’s terrific, we worked together on our last assignment.”

“Sweet.” Marleau took them on a brief tour, and Shane secretly appreciated the chance to get a glimpse of how the other half lived.

The apartment was large by Montréal standards, and undeniably nice, with wide-paced hardwood floors and multiple fireplaces, though those were unlit. But it felt cramped and overwhelming, with too many rooms carved out from too little square footage, and too much furniture crammed into them besides. The armchairs were chintz and the curtains were heavy. There were paintings wherever there wasn’t flowery wallpaper and oftentimes even where there was. It was oppressive.

The kitchen was different; it was still small, but the shelves were open and the cabinets were white-washed and clean. There was a pair of barstools parked beneath the center island, and its soapstone countertop was spotless. There was only one window, but it was open to the warm September air, and the city noises of the Golden Mile filtered in, comforting and familiar.

“You’ll usually find me in here,” Marleau said, leaning against the counter with his arms comfortably crossed. “Am I going to get one of those earpiece things?”

Scott chuckled, shook his head. “Afraid not, Cliff.”

“Shit. Well, I figured. Anyway, this is the place.”

“It’s great,” Shane said. “Layout’s clear, there’s just the one entrance. View of the street from this window, a good clean angle on the entrance. We can keep out of the principal’s way as much as possible. I assume he doesn’t come in the kitchen much?”

Marleau shrugged. “Sometimes. Not much.”

Scott checked his watch and nodded to Marleau. “Let’s not keep him waiting.”

The study was at the opposite end of the apartment, past the main sitting room with its chintz and its oil paintings, past a second smaller sitting room that seemed to exist for no discernible purpose. Marleau knocked twice on the closed door, then cracked it open without waiting for an answer—which told Shane something about the household’s informal hierarchy, or perhaps just about Marleau.

Grigori Rozanov sat behind a heavy desk with a phone to his ear and a pen in his hand, though there were no papers in front of him to write on. He held himself like a man larger than he was, and Shane had to wonder if he’d been athletic in his youth. He certainly wasn’t now; his eyes were clear but his skin was mottled, and his hand shook ever so slightly as it twirled his pen. But he was neatly dressed in an impeccable suit, what little hair he had left was buzzed close, and when they entered he looked up without any change of expression.

He held up one finger and said something into the phone in Russian. There was a pause, and then he said, clipped, “Да.” He set the phone facedown on the desk and got to his feet.

“Mr. Hunter.” His accent was thicker than Shane had anticipated; for some reason he’d expected a Minister-Counsellor to the Russian Ambassador to have nearly flawless English if not French. He was perfectly understandable, though, and perfectly cordial as he extended his hand to Scott. “Thank you for coming personally.”

“Of course, sir.” Their handshake was firm but brief. “This is Sergeant Shane Hollander. He’ll be leading the detail.”

Rozanov turned to Shane, eyes flicking up and down before looking away. It didn’t feel like he was being sized up, exactly—it felt more like confirmation, like Shane was an item checked off a list. He didn’t offer his hand. “Come. I will take you to Ilya.”

They followed him to a closed door that Marleau had passed by on the tour; Rozanov didn’t knock. He turned the handle and pushed the door open onto a room even darker than the rest of the apartment, the curtains drawn against the morning. The air was close and warm and smelled undeniably like sex.

Shane took it in the way he had been trained to: one queen-sized bed, one small dresser, one window. Two people in the room.

Ilya Rozanov was asleep on his stomach, an arm thrown over the edge of the mattress, the sheets pushed down to somewhere around his knees. With his entire body on display, it was clear that he was almost alarmingly fit, in a way that made Shane feel inexplicably competitive, made him want to add some more pull-ups to his morning routine. And some more squats.

His face looked soft in sleep, younger than his 26 years, and he had dishwater curls that clung to his forehead, a scattering of moles on his cheek and across his back. Beside him, equally uncovered and facing the opposite direction, was a woman with dark hair fanned across the pillow, her breathing slow and even.

“As you can see,” the elder Rozanov said loudly, “he keeps very productive hours.” There was no anger in his tone; it sounded to Shane more like contempt.

The woman moaned and turned her face into the pillow. Ilya Rozanov’s eyes blinked open, and he lay still for a heartbeat before rolling over.

The sheets did not go with him. He was half-hard, uncut below a dusting of golden-brown hair that trailed up his belly before disappearing almost entirely.

Scott produced a short, diplomatic cough and found something interesting to look at near the doorframe; the sound startled Shane, made him drag his gaze away and fix it very deliberately on the middle distance—which unfortunately was still, broadly speaking, the bed.

Ilya Rozanov blinked up at them, lazy and sleepy, and made no move to draw up the sheets. “Good morning. I see we have visitors?” His accent was less thick than his father’s, though still pronounced.

“Ilya. Get up.”

“I am up.” He stretched his arms over his head, arched his back, and Shane felt his face warm. “Mm.” Rozanov’s gaze drifted and landed on Shane, speculative and faintly amused. “What time is it?”

“Late,” his father said shortly. “Come to the study. Five minutes.”

Ilya Rozanov arrived outside the study in track pants and nothing else four minutes later, but he lingered in the doorway for another three, kissing the woman with the dark hair goodbye. She held her shoes in one hand and her purse in the other, and they dangled against his still-bare back as she wound her arms around his neck. Shane could see the knobs of his spine between her wrists.

“Will I see you tonight?” she asked, and giggled when he bit her nose.

“Maybe. I will text you.” He smiled as he watched her go, scratching idly at his belly; the smile faded when he turned to face the group in the study. “So,” he said. “You are my new bodyguard.”

Shane held out his hand. “Yes, sir. Shane Hollander.”

Rozanov’s hand was still sleep-warm, a little sweaty. “Ilya Rozanov.” He looked Shane over with the same unhurried quality he’d had in the bedroom, then turned to find a chair, spinning it around to sit in it backwards, arms folded across the top rail.

Grigori Rozanov stood behind his desk, his arms crossed; father and son were geometrically identical, and Shane was reminded of cowboy movies his grandfather had liked, where men with nothing to lose faced each other with their fingertips twitching toward their holsters. “As you know, there have been threats, against Ilya specifically. Two letters emailed to me at the embassy, one phone call. The nature of them suggests someone with access to information about his schedule, his movements.” He spoke briskly, as if discussing an ordinary business transaction and not a danger to his son’s life.

Ilya Rozanov drummed his fingers against the back of the chair. “Can I see them? The letters.”

“No.”

“My office has reviewed them,” Scott said. “It isn’t uncommon for the children of diplomats to receive threats, but the letters are concerning in their specificity. They reference places you’ve been seen publicly.”

“Restaurants,” Grigori Rozanov said. “Clubs. Places he frequents, when he should not be there at all, given the current political climate. Establishments he continues to visit despite being asked not to.”

Ilya Rozanov’s eyes narrowed. “And where am I allowed to go, Papa?”

His father waved a hand as if batting this away. “Sergeant Hollander, you will accompany him wherever he goes. You will document everything—who he sees, what time he returns. You will report to me directly.”

Scott shifted his weight, the floor creaking beneath him. “With respect, sir, we have our own protocols for threat assessment and movement tracking. The Service is well-equipped to manage that internally, and reports would normally go through our chain of—”

“I am not asking about your chain,” Rozanov said pleasantly. “I am asking that your Sergeant also report to me, so that I can assess whether the patterns of my son’s behavior are creating additional risk.”

There was a brief silence. Shane kept his expression carefully neutral; Scott was his boss, and Ilya Rozanov was his principal. Grigori Rozanov’s demands were unusual but not, strictly speaking, unreasonable. Shane would do as he was instructed, however it played out.

“Very well,” Scott said at last.

“Good.” Rozanov pulled his phone out of his pocket. “If you will excuse me, I had to take time away from the embassy to have this meeting. I have a great deal of work to do before heading back to Ottawa this afternoon. If there is nothing else I can do for you gentlemen…?”

“I believe we have everything we need,” Scott said. “I’ll go over a couple of things with Shane and then I’ll be on my way.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rozanov,” Shane said.

“Which one of us?” Ilya got to his feet, left the chair where it was, and rocked back and forth on his heels, hands in his pockets.

“Both of you, of course,” Shane said smoothly.

Ilya’s mouth quirked, and again his eyes flicked across Shane’s face, assessing.

Shane held his gaze. He’d read the file. Ilya Rozanov was the same age he was, but 26 looked a lot different when it had never had to be responsible for anything. Shane could already tell that Rozanov was going to make his job significantly more difficult for no reason except that he could—and best of luck to him. Shane had worked with difficult principals before, and when it came down to it, the job was very simple: keep them alive, keep your opinions to yourself, and go home at the end of the posting.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Ilya did not appreciate being babysat. It was bad enough having Marley around all the time; much as he liked the guy (and he did, begrudgingly, a lot). Ilya had no illusions that Marley hadn’t been asked to keep him out of trouble and report on his movements, with the second directive being ever so slightly more important than the first. At least Marley would sit on the couch and play Call of Duty and drink a fucking beer once in a while.

The annoying Sergeant Hollander and his somehow even more annoying underling Corporal Pike wouldn’t be caught dead sitting on a couch—probably they couldn’t, the maple trees stuck up their asses would push right through their bodies and punch out of their always so serious faces.

Actually that wasn’t true; Hollander was unsmiling and provokingly earnest. Pike, on the other hand, always had a stupid grin on his face, like it was all just so much fun to follow Ilya wherever he went, so that he couldn’t so much as take a piss without someone checking the bathroom stall for him. They stood in corners and at exits, walked ahead of him and behind him on the street, muttered to each other into their radios, and somehow never made eye contact with him. He’d have thought being guarded meant looking in the general direction of the guardee, at least sometimes.

He did like the panic button, though.

It was a small white disc, no larger than a bottle cap, affixed to the wall beside his bed. Hollander had explained its purpose with his usual seriousness: a direct alert to the on-duty officer (usually himself), guaranteeing a response time of under three minutes, to be reserved for situations in which verbal communication was compromised or impossible.

Ilya pressed it for the first time at 11:30 in the morning because he wanted coffee and Marly wasn’t answering his text; he’d held out an entire week since it had been installed and honestly thought he deserved some acknowledgment for his restraint.

The sound it made was downright colossal: it had weight, it made Ilya want to fling his arms out to push it away, or possibly to crawl beneath his bed. Hollander and Pike came through the apartment door in two and a half minutes, and Ilya listened as they veered in different directions, slamming doors open and shutting them again, until at last Hollander entered the kitchen with his gun raised, eyes scanning past Ilya as they always did, searching the room for the threat.

“Good morning,” Ilya said from his seat at the counter.

Hollander swept the room again, left, right, window, behind the door, before radioing Pike to deactivate the alarm. “Mr. Rozanov.” He spoke evenly but his breath came quickly; he must have run up the stairs rather than wait for the elevator. “Is there a situation?”

“I would like a coffee, please,” Ilya said politely. “Marley is out.”

He watched with interest as Hollander went very still, save for the widening of his brown eyes. And then he holstered his gun, crossed over to the cabinet above the coffeemaker, removed the bag of freshly roasted beans, and poured them into the grinder. He held Ilya’s gaze as he pressed the buzzer; normally Ilya didn’t much care for the noise, but after the alarm it was almost soothing.

He dumped the grounds into the filter; Ilya watched his shoulders as he filled the carafe with water from the tap, every movement economical and precise. Hollander pressed the button, and the machine began to click as it came to life.

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

“No, thank you.”

“Good. Then I’ll remind you that the panic button is to be used for emergencies only.”

“Ah,” Ilya said. “I must have forgotten.”

Hollander gave him a curt nod and walked out.

He spent the next two days behaving himself, more or less. He watched television and let Marley beat him at FIFA, though only once and only because he’d been texting Svetlana. Hollander and Pike rotated through the apartment like the world’s most tedious cuckoo clock—twelve hours on, twelve hours off. He was in the kitchen on the second evening, pouring himself a glass of water, when he heard the low murmur of Hollander’s voice from the little maid’s room. The door was mostly closed but not latched, and through the gap Ilya could see Hollander standing with his phone to his ear. Ilya turned off the water, held very still.

“Yes, mom, I will be home for Christmas. It’s a short detail, I told you—no, it’s not dangerous. Just some spoiled oligarch’s son, the biggest trouble he’s going to have is getting some poor girl pregnant.”

Ilya frowned at the back of Hollander’s head, at the short dark hairs just above his stiff shirt collar. He always used protection, thank you very much.

The next morning, he pressed the button again, and this time when Hollander came charging into his bedroom he’d only had to run from that small room off the kitchen; he was dressed in intriguingly tiny blue exercise shorts and a tank top that showed off every inch of his impressive chest and shoulders. His cheeks were red with exertion beneath his freckles, his chest was damp with sweat, and his handgun was raised.

He glanced at where Ilya lay in his bed before sweeping the room, brushing the curtains away from the window, checking the closet, even dropping to one knee to look under the bed before radioing Pike to shut off the caterwauling.

“Oops,” Ilya said. He was glad he’d taken the time to shove an extra pillow behind his back; it showed off his pecs better. “I must have hit something?”

Ilya prided himself on his ability to worm his way beneath the skin of just about everyone he’d ever met. Hollander was no exception—his scowl was a treasure, lethal and cute all at once.

“No problem, sir,” he said, and very gently closed the door behind him.

There were so very many possible ways to annoy Hollander, and Ilya decided to make it his business to try out every single one. He insisted on going to a club, whined when he was told that this was impossible; his security team could not guarantee his safety in an environment like that—too many bodies, too many exits, too many variables. He pretended to listen to this speech, and then he ducked out the back door of the restaurant he’d pretended to agree to go to instead. He jumped in the Lyft waiting outside while Pike shouted after him, and made it all the way through one conversation and three quarters of a Dua Lipa song before Hollander put a hand on his shoulder and frog-marched him out.

He insisted on going back in for the number of the girl he’d been dancing with, a redhead named Célèste, and after a pause that lasted approximately a year Hollander nodded tightly. Célèste came home with him, which Ilya felt was the earned conclusion to the escapade.

Hollander rode with them in the elevator. Célèste stood close to Ilya, her hand in his back pocket, his earlobe in her mouth. Ilya found himself watching Hollander’s face in the mirrored doors; his jaw was set.

Célèste followed his gaze, cocked her head. “Ton garde du corps est sexy.” Hollander’s expression did not change, but his cheeks went rosy. Célèste giggled, whispered loudly, “Il devrait nous rejoindre.”

Ilya was fairly sure Hollander would not be into a threesome, and definitely not one that included a woman.

The elevator stopped. Hollander entered the apartment first, moving through the rooms while Célèste leaned against the wall and watched with open fascination.

“All clear,” he said, and stepped back into the hallway.

“Bonne nuit,” Ilya told him, and shut the door in his face.

They both had to deal with the call from Ilya’s father the next morning. Hollander went first, and Ilya sat in the desk chair, listening to the silences between his sentences.

“Yes, sir. No, it won’t happen again, sir. I don’t know who he spoke to at the club, because we got him out of there as soon as we caught up with him. Her name is Céleste Dumont, she is a student at McGill, I cleared her myself. No, sir. I did not observe anything out of the ordinary.”

His generous mouth was tight when he handed over the phone; Ilya could sympathize.

His father did not raise his voice—he never had, not even when he raised his fists. “You are not in Montréal to go to clubs,” he said in Russian.

“Yes, Papa.”

“I have put considerable resources into ensuring that you are safe and comfortable. The very least you can do is not make yourself into more of a problem than you are.”

Ilya ran his hand across the surface of the desk in the study. It came away dusty. “It won’t happen again,” he said, because that was the answer that would end the conversation faster.

“So little is asked of you, Ilya. And yet you cannot manage even this much.”

It had always hurt, how little Grigori Rozanov thought of his son. Ilya had long since given up hope that it would ever stop hurting, that he would stop caring; nothing his father ever did seemed to do the trick.

“I will do better, Papa.”

When he hung up, he turned around to find himself alone, the study door closed. Hollander had left the room without a sound.

The third time he pressed the panic button, he did it on Hollander’s morning off. It meant that Pike was the one to race into his bedroom, which Ilya did not enjoy, but ten minutes later he did get the pleasure of watching from the window as Hollander’s oh-so-practical Jeep screeched to halt at the curb, watching him leave the door hanging open as he ran into the building.

“It’s fine,” Pike told him tightly, his arms folded across his chest and his grin nowhere to be seen. “Another accident.”

Hollander came into the lesser sitting room still catching his breath, still in his day-off clothes—jeans, sneakers, an unzipped white fleece sweatshirt—and gave Ilya a long, direct look. His nostrils flared as he inhaled.

“Actually,” Ilya said, “I wanted to ask you something.”

He slouched down and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles, trying to get comfortable. The chintz chairs weren’t just ugly, they were instruments of lower back torture. He gestured to the other one, and after a moment of consideration, Hollander tucked his gun into the back of his jeans and sat in it. Pike made an exasperated noise and left the room.

“What is it,” Hollander said evenly, “you want to know?”

“How does someone like you end up in a job like this?”

Whatever Hollander thought he was going to ask, that wasn’t it. He had a face built for expression and trained for stillness, and the conflict between the two made it fascinating to watch. “I wanted to do something that matters,” he said at last. “To protect people, make the world a little safer. But I also…I didn’t want to hurt anybody? The military, regular police work—it seemed like that might happen there.”

Ilya widened his eyes in shock. “Really? This happens in Canada?”

Hollander’s mouth quirked up into a little smile that had no business making Ilya’s stomach muscles tighten. “Yep. Even here. Probably not as much as in Russia, though.”

“Probably not,” Ilya said drily.

Hollander was quiet. Outside, a car alarm went off and was silenced. Ilya could hear Pike moving around in the kitchen, talking on the phone—he had a wife and some uncountable number of children he was always checking in with.

“So no military, no regular police. And you what, answered an ad?”

“More or less. I did a few years with a private firm. Entertainers, corporate protection mostly. This felt more meaningful.”

“And this particular assignment,” Ilya asked wryly, “you find it meaningful?”

Hollander was doing that thing he always did, tracking his eyes somewhere over Ilya’s left shoulder. “That’s not really the right question.”

“What is the right question?”

Hollander got to his feet, zippered his fleece up to the neck. “Whether I’m doing my job as well as I possibly can.” He nodded his head, polite as ever, but it felt like Ilya was the one being dismissed.

“You know, Roz,” Marley said conversationally. Ilya looked over his shoulder to find him leaning in the doorway, so tall his hair brushed the top of it. “That alarm is really fucking loud. The noise probably bothers the neighbors. It definitely bothers the shit out of me.”

It was not easy to ditch his jailers a second time. Ilya had to time it carefully for the overlap between Hollander’s morning off, Pike’s inevitable call to his family, and Marley’s horrendous hour on the toilet post-coffee. He left his phone in his room, slipped out the door, and took the stairs to avoid the telltale ding of the elevator. He went out the service entrance so that Freddie, the nice but nosy doorman, wouldn’t rat him out.

Unfortunately that left him with a multitude of hours to kill and only so many places he could think to go where Hollander wouldn’t think to look. The morning was colored the tentative grey of a city undecided about its weather for the day, and Ilya enjoyed the novelty of walking around without an entourage; he bought himself a yellow-patterned silk shirt to wear later, one that would cling nicely where he wanted it to, and gape attractively where he didn’t. He paid cash and rolled the shirt into his jacket pocket.

He abandoned the ritzier neighborhoods, walked all the way to Saint-Michel for a lunch of griot and plantains and rice, which he ate while sitting in a plastic chair and watching hockey training with the sound off. He had a pint of Molson’s at a darkened corner bar, walked some more—until eventually he found himself in a church tucked away between a pharmacy and a building under scaffolding.

It wasn’t Russian Orthodox (there weren’t that many of those about) and he wasn’t stupid enough to wander into one of the better-known basilicas or cathedrals. This one was small, a bit tucked away, and Catholic probably, though the distinctions had never been very clear to him. It smelled of incense and the light was filtered dimly through colored glass. He sat in a pew near the back because his feet hurt and the bench was there. The place was nearly empty; there was a woman in her 70s working a rosary near the front, and a man sleeping across the aisle with his chin on his chest.

Ilya’s fingers found his cross the way they always did, without his consent. His mother had been a believer, and not in a tepid cultural way, either. She’d been buried with full rites because it had been ruled an accident, and Ilya had stood at her grave and thought about how she would have known that her sin would bar her from heaven, and had still decided to die.

Ilya hadn’t prayed since the day he found her. And he wasn’t about to start now—but he held his cross and he spoke to her, silently, in the one-sided conversation of grief where you have to provide both the questions and the hoped-for answers. She had always seemed very wise to him, and very kind, and he wondered what she would do, in his position. He wondered what she would think of the choices he was making.

He stayed in the church until half eleven at night, and then he changed into his new silk shirt, rode the bus to St. Laurent, paid cash at the door. Ciel was still thin at this hour, with the pre-midnight crowd of people who had to work tomorrow. The music was an electronic throb in Ilya’s sternum, more volume than melody. He made his way to the bar at the back, ordered a vodka, and waited at the table closest to the speakers.

It didn’t take very long.

The conversation lasted seventeen minutes. Ilya did his best to be persuasive, believable, reliable—but he had only ever been successful at the first, and in far different circumstances than this. The CSIS man heard him out—or did his best to, the music really was deafening, though that was sort of the point—but in the end he simply shrugged.

“It’s your word against the Minister-Counsellor’s,” he shouted in Ilya’s ear. “Without proof…”

“But I can get proof,” Ilya shouted back. “I told you—”

“Proof that we can’t verify isn’t proof.” He clapped Ilya on the back, his hand sticky through the silk. “Let it go. This kind of shit happens all the time anyway. We’re handling it.”

And then he left, and Ilya stood alone in the pulsating lights, thinking about shit that happens all the time. His hand went to his cross, and he held it the way a drowning man grasps at a too-small stick in a stormy sea, knowing it won’t save him.

Ilya went to the bar and ordered three shots of Stolichnaya, made a face as he downed them in succession, and then undid the top four buttons of his shirt, pulled it aside to show off his collarbones. He leaned back against a pillar just outside the mass of dancers; the crowd had filled in while he wasn’t paying attention, the lights sweeping across it in slow arcs. It took him four minutes to find what he was looking for: dark hair, roving eyes, strong shoulders.

Ilya caught his eye and kept it just long enough before letting his gaze drift away, off to the side with the studied carelessness that served as its own kind of invitation. Again, he didn’t have to wait long.

“Tu es seul?” He wasn’t as pretty up close, and his eyes were blue and not brown, but Ilya was expert at making the best of things.

“Not anymore,” Ilya said, in English, and the man seemed to understand that perfectly well. He looked at Ilya with a frank and uncomplicated appetite that felt enormously restoring.

“Mahieu,” he said.

“Alexei,” Ilya said, just for the hell of it.

They danced, or something close enough to it; Ilya ran his hands up under Mahieu’s shirt, grabbed at his chest, ground into his ass. He had a dangly earring, and Ilya tugged on it with his teeth.

The bathroom was cleaner than it might have been, and the largest stall had a lock that worked. Ilya had a passing thought that no one had checked it for him—what if there were assassins lurking inside?

Mahieu was gratifyingly eager, had unzipped his pants and fisted his own cock before Ilya had finished locking the door. “Alexei,” he breathed, and Ilya stuck his thumb in his mouth to keep him from saying anything else.

Neither of them wanted to get on their knees, not here, so it was a matter of semi-satisfying spit-wet hand-jobs that finished, with some negotiation of logistics, into the toilet. Ilya had managed, in the close quarters, to keep his new shirt entirely clean, which felt like some kind of victory.

Ilya tucked himself back into his jeans, adjusted the collar of his shirt in the sticker-covered mirror. Behind him, Mahieu’s eyes were glassy, and still very blue. He kissed the mole on Ilya’s cheek, the one on his neck, and with a shrug Ilya turned to press his tongue into Mahieu’s mouth.

“Vodka?” he asked.

Ilya was startled awake by the flinging open of his bedroom door. His eyes were blurry with sleep and alcohol, but Hollander’s silhouette against the hallway light was unmistakable.

“Мне жаль,” he mumbled, “У меня не было выбора.”

“Rozanov, what the fuck—” Hollander said, but then he stopped, because there was someone in the bed next to Ilya.

“Quelle heure est-il?” Mahieu said.

Ilya tossed the covers over the man’s head, as if that would hide anything at all. “Hollander—”

He knew he sounded panicked—he was panicked. He had no memory of bringing Mahieu back here—no memory of coming back to the apartment at all, but it must have been a tremendously self-destructive impulse, the sort of thing he thought he’d left behind in Russia.

Hollander looked furious…but he also looked oddly alarmed, his eyes lingering on Ilya, flicking over to where Mahieu was trying to extricate himself from the sheets. In the end, though, his expressive face settled on relief.

“Come to the kitchen,” he told Ilya quietly. “I’ll make coffee.”

Mahieu settled back into sleep easily enough with a few murmured Russian endearments and a kiss to his temple. Ilya got dressed with shaking hands, pulling on the jeans he’d left on the floor and the sweaty silk shirt, not bothering to button it. When he got to the kitchen, Hollander was talking into his phone.

“Rozanov is fine. Just a joyride. Let Scott know he can call off the search.” A pause. He set his free hand flat on the counter, bracing. “Tell him I’ll work OT without pay to make up for it.”

He glanced up when Ilya entered. “I have to go, Hayd. Yeah. Tell Jackie I’m really sorry.”

Ilya took a seat at the counter. Hollander didn’t turn around; he just watched the coffee drip down into the carafe. When it was finished brewing, he filled two mugs, added milk and sugar to his own and slid Ilya’s over black, the way he liked it. The overhead light of the kitchen was unkind—it showed the tired redness in Hollander’s eyes, the tension in his shoulders.

“How did you know I came back here?”

“Freddie saw you come into the building and alerted me. Marleau is on his way. He spent all day and night driving around looking for you. He was terrified.” After a moment, he added, “I was terrified.”

“I’m sorry,” Ilya said, knowing it was inadequate. Frightening Marley had been a risk he’d been willing to take; it hadn’t really occurred to him that Hollander would be frightened, too.

Hollander wrapped both hands around his mug and remained standing. He still wasn’t looking at Ilya directly, still watched that spot above his left shoulder. “Where did you go?”

“A club.” The obvious why was in his bedroom; Ilya didn’t need to offer anything more than that. “Does my father know I was gone?”

“Yes,” Hollander said flatly. “Obviously.”

Well, that was only to be expected. It was why Ilya had chosen a club for the meet in the first place—it was a place no one would question his desire to be without his babysitters.

“He also knows you’re safe now,” Hollander added. There was a line between his eyebrows, a little furrow. “I’m sure he’ll call soon. He must have been terrified, too.”

“I’m sure,” Ilya agreed.

They sipped their coffee in silence. It felt strangely, wonderfully domestic, and Ilya allowed himself to wonder what it would be like to have breakfast with Sergeant Shane Hollander, how he liked his eggs, what kind of jam he put on his toast.

He had been surprised to see a man in Ilya’s bed. He shouldn’t have been—Ilya had certainly made his own interest clear enough to anyone looking for it, and he was quite sure that Hollander had been looking, even if he would never do more than that.

But then again, it was surprising, because Ilya should have known better.

“Are you going to tell him.” It came out softly, not a question because honestly Ilya knew the answer: principled, professional Shane Hollander would provide his report to Minister-Counsellor Grigori Rozanov as requested. Of course he would.

“Am I going to tell who? Tell them what?”

Ilya felt a burning twitch of irritation. “Tell my father about the man I fucked tonight.”

Hollander looked at Ilya then, directly.  His eyes were such a rich brown, his lashes slanting downward, long and protective. “I understand that’s not something Russian people can safely do.” Ilya shook his head, started to push away from the counter, but Hollander’s hand shot out, grasped his wrist. His palms were square, but his fingers were long, the nails trimmed down to the quick. “So as far as I’m concerned, it didn’t happen. When I arrived, you were in your room alone. Okay?”

Ilya stared back at him, even as Hollander’s grip shifted, became more gentle. He couldn’t understand it; Hollander owed him nothing, probably despised him like everyone else did. Ilya had certainly given him reason. “Why?” he asked flatly.

Hollander took his time answering. His thumb was resting just above the pulse point on Ilya’s wrist. “I can’t protect you if you hide or run from me. If you feel like you have to keep secrets from me. We have to be able to trust each other.”

Ilya didn’t trust him, probably didn’t trust anyone. But if he had been given the chance to dream up someone he could, it would probably have been serious, transparent, steadfast Shane Hollander.

“I will try,” Ilya said at last.

Hollander nodded, let him go. “Okay. Thank you, sir.”

Chapter End Notes

Ton garde du corps est sexy. Il devrait nous rejoindre. - Your bodyguard is sexy. He should join us.

Tu es seul? - You’re alone?

Мне жаль - I’m sorry

У меня не было выбора - I had no choice

Quelle heure est-il? - What time is it?

Chapter 3

Freddie had nodded eagerly, happy to be discreet—he was a doorman, he’d seen it all, he’d said, trying to be reassuring. Oh the things he could tell you…

Shane had laughed awkwardly and asked not to be told anything at all about the other tenants, reminding Freddie that not telling was the point, actually.

And by the time Marleau got there—haggard, exhausted, and gratifyingly furious—the man who had been in Ilya Rozanov’s bed was gone.

Shane went to the little room off the kitchen and lay down on the yoga mat. Mahieu Morin was the man’s name, he worked in retail—sportive, he’d said, gesturing vaguely at his own body in explanation. His French was significantly better than his English, and he’d been philosophical about being bundled out the door at one in the morning, had returned Rozanov’s perfunctory kiss and waved goodbye, yawning. Shane would research him more closely in the morning, but he was certain he would find nothing of concern. Mahieu was a guy who had gone to a club and then gone home with Rozanov, and that was that.

Shane ought to feel relieved that Rozanov was safe—and he was, immensely, so much so that he thought his body might sink through the floor with it—but he was feeling so many other things, too, and none of them were so easily identifiable, much less justifiable. He stared up at the angle of the moulding in the corner of the ceiling and tried to categorize his emotions, to separate them out so he could determine what to discard, what to file away.

Relief. His principal was safe. His principal was an asshole who seemed to take a perverse pleasure in making Shane look like a fucking idiot, but he was safe and accounted for and back in his room sleeping off whatever Mahieu Morin had left him feeling, and at the end of the day his safety was all that mattered.

Understanding. Perhaps Rozanov had his reasons (occasionally) for dodging his protection. Shane understood wanting, understood what it was like to look at something—someone—you wanted and not be able to have him, understood how desperate it could make you. It just wasn’t something he’d ever expected of Rozanov, who seemed to always get whatever it was he wanted.

Envy. This was harder to parse. Shane wasn’t even sure where that envy was directed—at Mahieu, for fucking Rozanov? Perhaps. Shane was attracted to men: this was an established fact, the way that you establish that a house has a distinctive smell only after you’ve lived in it long enough to stop noticing. Rozanov was an unusually attractive man, therefore Shane was unusually attracted to him. So yes—Shane was envious of Mahieu because he got to touch Rozanov and Shane didn’t, would never.

But he was also envious of Rozanov, for how he could so easily find someone to fuck. Women, and now apparently men—it didn’t seem to matter to him who they were, not really, but it always mattered to Shane. He could get off with a guy, sort of, but it was never more satisfying than an artfully deployed dildo and Shane’s own hand; frequently it was less. He thought that would probably change if he was in a relationship, if he’d had time to develop a craving for another man’s touch, for his eyes on Shane’s body—for a specific familiarity, to know and be known so deeply that he could recognize the whorls of distinct fingerprints on his skin. To want the accumulated weight of a person, with all of their peculiar habits and textures.

He suspected this was the thing other people were born able to skip, though he’d never asked because he had no language for it—only the vague and slightly humiliating sense that he was doing desire wrong, that everyone else had learned to run it like a tap and he was still out there looking for a particular well, not sure if he would even recognize it if he found it.

What must it be like, to fuck and not care?

Shane was wrong. About many things, probably, but he hadn’t been expecting this: Rozanov in a relationship, sort of. He had not had the impression that Rozanov was the sort of person to want to fuck anyone more than once, but perhaps this woman was the exception.

She was certainly beautiful enough: big eyes and a bigger smile, not that she ever directed either toward Shane. Rozanov had informed him airily that he would be having a friend over, giving Shane enough time to research her: Svetlana Vetrova, Trinidadian mother though she had been raised almost entirely by her father, Russian Minister Sergei Vetrov. She worked with Grigori Rozanov at the Russian Embassy in Ottawa, but was spending three days in Montréal handling visas and document processing for the (fairly few, so far as Shane was aware) Russian emigrés.

She and Rozanov seemed to genuinely like one another, and had clearly known each other for a long time. They spoke exclusively in Russian, bantering back and forth with a sharpness that seemed to suit them both. With her around, Rozanov set aside the restlessness he usually carried with him, that he expended on taunting Hayden or trying to get a rise out of Shane; now he was content to hold her feet in his lap while she painted her nails, talking quietly, almost in a hush, even though no one else could understand them. Shane wasn’t listening at doorways, but the apartment was not large, and he had grown attuned to Rozanov’s voice—how it sounded when he was amused, when he was bored, the way it tightened when he was on edge, unsettled.

Shane knew these things about Rozanov involuntarily, the way you come to know the weather of the place where you live until your bones can predict the rain.

Periodically they would disappear into Rozanov’s bedroom to fuck. They were hushed about that, too, but there were certain sounds that inevitably made their way through: a moan, a rhythmic thudding, an exhausted-sounding laugh.

Shane tried not to listen, tried to give them as much privacy as possible. He sent Hayden downstairs to watch the lobby, gave Marleau the day off, kept to himself unless summoned, which he never was. The requests for coffee, the “accidental” pushes of the panic button, the casual curiosity—they had all faded away with the arrival of Ms. Vetrova, as was to be expected.

Shane stretched out on his yoga mat and moved through his routine: Russian twists, hollow-body holds, Bulgarian split squats, Pike push-ups. He’d added Romanian deadlifts in recent weeks. His muscles burned and sweat began to drip down his temples, his chest, to pool on the mat beneath him. He focused on the physical facts of himself: the pull of his hamstrings, the deep ache in his core, the deliberate strain. He breathed through his nose and counted reps and let his mind clear.

Rozanov had described Svetlana Vetrova as his friend, and that was clearly true. They had the warmth of familiarity and trust, something Shane realized he had never seen on Rozanov, could never have imagined what it would look like. He still laughed, but it was less cutting, almost childlike. It was obvious that they had been...Shane didn’t know what term they would use. Hooking up? Benefitting from their friendship? It had been years, anyway. They knew each other’s bodies incredibly well.

Shane moved to the pull-up bar he’d installed in the doorway. He could hear them talking in the larger sitting room, heard the cadence of the conversation shift and grow serious. Rozanov sounded agitated, though Vetrova remained calm—he wasn’t angry with her, then. She had a directness about her that Shane appreciated; it was so different from Rozanov himself. Shane gripped the bar, felt the familiar pressure across his palms, pulled himself up—again, again, again.

He wiped his face and chest with a hand-towel, walked quietly over to the sitting room to tap on the door. There were papers spread all over the coffee table; they were covered in Cyrillic, official-looking, the Russian Embassy stamp over everything. Shane didn’t think Vetrova was supposed to bring her work home with her—Rozanov likely didn’t have security clearance.

It was none of his business.

He cleared his throat, and Rozanov turned to look at him. His eyes went wide and admiring, his gaze skimming down Shane’s chest, the blotches of sweat, down below his waist, his bare legs, back up again.

Shane could feel his cheeks redden, acutely aware of every inch of his own skin, like someone had dragged a finger down his spine, though of course Rozanov hadn’t moved from his seat on the couch. He felt a growing warmth in his lower belly and had to resist the urge to adjust his pants, knowing that it would only make it more obvious. Shane shot Vetrova a wary glance, and was surprised to find her looking back and forth between the two of them, amused.

“I, uh. Just wanted to let you know I’m going to take a shower. Ten minutes. Please don’t go anywhere, sir.”

Vetrova said something that made Rozanov’s head snap toward her, made him bite out something abrasive—but she only laughed. She turned to Shane with a smile that had nothing but warmth. “I will make sure he does not leave without you.”

Shane blinked at her; he knew she spoke English, and French as well, but she hadn’t uttered a single syllable of either since entering the apartment. “Thank you, Ms. Vetrova.”

He nodded, turned to go, but stopped when Rozanov said, a little huskily, “Hollander.”

Shane waited, but he didn’t turn around. He could feel Rozanov’s eyes still on him, as well as Vetrova’s undisguised amusement. He didn’t know what to do with the way Rozanov looked at him, that he did it in front of a woman he was sleeping with, apparently without a flicker of self-consciousness. Shane was wired for self-consciousness.

“We will go for a run tomorrow, yes? You have been missing it, without your mornings off.”

Shane looked at him then, his mouth parting. “That’s not necessary, sir.”

Rozanov shrugged. “I need the exercise as well. It’s boring, being stuck here.”

“I am not exercise enough?” Vetrova said, and Shane’s blood thudded in his ears. He fled to the bathroom, Rozanov and Vetrova laughing behind him.

He locked the door, turned the shower on cold. He looked at himself in the mirror, at the flush on his cheeks and down his chest, the sweat still drying on his skin, the wideness of his eyes, then hurled off his clothes and climbed under the spray. The icy water hit him like the shock he wanted, the spray falling right on his erection, it fucking hurt, and he braced his hands against the tile wall to keep from flinching away.

Shane didn’t know what that had been. He didn’t understand Rozanov, didn’t understand Vetrova, certainly didn’t want to be a part of their confusing but somehow clearly very affectionate thing. Shane wasn’t built for that kind of ambiguity, hated that he couldn’t understand it—not that it mattered because it was none of his fucking business.

Someone needed to tell his dick that. Someone needed to tell Rozanov that, tell him to keep his roving, appreciative eyes to himself. Shane was here to do a fucking job.

It took a long time for his body to cool, longer than ten minutes, but he held out, kept his hands on the tile wall, refusing to touch himself to the memory of Rozanov’s eyes moving over him. When at last he was soft, Shane washed himself perfunctorily, scrubbed his hair, dried himself roughly. He’d forgotten to bring clean clothes, and he had to take a steadying breath before opening the bathroom door, making sure the towel around his waist was secure, readying himself for Rozanov’s stare with a mixture of dread and sick anticipation.

He needn’t have worried; Rozanov and Vetrova had retreated to the bedroom, the door shut closed behind them.

The morning run was not as early as Shane would have liked; the sun was well up, casting long shadows between the ever-more-skeletal maples. Other joggers gasped greetings or exchanged blank stares as they passed by, strangers united briefly by shared suffering. It was cool out, the air turning crisp, leaves dusting the sidewalks beneath their feet in drifts of amber and rust; Rozanov and Hayden both went out of their way, breaking their rhythm to get a satisfying crunch underfoot. Hayden ran in front, setting the pace and scanning the scene, Rozanov in the middle, and Shane at the back to watch.

It was quite the view, and Shane felt certain that Rozanov was doing this to him on purpose: he was naked beneath the shorts. Not that Shane could see anything, but there was a distinctive bounce that had to be uncomfortable, and yet Rozanov ran lightly, his hair darkening with sweat, dragging his curls down toward the nape of his neck. His stride was long and loose, his inner thighs brushed against each other as he ran, the fine hair on his legs disappearing into the hem of his shorts. They paused at a traffic light, jogging lightly in place, breath misting faintly. Rozanov stretched his arms overhead, glanced at Shane.

“Race you.”

He should have said no, he needed to watch him, not outpace him, and there was nothing professional about the way his pulse had just spiked. But there was a competitive glint in Rozanov’s eye that a childish part of Shane had never once been able to ignore. All anyone ever had to do to get his attention was to challenge him.

Beside them, Hayden gave a resigned sigh.

“Top of the Olmstead stairs?”

Rozanov took off like a shot. Shane went after him and the world narrowed immediately to the sound of his own breathing and the back of Rozanov’s head. Hayden fell behind within the first thirty seconds—Shane heard him shout something, either protest or encouragement, it was impossible to tell—and then it was just the two of them and the path, the cold air bright and clean in Shane’s lungs.

The stairs were brutal, a full flight of stone rising steeply through Mount Royal park, but he’d run them before, and he caught Rozanov almost immediately—but then Rozanov sped up, and fuck if he wasn’t fast, infuriatingly fast, a speed that wasn’t about training so much as it was about being built for it, those long legs and hardened muscles eating up the ground with a looseness that made Shane’s jaw tighten. Shane didn’t lose races. He did not, as a rule, even have to try.

He pulled even again, saw Rozanov glance at him, heard his breathing change. It wasn’t labored, but he was working, and that gave Shane the fierce pleasure he needed to push harder. By the time they were halfway up the stairs he was in the lead—but Rozanov was at his heels, both of them running flat out. Shane was giving it everything he had—and when was the last time he’d had to do that? His muscles were screaming, his lungs were heaving, he could feel the lactic acid in his chest and his thighs.

He reached the summit two strides ahead of Rozanov.

Shane bent double, put his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath, lungs heaving. His heart was like a fist slamming against the inside of his ribs, and his legs were trembling, on the verge of giving out beneath him. He tried to focus on breathing out as much as in, on expanding his ribcage. Beside him, Rozanov flopped down alongside the path, horizontal, his legs splayed and his chest rising and falling. He was grinning, bright-eyed, flushed all the way down below the deep cut of his sleeves across his chest, down to the strip of his stomach where his shirt had ridden up. He caught Shane’s eye, and he began to laugh. They laughed together, even though neither of them really had the breath to do so.

Shane straightened, put his arms behind his head, tried to look at the view—it was spectacular, always—but he couldn’t, his eyes went back down to Rozanov instead, grinning up at him from where he lay at Shane’s feet, his breath puffing in the crisp air. There were beads of sweat on his nose, little rivulets running down his neck, falling to the dead grass beneath him. He had leaves in his hair, a smudge of mud on his calf. In his entire life, Shane had never wanted to touch anyone more.

“You’ve got—” Shane said, and gestured vaguely. Rozanov frowned, scrubbed at his face, and Shane found himself crouching down to pick the dry curl of maple from his hair, his fingertips grazing Rozanov’s temple where it was hot and damp with sweat. Rozanov held very still, looking up at him with wide eyes and a parted mouth. Shane let the leaf fall and got to his feet.

He held out his hand, and Rozanov took it; Shane heaved and Rozanov came up fast, momentum carrying him close enough that Shane could see the pulse in his throat. “Thanks,” he said, his voice rough. And then he stepped away, leaned against the railing, his color still high.

Hayden crested the stairs a full minute later and stood there frowning at both of them, uncharacteristically judgmental. “You two about done?”

Shane nodded once and didn’t look at Rozanov again for the rest of the descent. He could feel him, though, just behind, like a hand on the back of his neck.

Chapter 4

Once Svetlana figured out that Ilya was getting off on the thought of Hollander listening to them fuck, she lifted his head from her pussy (after he’d given her a pair of above-average orgasms) and told him to go jerk himself off. The sheet beneath them was warm and slightly damp, cut by the pale afternoon light bleeding through the curtains.

“What difference does it make?” he demanded, sulking. He liked eating her out. “You don’t care if I fuck other people, and I’m not even fucking him.” Which was nothing but the dismal truth.

“I care if you’re fucking other people while fucking me,” she snapped, and held up a hand before he could so much as say threesomes. “Ilyusha. I care if you’d rather be fucking someone else. That does not feel good for me, yes? I want you to want to be here.”

This didn’t even make sense to Ilya, because obviously he wanted to be there. Svetlana was one of the sexiest women he knew, she had narrow hips but fuck if she didn’t know how to use them. She enjoyed sex—enjoyed many of the same things Ilya did, in fact, it was how they’d managed to preserve a friendship despite the treacherous ground they walked as the children of Russian politicians who did not always see eye to eye. They were at peace with one another, and it had never mattered that they were never each other’s one and only. That wasn’t something either of them had ever sought.

He tried to convey some of this with a look—it had always been enough before, but Svetlana shook her head. “It’s different,” she insisted. “With—”

He cut her off with a fierce shake of his head, not wanting Hollander to hear his name spoken in this bedroom. Svetlana rolled her eyes. “With him,” she said. “You like the way he looks at you.”

“I like the way everyone looks at me.” This was the truth—everyone always looked, and Ilya always liked it.

“It’s different,” she said again, and drew her knees up to her chest. “He doesn’t look at you like other people do. He looks at you like…” she trailed off, eyes going thoughtful. Ilya hated when she did that; she was smarter than him, smarter than probably anyone he’d ever met. She exhausted him sometimes. “You are used to being looked at, yes. You use it.”

“So do you,” Ilya pointed out, and Svetlana shrugged, unbothered.

“Yes. People look, and they want, and then I know what they want and how I can use it to get what I want. It’s…an exchange, yes? But there is nothing he wants from you, only you.” She paused, softening a little, and reached across the bed to pat him on his calf. “And you look at him the same way.”

There wasn’t anything to say, because she was right, and they both knew it. Ilya had probably looked at Hollander like that from the very beginning, from when he had walked into Ilya’s bedroom, stood right there at the foot of this bed, so still, so attentive, in a way that most people would probably read as blankness but that Ilya had immediately clocked as the opposite. Hollander was a man so aware of everything, who categorized and searched and evaluated constantly, unable to shut it off.

Ilya had recognized it because he did the same thing, though he wore it differently. You had to know how to look for danger in order to hide from it with any kind of success.

Hollander watched him relentlessly, with a focus that was meant to feel like surveillance but never had. He made Ilya want to peek out like a child playing hide and seek—Have you seen me yet? Have you found me? Or perhaps like a striptease, revealing a shoulder blade, the sharp jut of a hipbone, the dip at the top of a thigh—Here I am. This is what you can find if you look hard enough.

Ilya had never had to try to be interesting before, and he hated the fact that some beautiful but very boring Canadian security officer had him dropping handkerchiefs like a bored debutante, just for the sake of watching him bend down to pick them up. Just for the way his pretty eyes went soft sometimes, the way he didn’t even seem to realize how sweetly, catastrophically open he was.

Down the hall, in his stuffy little room off the kitchen with its air mattress and rolled up yoga mat, with its carefully folded piles of carefully sorted clothes, with his rolled-up socks and his unfashionable sneakers, Hollander was going through his surveillance notes, readying his daily report to Ilya’s father, his nose wrinkled in concentration, making his freckles scrunch together like a cluster of tiny flowers. Ilya could picture him there, so serious, cleaning his gun, laying it out piece by piece, putting it all back together again.

Hollander could break Ilya down, he knew. But he was not at all certain that anyone could ever put him back together.

“There are other things I want, besides him,” Ilya said at last, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “There have to be.”

Svetlana had covered herself with a sheet, was looking at her phone, but she set it aside. “Yes,” she said pointedly. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”

It was true; and the fact that they liked each other, and liked to fuck, was just something that made the mess of it a little easier to bear. All Ilya really had was a name: Vadim Sorokov, which meant something in the rooms Ilya had grown up in, the ones where you had to watch the smiles for the sharpness of their teeth. Sorokov was not a man who appeared on any official registry, not in Canada, not even in Russia, but his name moved through certain conversations the way a current moves beneath the ice. He was Bratva, and ranked high enough that he never got his own hands dirty, not anymore: he got to decide how others would bloody theirs.

Vadim Sorokov had been in this very apartment, in Ilya’s father’s study. Neither of them were supposed to be there—Grigori and Alexei were supposed to be in Ottawa, but Ilya had come from Moscow a day early, had been routed through Montréal and decided to simply crash here, giving himself an extra day before facing his father. He had stood in the hallway like a child and listened to talk of shipments and customs clearance, of diplomatic immunity. He heard a number that confirmed a schedule, another that confirmed payment.

And he’d made a noise, the sort of shocked gasp he ought to have grown out of long ago, and Vadim Sorokov had seen him standing there. Grigori dismissed Ilya quickly, explaining that this was his second son, nothing to be concerned with, but Sorokov had not become Sorokov by being told what he should and should not be bothered about.

His father had called Scott Hunter the next day, reporting threatening letters Ilya had never seen and didn’t believe existed, and he had never been sure if Shane Hollander had been brought on to protect him from Sorokov, or to protect Grigori’s business with Sorokov from Ilya. Probably both.

It had taken Ilya longer than he was proud of to decide to go to CSIS. But it wasn’t easy, betraying your father, even when that father hated you, even when you should probably hate him, too. It had taken even longer to find someone who would listen, to find a place where they could speak without being overheard, where neither Grigori Rozanov nor Vadim Sorokov would suspect Ilya of being anything but his useless, frivolous self.

It hadn’t mattered anyway; the CSIS man at the club had said it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t proof.

The papers Svetlana had smuggled out of the Embassy had been concerning, but not damning: bills of lading, a customs declaration, the start of a paper trail that had to end somewhere because money always left a mark no matter how thoroughly it was washed—but Svetlana’s clearance went only so high, and they were running out of places to look that didn’t require access she couldn’t get.

“I have to be back in Ottawa tomorrow,” she said, more gently now. “I’ll see what I can find there, okay?”

He wasn’t sure why Svetlana was helping him, neither of them had ever particularly cared about doing the right thing. Maybe it was something about being in this boring country, a nation of broad shoulders and friendly hellos. Whatever her reasons, Ilya was grateful for her, always, and for everything.

So he felt like a little bit of a shit after all, and he couldn’t even make it up to her by getting her off. “I’m sorry,” he said, much too belatedly—so much so in fact that it took her a beat to understand which of his many sins he was apologizing for.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said at last. “I know you didn’t do it on purpose.”

What it was, Ilya wasn’t sure—thinking about fucking Hollander’s magnificent thighs? No, he didn’t decide to do that, it just happened, off and on throughout the day.

Hollander was here because Ilya’s father had put him here, and whatever Hollander thought he was doing—protecting Ilya, which Ilya found genuinely touching in the way a child’s drawing is touching, earnest and slightly heartbreaking—he was also, functionally, a pair of eyes reporting to Grigori Rozanov, a man who had looked at Ilya his entire life with an expression that said useless, but also, underneath that, useful in the right circumstances. Hollander had no idea that he had been brought on because he seemed like the kind of man who would do his job and nothing more, which also made him useful in the right circumstances.

And he was so good at his job. He was so sincere about it, it made Ilya want to get on his knees.

You didn’t fuck a man like that, not if you were a man like Ilya Rozanov, who had been put through a long, cold education in what feelings cost and who paid for them, and had never yet managed to make sure it wasn’t him.

Svetlana left early in the morning. “Don’t fuck him,” she said in Russian.

“I know—” he said, annoyed, and then grew more annoyed when she laughed at how easy he was to rile, kissed his cheek, and shut the apartment door behind her.

Ilya stomped into the kitchen and poured himself a coffee, then poured another for Hollander, who sat at the kitchen counter working his way through his book of Sudoku. He sipped out of Hollander’s mug and made a face before passing it over. “Too sweet.”

“I like it sweet,” Hollander said, amused. “But by all means, help yourself, sir.”

“It’s my coffee,” Ilya said, just to be petulant. Hollander’s smile widened.

Ilya watched as he took a sip of his sweet, warming coffee, and decided to make that sweet, warming smile even bigger. “Want to go for a run?”

It had the added benefit of aggravating Pike, and Ilya told himself that was the most important thing.

It was colder today than it had been yesterday; the sun wasn’t even bothering to make an appearance, but instead hid behind the lazy dribbles of rain that fell from the sky and left beads of white on Hollander’s black hair. He didn’t seem at all bothered, stretching happily and carefully, eyes scanning for potential threats even as he pulled his ankle to his bountiful ass.

“How do you run without bruising your ribs?” Ilya panted, spinning around to jog backward, indicating Hollander’s gun in its holster.

He shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“Are you good?”

“With a gun?”

“Yes. Could you shoot Pike?” Ilya jerked his chin over his shoulder, saw Pike turn to glare at him.

“Yes,” Hollander said, “easily. He’s less than twenty feet away.”

“What about farther than that?”

Hollander gestured for Ilya to turn around, not to fall on his ass or bump into someone, though the path through the park was fairly empty on such an unpleasant day. The leaves underfoot had gone soft and wet, a little slippery, and so Ilya spun around, let Hollander admire his ass some more.

“Could you shoot someone in a crowd?” he called over his shoulder.

“Rozanov.”

“Without hitting anyone else,” he clarified. “Are you a, um, a sniper?”

He heard the huff behind him, knew it was amusement. “No.”

“So what? Gun is just decoration?”

“We’re fully trained,” Pike said, unable to stand it any longer. “In a variety of firearms, including pistol, shotgun, carbine. Shane has the top score—”

Ilya spun around again, delighted. “Top score.”

Hollander rolled his eyes. “Yes, all right—”

“You are the best at shooting at those papers, yes, the ones with bad guys on them?”

“They’re called ISPC targets,” Pike said. His chest was just bursting with pride, while Hollander was looking off to the side, the rear, the middle distance, anywhere else. “Shane’s the best in accuracy, speed, and scenario response.”

“Pew pew pew,” Ilya said, and blew on the muzzle of his finger gun.

Pike scoffed, disgusted, and ran on, wiping his dripping forehead with the back of his hand. Ilya felt the rain worsen, and watched as small puddles began to form in the fine gravel of the path, speckling with droplets.

“We should call it, sir,” Hollander said. “Ready to head back?”

Ilya was cold, he was wet, and his running shoes were stylish but not waterproof. He’d dressed more for decoration than practicality, and he feared that his tight joggers were now beginning to cling in ways that were less than attractive. Still he said, “There’s a hill ahead.”

“I see it, sir.”

“Want to race?”

Ahead of them both, Pike groaned. “It’s fucking freezing, can we please just go home?”

There was a pause, and then Hollander said, “Yeah, no race today.”

“Ah, I see,” Ilya said sympathetically. “Your top scores will not help you with this.” He spun around, watched Hollander’s eyes narrow. Rain was dripping from his nose, down his lashes, had plastered his hair to his head, and his smile was bright enough to make Ilya’s heart stutter.

“On three,” he said.

“Oh for fuck’s sake—” Pike complained.

Ilya was already gone. He felt the cold air punch into his lungs as he opened his stride, felt the wet gravel spray up behind him, flicking against his calves. The hill rose ahead of them, steep and tree-lined, probably a little slippery. He could feel Hollander just behind him, footfalls matching Ilya’s almost exactly.

He leaned into the incline, felt the burn start in his quads, and pushed harder. The rain was pelting now, but that just made it all so much more fun—it was wild and unpleasant and only idiots like the two of them would want to be out in it. Ilya didn’t even really like running outside, not the way Hollander clearly did, would just as soon use a treadmill at a gym—but running with him, against him, was something else entirely.

Hollander pushed and the gravel slid, and Ilya grinned fiercely, his breathing already painful, as Hollander pulled even. He drove his knees up, shortened his stride for the steepest part, and Ilya did the same. For twenty feet they were perfectly synchronized, neither willing to cede an inch. Ilya was wet through, his clothes and hair sodden, his shoes soaked, rain running into his eyes and down his face, and he was so happy he’d laugh if he could get the breath for it.

He pulled ahead by a shoulder’s width, lost it on a loose patch of gravel, Hollander surging past him—Ilya swore and lunged, pushing himself harder than he’d ever had reason to, and crested the hill first, stumbling over it, so that Hollander caught his arm, laughing and saying something about how it didn’t count if you fell crossing the finish line, and Ilya thought only about how the rain would taste on his lips, clean as holy water.

There was a distant yell; below them, Pike appeared around the curve of the path, red-faced and laboring, shouting up at them with an expression of complete disgust.

Ilya became aware that Hollander’s hand was still on his arm at the same moment Hollander did—he paused for just a second longer, his fingers tightening, and then he let go, stepping away.

“Good race,” he said.

Ilya pushed his soaked hair back from his forehead and grinned at him, his heart still going hard. “Yes,” he said, “I win.”

Pike and Ilya showered first, “though not together, sorry,” Ilya called after him as he disappeared into the other bathroom. Pike gave him the finger, which was not very professional of him.

Ilya showered quickly, faster than Pike, and gestured the still-dripping Hollander into his bathroom.

“Oh, no thank you, sir,” he said, “I’ll wait until Hayden is done.”

“You are getting the floor all wet,” Ilya said impatiently, “what difference does it make which bathroom you use?” Just as if he hadn’t raced through his routine to the thought of Hollander naked beneath the same spray of water, using Ilya’s shampoo, Ilya’s washcloth maybe.

He hesitated another moment. “Okay.”

Ilya shooed him off, used his own damp towel to wipe up the drips Hollander left behind him. He went into Hollander’s awful little room and picked out underwear, sweatpants, that fuzzy white fleece, a t-shirt, ignoring the way Marley was watching him from the doorway, arms crossed across his chest. Ilya slipped past him, placed the clothes carefully on the floor outside his bathroom so they didn’t unfold. He tapped at the door. “Dry clothes outside.”

There was a pause, a squeaking of bare feet on wet porcelain. “Thanks.”

Pike emerged from the second bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, stalked down the hallway and shut the cubby door behind him without a word. Ilya sat down next to Marley in the sitting room and waited. The rain still moved against the windows, streaking down the glass in webbing streams.

“So,” Marley said. “Svetlana went back to Ottawa, huh?”

“Mmhmm.”

They were each on their phones, neither looking at the other.

“Shane Hollander seems like a good guy,” Marley observed.

“Mmhmm.”

“Hayden’s cool, too. We can hang.”

Ilya didn’t answer that one, as he was constitutionally incapable of being nice about Hayden Pike.

“I’m not sure I get Hollander, though,” Marley added, “if I’m being honest. Good guy, like I said, but…” he shrugged.

Ilya wasn’t sure what he was expected to say to that. He wasn’t sure he understood Shane Hollander either, not in any way he could articulate. Nothing about the way he made Ilya feel made any sense to him at all.

He was glad he hadn’t tried when the man himself tapped on the open door. His hair was damp and finger-combed, he wore his painfully cozy sweatshirt, and there were glasses framing his big brown eyes. “Excuse me, sir. I, uh, I’m going to send Hayden home, okay?” His smile flashed, there and gone. “I think we owe it to him after this morning. You’re not planning on going anywhere today, right?”

“You wear glasses,” Ilya said stupidly.

Hollander’s cheeks went pink. “Uh, yeah. My contacts got kind of messed up with the rain, so I took them out. Obviously I’ll put them back in if you want to go anywhere, you don’t need to worry about my vision—”

Next to Ilya on the uncomfortable couch, Marley snorted, got to his feet with a disgusted sound. He scrubbed at his hair, making it even taller, and clapped Hollander on the back on his way out the door. “Chill the fuck out, man.”

Ilya patted the empty seat on the couch, the cushion still sagging a little with the imprint of Marley’s ass; after a moment’s hesitation, Hollander sat down. He was stiff, his back straight, knees narrow, hands folded between them. He smelled like Ilya’s shampoo. Ilya wanted to poke him in the side, make him flinch, make him collapse in on himself.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said instead.

“What do you want to know?” Hollander sounded wary.

Everything. I want to know everything anyone could ever know about you. Ilya shrugged. “You have a girlfriend?” He was pretty sure he knew the answer to that one, but he needed the confirmation. “She’s not mad you’re never around, that you’re always here with me?”

“No, uh, no girlfriend, sir.”

“Boyfriend, then?”

Hollander shook his head, cleared his throat. “No.”

“You should get a date, loosen up, get laid.” Ilya wasn’t sure if he was picking at Hollander’s scabs or his own.

Hollander’s jaw tightened. “Will do, sir, just as soon as this detail is over.”

Ilya chewed on the inside of his cheek, then tucked one foot under himself on the couch, turned slightly to face him. “Your family, then. Tell me about them.”

“Not a lot to tell. My parents are in Ottawa. My dad works for the Treasury Board. My mom works for a non-profit. They’re great. Good parents, supportive. You know.” Hollander glanced sideways, his mouth twisting in acknowledgment: Ilya did not in fact know what that was like.

He wanted to, though. “What did you do together, you and your father, when you were young?”

Hollander’s head dipped, and he leaned back, relaxing ever so slightly. “ Shooting ranges, mostly.”

Ilya’s eyebrows went up. “I thought he would be boring, like you.”

Hollander laughed, and behind his glasses his eyes crinkled. “He is. I mean, we’re a lot alike. Not that I don’t get a lot from my mom, too…He likes the repetition of it, I think, the way you have to concentrate and refine. That’s what I like about it, anyway. My mom had to work weekends a lot, and he wasn’t sure what else to do with me, so we went as soon as I was old enough. And then later we would go hunting, whitetail mostly.”

It was the longest speech Hollander had ever granted him. Ilya tried to picture it, a smaller Hollander with chubby cheeks, wide, earnest eyes, and a gun in his hand. He thought about the gun Alexei carried with him sometimes, and then he thought about the only times in his life Ilya had ever fired a shot. “I went hunting, too. With my grandfather, my mother’s father.”

“Oh yeah?”

This wasn’t something Ilya had thought about in a very long time. “He lived in the Kulunda Steppe, outside Novosibirsk. Very far from everything. My mother and I would go in the winter when I was small. She said she missed the cold.”

Hollander nodded, as if this made sense to him—good for him, it had never made sense to anyone else. Russia was cold; the Steppe was fucking gelid. “I like the cold, too. The snow, how quiet everything gets.”

“It was very quiet there,” Ilya said drily. “No one and nothing to see—so flat, just grass and sky, sometimes a lake. And so much wind, with nothing to stop it. Nothing to do. My grandfather had an old Mosin-Nagant from his father, completely illegal but no one was going to come take it from him all the way out there. We would go on long walks—awful, the wind was so painful—trying to find something to shoot at. A rabbit, a fox if we were lucky. Mostly we just walked.”

Hollander had turned to face him, his arm over the back of the couch, his eyes tracking across Ilya’s face. “That sounds nice.”

Ilya smiled, remembering. “It was. My grandfather, he was not a warm guy. He didn’t talk much, but he would show me things—where the eagles nested, how to watch the grass to tell the direction of the wind, how to hold the rifle. He taught me how to make a shelter, how to stay warm if I got turned around in the dark.” He paused, looked out the window at the rain. “And I did, once.”

“What?” Hollander sounded alarmed, even worried, though Ilya was right there next to him, perfectly fine. “How old were you?”

“Nine, maybe? Ten? I thought I knew better than him where the fox had gone. I followed it too far and the light went. I had to build a snow shelter and wait until morning.”

“Jesus. Were you okay?”

“It was not a comfortable night, but I was okay. He found me as soon as there was light.” He remembered it better than he would have thought: the crunch of his grandfather’s boots through the snow crust, the old man crouching down to check Ilya’s hands and face for frostbite, his touch gentle. “He was not angry. He told me I did well.” Ilya paused, swallowed the memory back down. “After my mother died, I never went back.”

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

Shane and Hayden were at their usual post in the kitchen when the door to the apartment opened without warning. Shane drew his pistol. Hayden put a hand to his radio to call for back-up, but Shane held up a finger, wait. Rozanov was in the sitting room with Marleau playing video games. They weren’t expecting anyone, and to Shane’s knowledge, no one but himself, Ilya Rozanov, Grigori Rozanov, and Freddie the doorman downstairs had a key.

“Marleau!” It was a man’s voice, accented and imperious. “Get me a fucking drink.”

Shane exchanged a wary look with Hayden and did not lower his gun. He moved carefully toward the door, held up a hand when Marleau emerged from the sitting room, looking exasperated and long-suffering. He shrugged at Shane in that loose way he had, mouthed, It’s fine. “Right away, Mr. Rozanov.”

Oh, Shane thought, remembering. The brother. He holstered his pistol.

Alexei Rozanov was larger than his father but not his brother; they were almost of a height. Ilya was the more fit of the two—Shane smiled despite himself, flashing on his wet shoulders and muddy calves, racing in the rain—but Alexei was still very strong, and moved like a man who knew it, prided himself on it. He shucked off his coat and left it on the floor by the door, swung his arms as he followed Marleau into the kitchen, his elbows bent slightly outward, his tread heavy enough to make the floorboards complain.

Shane jerked his head at Hayden, indicating that they should make themselves scarce. Hayden left, headed back down to the lobby with a shrug and a roll of his eyes, his perpetual state on this particular detail—but Shane hovered, just out of sight in the doorway of the smaller sitting room, back against the wall.

It took a beat longer for Ilya to emerge; his head was down and his hand gripped the cross around his neck. His shoulders were curved inward, making him seem smaller than he was. Shane bit his lip, pressed his hand to his leg to keep from reaching out to him.

Shane settled in the blue and orange chair—awful, his least favorite, but it was the closest to the door, and even though it was expressly not his job to listen in on family business, he wanted to hear.

Not that he understood much of anything. He heard the clink of ice dropping into a glass, heard Marleau ask, “One for you, Roz?” just as if waiting on the Rozanovs was something Marleau always did, was fine with it—just as if he hadn’t told Ilya half an hour ago to get off his lazy ass and get him a fucking beer. More ice, Alexei saying, “За успех!” Shane heard Marleau mutter something indistinguishable, listened to his always surprisingly gentle tread as he retreated to his room.

Silence, briefly.

“I didn’t know you were coming here.” That was Ilya, carefully neutral.

“You had a question for me. I don’t answer questions like that over the telephone.” Alexei switched to Russian then, and Shane tipped his head back and closed his eyes, listening to the tenor of the conversation, trying to sort through what he could glean from modulations in tone and volume, to pick out the few words he could understand.

It was all too rapid; the Rozanovs were impatient with one another, and sarcastic as well, it seemed. But Ilya was being softer than Shane was used to, softer even than he’d been with his father. His tone was almost wheedling, as if he wanted something from his brother.

Alexei grew louder in response, scoffing and derisive. Shane got to his feet, paced back and forth, careful to stay on the rug so his feet didn’t make a sound. Ilya argued, pleaded, and then uttered a name Shane recognized: Vadim Sorokov.

It had been in the briefing packet Scott had given him: Sorokov was head of the Russian Mafia in Montréal. They didn’t have an enormous presence, as the city was mostly run by Haitians, the West End Gang, and the Rizzutos…but they were there. Sorokov had no known connection with the Rozanovs, and there was no reason to suspect he was the one responsible for the threats on Ilya’s life—but he was someone to watch out for. Sorokov was a man you tended to mention when you were explaining why something bad had happened, or was about to.

Alexei’s answering laugh was harsh, and then when Ilya pressed him, he grew angry, vicious; there was a soft thud, not quite a slap, and Shane was standing in the doorway to the kitchen before he’d made the decision to move.

Alexei had not hit his brother. But his hand was clamped tight around the back of Ilya’s neck, and Ilya had gone very still, his hands white-knuckled where they gripped the counter behind him. Shane couldn’t see his face at this angle, but he could see Alexei, red with anger down to the collar, eyes narrow and suspicious.

Shane kept his expression neutral, open. “Sorry to interrupt. I thought I should introduce myself—I’m Shane Hollander, point on Mr. Rozanov’s protection team.” He extended his hand.

Alexei eyed him up and down for a long, unhurried moment before letting his brother go. The tension in the room shifted slightly, but did not disappear. “Alexei Rozanov.” His handshake was aggressive, intended to be painful, and Shane had to force himself not to grip back just as hard in retaliation.

Instead he smiled politely, watched Ilya out of the corner of his eye, carefully still.

“Чего, блять, ему нужно?” Alexei asked Ilya, not looking away from Shane.

“Ничего. Он никто.” Ilya picked up his glass from the counter, downed it in a single gulp.

Alexei spoke in rapid Russian, and Shane caught one word through the current of it: полиция—police. Ilya shook his head, eyes flicking over to Shane, and then to Shane’s absolute surprise, he laughed.

It was easy and open and more than a little careless—nothing like the man Shane had come to know these last weeks. He pushed off the counter and slung an arm around Shane’s shoulder, leaned in close, almost as if he was going to press his lips to Shane’s neck.

Shane stiffened, he couldn’t help it. But Ilya gripped him harder, held him in place, and then his hand slid lower, dragged down Shane’s spine to take a casual, proprietary handful of his ass. Ilya smirked at his brother, said something that sounded suggestive even to Shane, who watched as Alexei’s red face went purple with outrage and disgust.

“Ебаный пидор,” he bit out, and Shane tightened his core, made ready to step in front of Ilya, to take the hit if he needed to.

But Ilya only pulled Shane in closer, slid his hand around his hip so that it drifted dangerously close to his crotch.

Alexei drained his glass, threw it into the metal sink hard enough to shatter it. He gave Shane a look of such absolute, withering contempt that it might have stung if Shane hadn’t already decided he fucking hated him. He pushed past them; Ilya instantly let Shane go.

Alexei picked up his coat from the floor, shook it out, and shoved his arms through the sleeves. He said something over his shoulder that made Ilya’s jaw shift—and then he left, slamming the door behind him.

Shane’s shoulders dropped, and his fist, loosely curled at his side, relaxed. Beside him, Ilya let out a breath.

“I am sorry,” he said formally, his accent thick, “for touching you like that. It will not happen again.”

“It’s fine, sir,” Shane said, though it really wasn’t. He could still feel the heat of Rozanov’s hand on his hip.

Rozanov nodded shortly, turned to walk down the hallway, and Shane’s eyes narrowed at the phone shoved into his back pocket—too big, wrong case, not his own. His brother’s? Had Ilya taken it from him?

“We should not be disturbed again,” Rozanov said over his shoulder. Then, “Marley, where the fuck did you go? Rainbow Road is waiting for you.”

“What the fuck,” Rozanov said flatly.

Shane followed his gaze to the menu, struggled not to make a face. “Sir, you’re the one who wanted to come here.”

Rozanov smirked and nudged him with his shoulder. “You don’t have to keep calling me sir, you know. Unless it’s something you’re into.”

Shane rolled his eyes and didn’t bother responding.

Rozanov muttered something in Russian, then added, “It’s a…what’s the word, when it’s something terrible. Not natural.”

Shane considered. “Abomination?”

“Yes, that. How many ways can you people eat French fries and gravy? There is a whole restaurant just for this?”

“Several.” Shane hesitated, then added, “I actually like poutine. I don’t eat it often, but it’s good. You would probably like it, sir.”

Rozanov pointed at the menu skeptically. “I would like it with beef, pepperoni, bacon, and also hot dogs?”

The face Shane had been trying not to make broke free. “Well. Probably not.”

They did that now, Shane and Rozanov—they talked. Not much, just basic conversation, but even that was beyond Shane’s purview. He was supposed to be scanning the restaurant, not its menu.

“Which one are you getting?”

“I’m not,” Shane said. “I don’t eat on duty, remember?”

Rozanov ignored this. “Maybe the one with pickles? What is coleslaw?”

“It’s cabbage. And mayonnaise and vinegar.” Shane was not a fan, but Rozanov was nodding.

“Yes, okay, that is the one. I will get that. And you will get the Veggie Reggie.”

“No, thank you.”

“The Elvis? The Boogalou? The Scooby, that one.”

“Rozanov—”

“I don’t like it when you are not eating. You never eat anything.”

“I eat, sir,” Shane said patiently. “Just not on-duty.”

“But you are always on duty.”

This was unfortunately somewhat true. Shane had given up his mornings off after the Mahieu debacle; they needed all eyes available for someone as devious as Rozanov. Hayden still went home in the evenings since Shane could handle those on his own. Typically Rozanov occupied himself in his room or played video games with Marleau or watched re-runs of American sitcoms to better his English. Tonight, however, he’d knocked on the door of Shane’s cubbyhole off the kitchen and demanded they go out for a midnight snack.

Probably Shane should have called in Hayden; at the very least he should have woken Marleau. But he’d driven them to the restaurant himself, keeping eyes on Rozanov in the backseat. The place was small, it had clear exits and sight lines, and it was just poutine. It was normal, and Shane thought Rozanov could probably use a little of that.

He heaved a sigh. “I’ll have a Classique.”

Rozanov beamed at him, bright and shit-eating, and Shane felt his own mouth widen in answer. “And a beer?”

“Don’t push it, sir. I’ll have water.”

Rozanov shrugged, placed the order, and stared at Shane expectantly until he sat down across the table. At least he was facing the door. The room was empty but for a pack of teenagers and a pair of older men by the counter who had the look of guys who came here every night and always ordered the same thing. The server refilled his water without being asked—the poutine was good, but salty, and Shane drained it empty again.

Rozanov ate with sincere focus, eyes on his plate. He didn’t seem to dislike his food, but neither did he seem particularly hungry, and Shane had wondered why they’d made this outing at all. Probably Rozanov was just bored.

The older men by the counter were joined by a third—slightly younger, mid-forties, well-dressed. Rozanov set his fork down, leaned in close. “There’s a man,” he said quietly, “who is going to come to this table in a few minutes.”

Shane went very still.

Rozanov picked up his fork, resumed eating. “He is a contact of my father’s. Diplomatic issues. It won’t take long.”

Shane’s teeth were clenched; he unclenched them. He glanced at the man in his forties. White, good haircut, clean hands. No visible weapons. Shane’s gun sat comfortingly heavy in its holster. The teenagers were leaving.

“Who are the other two men?” he asked.

Rozanov’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Security, probably. Just like you. Here to, how do you say, case the joint.”

Shane looked at him steadily, waited for Rozanov to meet his eyes. “I thought we talked about trusting each other, sir. You should have told me.”

Rozanov nodded, his mouth tightening. “I know. I’m sorry.” He didn’t offer anything else, certainly not an explanation.

Shane sighed, got to his feet. He took the position he should have from the moment they walked in—between Rozanov and the rest of the room, between the men at the counter and the door.

The well-dressed man stood up. He was friendly and gregarious, clapped Rozanov on the shoulder and sat down across from him in Shane’s former seat, pushing aside his half-eaten poutine. The other men at the counter were on their feet; they watched Shane. Shane kept them in his peripheral vision and watched Rozanov.

The conversation was in Russian, and Shane understood none of it, didn’t try. He focused instead on reading faces, body language, posture. Rozanov was not as relaxed as he wanted to be—his thumb was moving in small circles on the table, his eyes flicking to the men at the counter and then away. The well-dressed man laughed at something and Rozanov laughed back, though his eyes remained wary. And there it was again, a name: Vadim Sorokov. Shane pressed his arm against his gun in his holster, just to feel it, to know it was there.

Shane was so focused on the external—as he had to be, as was his job—that at first he didn’t notice the slow warmth when it began at the back of his neck. The Russian words sounded muddier, the overhead lights brighter, sparkling and dissolving. His mouth tasted sweet.

The well-dressed man was still talking, easy and expansive, but Rozanov’s thumb had stopped its circling. His fingertips were white where they were pressed flat against the table. He was afraid.

Shane ran a quick inventory: heart rate elevated and climbing, heat spreading from his sternum now. He raised his hands, couldn’t quite recognize them as his own.

The drug might have been in the water. It might have been in the food. It hardly mattered now.

“Ilya,” he said, as the room began to tilt. “Time to go.”

Rozanov looked at him, took in the sweat on Shane’s face, his flush, probably his eyes were dilated, too. He got to his feet so fast his chair toppled over, snarling something in Russian.

The well-dressed man sat back, the two men at the counter shifted, and Shane had his gun out before they had taken more than a single step. He was sweating at his temples, the back of his neck. He could feel every ridge of the gun. Had it always been this heavy?

“Door,” he said, and Rozanov went. Shane followed him, moving backward with the gun still up, watching the men by the counter. Rozanov held the door open for him—stupid, he should have left—and Shane shut it, felt the cold air rush over his hot skin.

He got Rozanov in the car, backseat, confirmed he was buckled. Shane’s hands on the steering wheel were someone else’s hands, but they obeyed his commands, mostly. He watched the restaurant door in the mirror as he drove away. He made three turns, established no tail. The streetlights were too yellow, such a deliberate yellow, and Shane thought about that so he didn’t think about his hands, about Rozanov in the backseat asking if he was all right, about the heat that had begun to concentrate below the waist.

The apartment was halfway across town. He wasn’t going to make it. He turned into a parking structure, circled round and round until he found a space he could back into easily, made sure he wouldn’t be trapped. He turned off the car.

“This is a very poorly designed drug.” He was trying to enunciate; it felt like he was slurring but maybe he wasn’t? “From a tactical standpoint, for incapacitation purposes. Why not just knock me out?”

The car door opened and closed, opened and closed. Rozanov was in the passenger seat beside him now, had Shane’s face between his hands, his blue-green-blue eyes darting back and forth. “Hollander,” he said urgently. “What do you need?”

Shane tried to make himself think—what did he need? He needed a lot of things, probably, water, for one, he was very thirsty. To go somewhere, to lie down, to get up, to take off his jacket and tie and definitely his shirt (that was fairly urgent, the fabric felt awful against his skin).

“Hollander,” Rozanov said again, and Shane leaned forward and kissed him. His mouth was just as soft as it looked, and it tasted like the salt of the gravy—so salty, he thought, whining about it a little. Shane so rarely ate poutine, and tonight he didn’t even get to enjoy it. He licked past the salt, tasted the warmth of a person, of Ilya, felt the smooth insides of his lips, the ridges at the roof of his mouth. He dragged his tongue across Ilya’s teeth, felt the jagged edge of a chipped incisor, catalogued it with the same helpless precision Shane had memorized everything else about him. Ilya’s saliva mixed with his like brackish water, dissolving, becoming impossible to separate, just as Shane was dissolving.

He was making sounds he couldn’t hear over his own pulse, and his hands had fisted in Ilya’s hair, tacky with product and damp at the temples. Shane had been not-kissing this mouth for weeks, had memorized its shape—the distance between the points of his cupid’s bow, the depth of his lower lip—so that if it touched any part of his body Shane would know who it belonged to, would know that it was Ilya who was kissing him back, Ilya whose tongue was tangling with his for a heartbeat, and another—

And then Ilya’s grip tightened on Shane’s face as he pushed him away. “No,” he said roughly. “Not like this.”

“Then how?” Shane said. His eyes were watering at the loss of contact, he felt chilled and desperate. “Any way you like. Whatever you want.”

“I’m sorry,” Ilya said. “I did not know this would happen. It was just supposed to be a meeting, I don’t know why they drugged you—and why you and not me, it doesn’t make sense. I didn’t know they were going to do that, Hollander, I promise.”

“I don’t care,” Shane said, even though he knew on some level he probably did. “Fuck you.” There was no heat in it; he ran his thumb across Ilya’s cheekbone, pressed lightly into the socket below his blue-green-blue eye. “Touch me, I need you to, fuck you, why you—”

“It’s the drug,” Ilya said, stilling Shane’s hands, pressing them together palm to palm like a prayer. “We need to call Pike, yes? I don’t have his number, I only have yours. Where is your phone?”

Shane had to concentrated hard before answering. “My pocket.”

Ilya reached for his trousers; Shane snatched his hand, shoved Ilya’s palm over his cock, moaned at the heat even through the fabric. Ilya bit out a curse in Russian, wrenched his hand away, and grappled with Shane long enough to pull his phone out of his pocket. He held it up in front of Shane’s face to unlock it, and then the phone was ringing, Hayden’s voice staticky over the speaker.

“Hey man, what’s up?” He sounded sleepy, and Shane could hear Jackie murmuring beside him.

“Pike,” Ilya said, clipped. “I need you to come here.”

Hayden’s voice went sharp. “Rozanov? Where are you? Where’s Shane?”

“Here. He has been drugged, I don’t know what it was. MDMA maybe?”

“What?”

“He is okay, I think he just needs to sleep it off, but…” Ilya shoved at Shane’s face, and he realized he had somehow slumped over, that he had pushed up Ilya’s shirt and was dragging his mouth through the trail of hair on his belly. “He is a little hard to handle right now.”

“Hard,” Shane said, and giggled. He could feel Ilya’s cock pressing up toward his chin, ducked his head to suck on it, tasted the fabric of his jeans. Ilya made a strangled noise.

“You will come?” he said, breathless. “I can text you address.”

“Of course I’m coming,” Hayden snapped. “And then I’m quitting this job. Shane’s quitting, we all fucking quit. Get yourself killed if you want, but you are not getting my best friend killed, do you get that?”

“Yes,” Ilya said, and hung up.

Chapter End Notes

За успех! - Cheers to success!

Чего, блять, ему нужно? - what the fuck does he want?

Ничего. Он никто. - Nothing. He’s nobody.

Ебаный пидор - f slur, it’s Alexei, what do we all expect

Full disclosure I adore poutine and would eat MANY OF THESE
https://www.labanquise.com/en/poutine-menu.php

Idk what this is I just really like drugged Shane so I gave him a LOT of ecstasy and some other stuff too

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

Ilya looked down at Shane Hollander in his lap, mouthing at his aching cock, and said a silent but extremely fervent Fuck you to God.

“Stop,” he said, and shoved his hand between Hollander’s wet mouth and Ilya’s increasingly wet jeans. Hollander turned his head ever so slightly, dragged his tongue between Ilya’s first and second fingers before taking them into his mouth with a moan. “Hollander. Shane. Shane, listen to me, listen.” He pulled his fingers away, hissed a curse as Shane whimpered at the loss, looking up at Ilya with wet, needy eyes. He was extraordinarily beautiful like this.

“Please,” he mumbled.

Ilya stroked his hair gently. “Прости, дорогой. You don’t want this, not really. We stop now.”

Shane shook his head, the movement sending a tear spilling from the outside corner of his eye. Ilya brushed it away with his thumb, brought it to his mouth to taste it. “I do want this. I do. I want you so much.”

“Shh.” Ilya bent down to kiss his cheek, awkward in the tight space. “You will be so upset tomorrow.”

Shane made a sound low in his throat, a protest or a plea, and turned his face into Ilya’s hand where it cupped his jaw. His lips moved against Ilya’s palm, not quite a kiss, warm and artless and completely unguarded, and Ilya crumpled inside, bruised by the sweetness of it, how unfair it was.

Shane was breathing too fast, his skin flushed, and he was trembling faintly as the drug moved through him in waves. “Come,” Ilya said, “come, sit up for me.” Shane went, allowed Ilya to lean him back, recline his seat, push it back on its track to give him some more room. He lay on his cheek, half curled beneath the steering wheel, pliable and trusting. No one should ever look at Ilya Rozanov like that.

Ilya brushed his fingertips across Shane’s freckled cheeks as his eyes drifted shut. “Hayden will be here soon,” he whispered. “You will be okay.”

“Want you,” Shane mumbled, almost unintelligible. “I do.”

Ilya turned away, looked at the line of cars in the parking garage, SUVs nestled alongside old Camrys and the occasional work van, evidence of people who led normal, boring lives, who didn’t know what it felt like to have to push someone like Shane Hollander away, to tell him no.

By the time he turned back, Shane was asleep. His face was slack, his breathing still a little fast, his hands curled into fists below his chin, defensive even in his sleep.  Ilya could look his fill now, could press the tips of his fingers to that soft mouth, could bring them back to his own lips, just like a kiss.

“You are such a fucking asshole,” Pike hissed. It had taken the two of them to get limp, unconscious Shane Hollander into the backseat, and now Pike was driving them directly to Shane’s apartment. “What the fuck? You just fucking had to go to a club? Is your dick really that fucking important to you?”

Ilya felt that his dick had been treated very unfairly already tonight, and wasn’t about to take further abuse from Hayden Pike.

“It wasn’t a club,” he said shortly. It cost him something to say it; he trusted Hollander and Hollander trusted Pike—and Pike probably had earned that trust, since it wasn’t something Hollander handed out easily. But Pike was not someone Ilya could like, not with his easy laugh and the way he could make Hollander smile, not with his casually proprietary hand on Hollander’s unconscious body, his easy access to the place where Hollander lived—or where he had lived, before he moved temporarily into the cubbyhole off Ilya’s kitchen.

Pike splashed a bottle of water on Hollander’s face, rousing him enough to produce a spluttered protest and a hand batting weakly at the air. “There he is,” Pike said, not unkindly. “Come on, buddy, let’s get you home.” He stumbled up the stairs between the two of them, mostly upright, head lolling. At the door to his unit, Pike said, “You got him?”

Ilya rolled his eyes, reached down and hoisted Hollander into his arms, cradling him to his chest. Hollander’s breath was warm against his neck. “Yes.”

Pike’s eyes narrowed at him, but he shook his head without saying anything, using his own key to open Hollander’s door. Ilya carried him inside, placed him on his bed, rolling him onto his left side with one pillow tucked against his back and another beneath his cheek. He could feel Pike watching him, ignored him as he quickly pulled off Hollander’s shoes, setting them neatly alongside the bed before folding the comforter over him. Ilya resisted the urge to touch his face, to brush his fingertips along his eyelashes.

He straightened, glanced around, and couldn’t help a small smile. The studio apartment was just so very Hollander—small and extremely neat, the half-kitchen spotless. There was a blender for smoothies, an intimidatingly-sized container of protein powder beside it. There was a grocery list stuck to the refrigerator, alongside drawings probably done by Pike’s many children. On the wall was a photograph of a slightly younger-looking Hollander with his parents on either side of him with a serene lake behind them, and a framed poster of a hockey player Ilya didn’t recognize. The couch had too many pillows on it, and there were coasters everywhere.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” For once, Pike sounded neither annoyed nor goofy; if anything, he sounded worried.

“Yes,” Ilya said, though he didn’t want to, not really. “Tomorrow, okay?” He nodded his head toward where Hollander was breathing with his mouth open. “So he can hear it, too.”

He’d expected that Hollander would be embarrassed, had expected that he’d deny having said anything about wanting Ilya, about pleading to be touched. He’d even half-anticipated he’d try to quit, and had an answer ready.

It still fucking hurt.

He regretted deciding to have this conversation mostly naked—he’d thought it would boost his confidence a little to see that Hollander was still attracted to him, even when sober. But instead Ilya just felt exposed, his own wanting too obvious.

“You will stay because you are good, and I need someone good. Whoever Hunter sends to replace you will not be as good as you are. So you will stay. Yes?” He forced himself to keep his face still even as Hollander’s eyes filled, a distant echo of the way he’d cried for Ilya the night before.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Ilya looked away, unable to bear it, picked up his book for something to do, what fucking book it was he didn’t even know. The lines of Cyrillic blurred.

At the foot of his bed, Hollander cleared his throat. “Now that we’ve got that settled, sir, maybe we can talk about who was trying to kill you?”

He gathered them all in the sitting room, Pike, Hollander, and Marley too, because he deserved to know as much as anyone. As much as Ilya was able to tell, anyway.

Marley sat beside Ilya in his usual seat on the couch, his knees splayed, uncouth as ever. Pike sat in one of the uncomfortable armchairs. Hollander remained standing, his hands loose at his sides, his eyes three inches above and to the left of Ilya’s face.

“Last night,” Ilya said carefully, “I met with one of my father’s business associates.” It wasn’t even a lie. “I am sorry I did not inform you in advance—”

“Fuck your sorry,” Pike snapped. “You telling me your father’s ‘business associates’ are the ones who drugged Shane? What the fuck kind of diplomat is he?”

“Russian,” Ilya said coldly. He did not look at Hollander. “We do not speak in front of Canadians, or anybody.”

“He doesn’t even understand fucking Russian!” Pike got up from his chair, paced around a bit. “Shane, come on, this is bullshit. Let’s call Scott like I should have last night, deliver our report, hand in our notice, and let this piece of shit—”

“Hey,” Marley said, so sharply it took Ilya aback. “That’s my friend, watch your mouth.”

“Marleau, come on, you don’t seriously—”

“I do,” he said, and folded his hands in his lap. “I’m not just the fucking cook around here, you know.”

“You are, actually,” Ilya said, because it felt better than hearing anyone be nice to him.

“Go fuck yourself, Roz,” Marley said, unbothered. He was by far the calmest person in the room; Ilya’s knee kept bouncing, Pike kept pacing, and Hollander was so very still, every muscle in his body so clenched that he was probably going to start bleeding from his pores.

Ilya took a breath, pressed hard on his knee to quiet it. “I did not mean for that to happen last night. They told me it was fine to bring my security as long as he didn’t speak Russian.”

“Who is they?” Pike said—or shouted, whatever. “Because I swear to God, Rozanov, if you don’t start giving us some fucking answers—”

“I told you,” Ilya said tightly, “they were my father’s business associates, and they…” he trailed off, trying to find a plausible explanation that wasn’t just they wanted to fuck with me, probably. Or possibly kill me.

And then, from that still corner, Hollander said very quietly, “What is your father’s connection with Vadim Sorokov?”

Ilya froze.

The name sat in the room as if the man himself was there, like a loaded gun in a Chekhov play. Pike stopped pacing, but his head swiveled back and forth like someone at a football match, looking between Ilya and Hollander.

“Who?” Marley said, and Pike let out a tense burst of laughter.

“He’s fucking Mafia. The mob.”

“He is Russian,” Ilya said, nonsensically defensive. “Not Italian. Not Irish.”

“Oh, excuse me,” Pike said sarcastically. “No insult intended to organized crime of all nations.”

Ilya got up, went for the door. “I need a cigarette.” He’d left them in his bedroom, he could go in there, shut the door, lock it, get himself some time and space to fucking think. How had Hollander known? Ilya had been so fucking careful—

Marley reached into his back pocket, pulled out a crumpled pack of Marlboros. “Here you go, man.”

Ilya hated him a little bit.

He took a cigarette and fumbled the plastic lighter out of the pack. He opened the window, let in the crisp morning air. Montréal was beautiful this time of year, he could admit it. The dusty smell of dead leaves, of hardening earth, the funk of the canal. He lit his cigarette, the smoke burning it all away, clearing his head.

Behind him, the room waited. Ilya was impressed at Pike’s restraint, though he knew that Hollander was probably keeping him leashed. Hollander, he knew, could wait forever.

Well, at the very least he could wait until Ilya finished his fucking cigarette.

He took his time, and when it was finally down to the filter, he stubbed it out on the sill before flicking it down to the street below. He reminded himself that he was a Rozanov, that he knew how to play this game, had been born into it.

He spun around, planted a hip on the window, let the cold air prop him up. “Like I said. Business associates of my father’s.”

“Business associates,” Hollander repeated. “And you’re just…meeting with them in the middle of the night? On behalf of the embassy?”

Ilya shrugged, loose and excessively Slavic. “I do what my father tells me.”

Hollander’s eyes widened, his mouth tightening. “No,” he said, with more certainty than he should have possessed. “You really don’t.” He stared at Ilya from across the room, his eyes searching, and it took everything Ilya had to keep himself lax, uncaring, the perfect picture of the feckless, wastrel son.

At last Hollander said, “Marleau, I’m pretty sure we’re out of milk.”

Marley looked up, scratched his head. “Nah, man, we’ve got plenty. I went shopping yesterday.”

“You should go buy some.” Hollander’s tone was even, almost light.

“Uh, yeah. Okay.” Marley got to his feet, patting his pockets absently. Ilya gave him his cigarettes back. “I’ll, uh, go do that, then. Probably we need some other stuff, too. Fruit, or whatever. Might take me a while.”

“Hayden, you should go with him.”

“Fuck that—” Pike started, but Hollander clapped him on the shoulder.

“Or you can keep an eye out in the lobby,” he said quietly. “Just—let me talk to him on my own. Okay?”

Pike blew out a furious breath. “Fine. Fucking fine. I don’t get the deal with you two.”

“There’s no deal,” Ilya said, somewhat pointlessly.

Pike laughed at him, not nicely, and leaned in close to whisper something to Hollander.

“It’s not like that,” Hollander said in a low voice.

Pike rolled his eyes. “Whatever, dude. Be careful.”

Hollander waited, stood against the wall while Ilya stood against the window across the room. The air grew so cold the heat came on, the old steam radiators clicking loudly from the corner, hissing. The apartment door closed behind Marleau, behind Pike who was still muttering complaints, and Ilya closed the window.

“Listen, I don’t know what you think—”

“How about this,” Hollander interrupted. “How about you just tell me the truth. How about, just this once, you fucking trust me.”

“I can’t!” It burst out of Ilya like an eruption. “I can’t trust anyone, don’t you get that?” Hollander’s eyes flashed with hurt, and Ilya thought savagely, Good.

“You trust your friend,” he pointed out. “Ms. Vetrova. You can trust me. You have to know that.”

“I…” Ilya wanted to hit him in his stupid, earnest face. “How can I trust you, Hollander? You report to my father, it’s your literal job.”

Hollander laughed at that, he actually laughed. “And I had my face in your fucking crotch last night! Jesus Christ! You think I’m reporting that? This is…look, whatever is going on with you, I need to fucking know, okay? Not for your father, for me, because you put me in danger last night—”

“And I said I’m sorry—”

Hollander continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Worse, you put yourself in danger, and if I’m going to protect you which I fucking am, I need to know what the threats are! I can’t risk anything happening to you—”

“Why?”

It came out too desperate, too honest. Ilya hadn’t asked why like that since he was twelve years old, and the humiliation of having it spill out of him made him curl over. He felt flayed open, every layer of careful indifference peeled back to expose whatever soft and rotted thing lay beneath.

Hollander just looked mystified, and annoyed about it. “Why do you think? Because I care about you, you asshole!”

That was just…it was too fucking much, is what it was. “No, you don’t,” Ilya snapped. “You don’t even know me, I’m just—” The words played out in his mind, in his father’s voice, his brother’s. A fuck-up. Worthless, lazy, a disgrace.

“Of course I know you,” Hollander said, like it was the simple, obvious truth. “Rozanov—Ilya. Of course I know you. I don’t know what’s going on with you and your father, but I fucking know you, okay? I know you’re actually an early riser, that you haven’t slept past six in the morning once since I’ve been here. I know you cheat at cards and watch some of the worst television I’ve ever seen in my life. I know you try so hard—”

“Stop it,” Ilya said coldly. He couldn’t bear it, couldn’t stay in this room filled with Hollander’s sincerity, not one moment longer. “Just…stop. Shut the fuck up. You don’t know anything.”

“And whatever you’ve gotten yourself into, we can figure it out, okay? You can trust me, I will never let anything happen to you—”

“Заткнись!” Ilya crossed the room like someone falling off the side of a mountain—too late to do anything to stop it. He gripped Hollander’s chin hard, his thumb digging into the dent below his mouth, parting it, and Ilya kissed him to shut him up, to shut himself up, to keep everything from spilling out of him.

It was less a kiss than an accusation: this is your fault, you did this, you’ve been doing this since you walked into my life. Ilya shoved at him, and Hollander went, crashing back into the wall, his hands gripping at Ilya’s shirt, keeping him close.

Ilya bit his lower lip hard, and Hollander gasped, thrust compulsively, his hard cock against Ilya’s hip. “Fuck.”  Ilya tried to pull back—it was too much, everything about this man was too much for him—but Shane wouldn’t let him, dragged his mouth across Ilya’s temples, his nose, his tight-shut eyes.

“Please,” Shane said raggedly. “Ilya. Please fuck me.”

There were probably people in the world strong enough to tell a pleading Shane Hollander No twice over the span of twelve hours, but Ilya was not one of them. With a curse, he slid his hands beneath those muscular thighs and lifted; Shane let out a moan that went straight to Ilya’s cock. It was a heady thing, carrying someone as strong as Ilya was, stronger maybe, a man who could dismantle him if he chose to—and Shane was letting him, was reveling in it. Ilya wanted him so much it was dizzying, and when he dropped Shane on his bed he fell on top of him, incapable of not touching him for so much as a heartbeat—but Shane was pushing him away, shoving at his shoulders.

“What, what?” Ilya shut his eyes, swallowed hard. “I’ll stop, sorry—”

“Don’t you fucking dare. Just…just take your clothes off—”

Oh. Ilya ripped his shirt over his head, went to work on Shane’s tie, his jacket, tried to be careful of his shirt with so many buttons, until Shane impatiently tugged at it, sending those buttons plinking across the wood floor. Shoes were an impossibility; Ilya was barefoot but Shane had his practical, ugly-ass dress shoes on, and the laces were double-knotted because of course they were, and Ilya wanted to kiss his ankles but he couldn’t fucking get to them.

“Here,” Shane gasped, “Let me—”

And at last he was naked, glorious and squirming, all of that beautiful skin over his perfect body. Ilya was going to die. He sat back, ran his hands over Shane’s chest, squeezing, dug his thumbnail into his pink-brown nipple to make him cry out. “What do you want to do?” he asked raggedly.

Shane’s eyes opened, scowling, wonderful. “I already said. If you don’t want to—”

Ilya dragged his teeth down his neck, shoved him over with one hand while he fumbled in the nightstand drawer with the other. Shane went willingly, eagerly, his back a long pale curve, ass in the air and his hand on his cock, gripping it. Ilya took a steadying breath, bent over to dip his tongue into the twin dimples at the small of Shane’s back, slid two dripping fingers inside.

He was tight, fuck, so tight Ilya hesitated, almost asked, Are you sure, when did you last do this? But Shane was thrusting back on his fingers, grabbing at Ilya’s free hand and tugging it to his lips, sucking on his thumb. Ilya hooked it in his mouth, pressed down on his tongue just as he curved his fingers to press on his prostate.

Shane whimpered, “Now, please now, come on—”

Ilya had to take his hands away to put on the condom, and Shane glared back at him, betrayed. “One second, Christ—” Ilya had to rest his head between Shane’s shoulder blades, to smooth a sticky hand down his hip before he had enough control to go slowly. He paused halfway, mouthed the knob at the top of Shane’s spine, tasted salt. “Okay?”

Shane nodded his head against the pillow, reached back to grab at Ilya’s hip, his hair, whatever he could reach. Ilya sat back on his knees, pressed all the way in and stilled, splayed a hand on Shane’s lower back to keep him from moving. “Just…wait. I want…”

Ilya couldn’t have said what he wanted at gunpoint. He couldn’t move, because then it would end. He coveted Shane Hollander even while he was inside him, and he smoothed his palms down the skin of his back, trying to memorize the changes in texture, the play of muscle. He wanted to keep this moment under glass, drown it in formaldehyde.

“Ilya?” Shane whispered. He’d twisted around, his eyes wide and unfocused, pleading.

“A little longer, kотёнок.” He reached around to stroke a hand down Shane’s cock, smeared the dripping pre-come across the head. “Let me enjoy you.” He jerked him slowly, felt him twitch and leak into his palm.

Shane shuddered and went pliant, surrendering, his mouth wet and open. Reluctantly, Ilya began to move, dragging slowly out, hissing through his teeth as he went back in. He could feel Shane’s heartbeat throbbing on his cock.

It was a catastrophe: Shane Hollander with his face pressed into Ilya’s pillow making sounds Ilya would hear for the rest of his life, alone in his empty room. Ilya wrapped his arm around Shane’s chest and hauled him upright, changing the angle. Shane’s head fell back against his shoulder and Ilya bit the tendon in his neck, felt him sob. He thrust hard, fucking into him like he was trying to leave a mark inside him, and Shane came all over his hand, all over the sheets, collapsing forward, unable to hold himself up with the force of it.

Ilya pulled out of him, stripped off the condom and flung it aside, finishing himself off with his hand. He came all over the tanned expanse of Shane’s back, and watched it slide slowly down the valley of his spine.

Chapter End Notes

Прости, дорогая - Sorry, precious

Заткнись! - shut up

Kи́са - kitten

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

Shane tried to catch his breath. The sheets beneath him were damp and twisted and his back was sticky. He had just fucked his principal, who was somehow involved with the Russian mafia and who had yet to be honest with him even once.

He rolled out of the wet patch and pulled Ilya to his chest, pressed a kiss to his mouth, his forehead. Neither of them said anything. Shane wanted to stay in this soft, buzzy feeling for as long as he possibly could, wanted to feel Ilya’s breath against his collarbone, the tickle of his hair, the weight of his soft cock against his hip.

But Ilya wasn’t having it; he pulled back, his eyes searching, flicking back and forth so fast it was dizzying, like he was trying to speed-read Shane’s mind. He pressed a palm against Shane’s shoulder. “What’s this from?”

“What’s what from?”

“Your scar.”

Automatically Shane reached up to touch it, and found Ilya’s fingers already there. “Training. Unarmed combat. It wasn’t official, we were sparring. I fell on a rock.”

Ilya smiled, his teeth white and a little crooked on the bottom. “Someone beat you?”

Shane huffed. “No. I got up, and then I kicked his ass. And then I had to go get stitches.”

Ilya’s smile widened, and Shane tried to think whether anything in the world had ever made him happier. It made it hurt so much worse to say, “Tell me about Vadim Sorokov.”

Ilya’s mouth tightened, but at least he didn’t look away. He absently toyed with Shane’s earlobe between his thumb and forefinger, and his cross on its gold chain dragged gently against Shane’s chest, just above his heart. “I know only a little,” he said at last. “My father…I have never been a part of his business, yes? Not the Embassy, and not…this. I didn’t even know about it. I tried to report it, but I had no proof. I met with that man at the restaurant—”

“Who was he?”

“Авторитет.” He frowned, concentrating. “Is like…he reports to Sorokov, yes? I sent him a message as Alexei, introducing me so I could talk to him.”

“That’s why you stole your brother’s phone? Why did you want to meet him? What’s his name?”

Ilya sighed loudly, dropped his head to Shane’s chest. “So many questions, Hollander.”

Shane stroked a hand through his curls, gripping and then releasing them. “Sorry.”

“Is okay.” He felt Ilya’s lips brush against his skin, a soft kiss. “Svetlana could not find proof at the Embassy, nothing she could get to safely. And so I thought maybe if I—”

Shane’s phone began to ring from where it lay in the crumpled heap of his pants on the floor. He ignored it. “You thought if you…?”

“Maybe I get information that way. From the source, yes?”

Shane frowned, tugged at Ilya’s hair to lift his head up. “That was such a bad idea.”

“I know. I should never have risked you like that…”

But Shane was already shaking his head. “No. I mean, yes, you should have told me—but it’s not like this guy would just hand over a paper trail of…who is he? What does he do?”

“His name is Zakhary Pichugin. He handles, what is it…smuggling. My father, he was using diplomatic immunity to bring something in through the port, I don’t—”

Shane’s phone rang again, and he sighed. “Hayden probably wants to come back upstairs. Give me a second—”

Ilya gave a theatrical groan and nuzzled his face into Shane’s armpit, which really ought to have been gross but in fact was so far from it that Shane gave up on trying to get to his phone, and was instead contemplating how long he could reasonably expect Hayden to remain patient, whether that was enough time to get Ilya’s dick in his mouth—

—When a heavy tread sounded in the hallway, and the door was flung open. “Где мой чёртов телефон?”

Shane scrambled to get out of the bed, to hide in the ensuite, but of course it was too late.

There was a second of absolute stillness. Alexei’s eyes went from Shane to his brother and back again. “Oтвратный пидорас.”

Shane grabbed his pants, and then his phone when it tumbled onto the floor. Ilya sat back against the headboard, unconcerned by his own nudity. “Alexei.”

Shane tugged up his zipper before straightening.  “Mr. Rozanov, if you’ll just give us a moment—”

Alexei’s eyes flicked over him, dismissive. “Убирайся.” He crossed the room fast; Shane stepped into his path and got a shoulder check that made him bite his cheek. Alexei grabbed Ilya by the throat and hit him across the face with an open hand, a crack that filled the room. Shane had him by the collar before the second one landed, yanking him back and putting him into the wall with a forearm across his neck. “Don’t fucking touch him.”

Alexei’s face was red with fury, a vein pulsing at his temple. His eyes darted past Shane, and Shane glanced over his shoulder to see Ilya on his feet, stretching, a handprint reddening on his cheek. "Так я его трахнул," he said lazily. “И что с того? Скучно было."

Shane couldn’t understand him, but he could make a guess: Ilya thought this would go better if Alexei thought it was nothing, that Shane was nothing to him. It might even have been the truth, for all he knew. It wasn’t like either of them had ever said otherwise.

Either way, the intention was to protect him—Ilya was always, however obliquely or unsuccessfully, trying to protect Shane.

He pushed his arm a little harder into Alexei’s windpipe. He made a sound somewhere between a cough and a snarl and tried to push Shane away. He allowed it, just enough to let the man breathe, but he didn’t step back.

“Get your fucking hands off me!” Alexei said, gasping.

“I’m not going to let you hit him again.”

“Fuck you, you—”

Shane pressed harder. “You done?”

Alexei’s face purpled, but he nodded. Shane dropped his arm and stepped back, still keeping his body between Ilya and his brother. Alexei straightened his collar, his jacket. He was sweating.

Ilya pulled on his track pants but didn’t bother with a shirt. He picked up Shane’s jacket, his tie, the wreckage of his dress shirt, and handed them to him without a word.

“You, what is your name?”

“Shane Hollander,” he said calmly.

“Get out. You are done here. Fired.”

“That’s not how this works. I’m employed by the Parliamentary Protective Service—”

“I don’t fucking care. You want me to call your captain and tell them what I walked in on? You will still be fired.”

This was, of course, perfectly true, and well deserved. Shane had never imagined himself capable of behaving so unprofessionally. He would call Scott himself, and hand in his resignation. But—

“Mr. Rozanov still requires protection,” he said, hating the tiny note of pleading in his voice. “My colleague downstairs—”

“Can fuck off, too. We will provide our own protection, Russian protection.” Alexei looked Shane up and down, at his bare feet and chest, his unbuckled belt, his stubble-reddened neck. “Fucking faggot. Disgusting.”

Ilya twitched, convulsive, and Shane narrowed his eyes at him, Don’t. The handprint on his cheek had darkened, and the corner of his mouth had a small cut on it, bright red.

It was so hard to walk away from him. Shane picked up his holster, buckled it on. He found his shoes beneath the bed, but didn’t bother looking for his socks. He thought fleetingly of all of his clothes, his free weights in the cubby off of the kitchen. None of it mattered.

“Goodbye, Ilya,” he said, because he had to. Ilya didn’t reply.

Shane closed the bedroom door behind him, walked barefoot down the hall and out of the apartment. He knelt outside the door to put his shoes on, wincing as his ass protested. It had been a long time since he’d last let anyone fuck him; he would be sore for a while. He stood up and swayed, dizzy. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, and whispered “Fuck.”

Shane had barely made it through the door before Scott told him to get the fuck out of his office.

“I don’t want to see your face right now, Hollander. Surrender your weapon and leave.”

Shane put his Colt Service revolver in its holster on the desk, what little space there was available that wasn’t covered in stacks of paperwork. He took his Service-issued phone out of his pocket and left it there, too. Through the narrow window behind Scott’s desk, the Rideau Canal was a grey strip in the grey Ottawa afternoon. “I just need two minutes.”

Scott raised his gaze heavenward. “Shane, for the love of god...You’re suspended, effective as of two hours ago when I received a call from the Russian Embassy informing me that you were having ‘inappropriate relations’ with your principal. Do you get how dangerous that is? He’s Russian, you dumb fuck. You’re supposed to be there to protect him, not get him killed.”

Shane swallowed hard, felt his eyes burning. “Two minutes, sir, then I’ll go.”

Scott gave him a long, steely-eyed look. “Two minutes,” he said at last. “If you’re going to apologize, make it fast.”

“I’m not.” Scott’s eyebrows went up, and Shane flushed. “I mean, I know I owe you an apology. Obviously. But that’s not…” he took a steadying breath. A gust of wind pushed a spiral of dead leaves past the window. “I’m here because I believe there’s a credible threat from the Russian mafia against Ilya Rozanov’s life. Last night he met with a man named Zakhary Pichugin, who answers to Vadim Sorokov. Minister-Counsellor Rozanov has been using diplomatic shipping channels to move something through the port, and Ilya is aware of it. He was trying to inform on him, but no one at CSIS was listening, and I’m worried that—”

“Shane.” Scott’s voice was not unkind. “Minister-Counsellor Rozanov has firmly discontinued his use of the Parliamentary Protective Service. You are resoundingly suspended, and frankly you should consider yourself lucky that’s where we’re landing considering the very unpleasant thirty minutes I have just spent explaining to people significantly above my pay grade why one of my officers would choose to—” He paused, pressed two fingers and his thumb to his temples. “You understand the position this puts the Service in, not to mention the Embassy and Global Affairs.”

“Yes, sir,” Shane said quietly. “And I’m happy to resign, or you can fire me, whichever you prefer. What we…what I did, it doesn’t change the fact that Ilya needs protection.”

Scott’s chair creaked as he leaned back. “The letters weren’t even real. The ones the father said he received? They’re bogus. The fucking emails were routed directly from the Embassy, from the other one, the brother…”

“Alexei,” Shane supplied, thinking fast.

“Yeah, him. It was just, I don’t know. A waste of our time and resources.”

“Unless they wanted to keep an eye on him. And they could use us to do it—all nice and above board. Rozanov had me reporting everything to him, remember? Everyone Ilya talked to, everywhere he went. He must have suspected that Ilya might have tried to go to CSIS, or maybe he was trying to protect him from Sorokov—”

“Maybe,” Scott said evenly. “It’s certainly possible. But either way, it’s out of our hands. And Rozanov—Ilya—does have protection, if that eases your mind a little. They’ve hired private security, I was told this morning. Russian nationals, vetted through the Embassy.”

“That’s not…who vetted them?”

“Shane.”

“I’m just saying, it’s tough to be clear on the Minister-Counsellor’s priorities here. If it comes down to it, Ilya’s safety might not be at the top of the list.”

Scott looked away, back down at his desk. “That’s not our problem anymore.”

“Not our problem?”

“Hollander,” Scott snapped, his patience collapsing at last. “You’ve made your case. If you have specific, actionable intelligence regarding a threat to a foreign national on Canadian soil, you can write it up and submit it through the appropriate channels, where it will get assessed by the people whose job it is to do so. That is the only thing you can do right now. Are we clear?”

Shane thought about Ilya, about the handprint on his cheek, about his careful, studied indifference. “He’s all alone,” he said brokenly.

Scott was a good boss to have—someone who had been in the field, who knew what the job was like and what it took to do it well. He was young enough that he could still have been on active duty, but he’d taken a desk after marrying his partner of five years. He came out from behind that desk now, hesitated, then placed a light hand on Shane’s shoulder.

“How long was it going on?” he asked.

Shane shook his head, pinched away the moisture from his eyes. “It wasn’t…that was the first time. The only time. We never…” He trailed off, thinking of the way Ilya had stroked his hair in the dark when Shane had been half out of his mind on whatever Pichugin’s men had given him, of his soft smile when he’d spoken about his grandfather, of the way he’d laughed, joyous in the rain.

Scott nodded, squeezed Shane’s shoulder before letting him go. “You know, uh…” he cleared his throat. “This shit isn’t easy. You’re with someone twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week…it’s, uh, you know, it’s only natural that feelings are going to come up. Attraction, whatever. The whole job is intimacy, if you think about it.” He scratched the back of his head. “I mean, you’re still definitely not supposed to—”

“I know,” Shane said.

“Right.” They stood there awkwardly for another few moments, and then Scott retreated back behind his desk. “The thing is, you’re good at this.” He gave a small, exhausted laugh. “It would be significantly easier for me if you weren’t because you have made my day genuinely miserable, like really fucking terrible, okay? But you’re one of the best I have. I’m suspending you, not firing you—for as long as I can anyway, unless Global Affairs really wants your ass. It might be out of my hands. But I believe you can come back from this.”

Shane couldn’t think of anything useful to say. “Thank you, sir. It’s a little hard to think about that right now.”

Scott sighed, nodded shortly. “Understandable. Write up that intelligence—Sorokov, his lieutenant, the shipping channels. I’ll make sure it gets in front of the right people at CSIS.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go home. Get some sleep, you look like hell. Close the door on your way out.”

Shane made his way outside. He had blisters forming on his heels, a natural consequence of leather shoes worn without socks. He glanced down at himself—his tie covered most of the missing buttons on his shirt, but there was nothing to be done about how wrinkled everything was.

Hayden turned off the radio when he climbed in the car. “What did he say?”

“They’ve got private security on him. Russian.”

“Fuck,” Hayden said, uncharacteristically succinct. “And what about you? Are you fired?”

“Suspended. For now.”

Hayden tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. “That’s, uh. Not as bad as it could be?”

“Yeah.”

Shane sat quietly, looking through the windshield at a few geese sitting miserably in the cold water of the canal. Were Canada Geese supposed to go somewhere else in the winter? Or had these come from farther north? Did geese even migrate anymore, in these modern times?

“I tried calling you, man,” Hayden burst out. “I knew something was up with you and him, I knew it, and I tried calling you to warn you—”

“I know. It’s not your fault.”

“And I mean, like, what the fuck were you thinking?”

“It was unprofessional.”

“Damn right it was unprofessional! It was—Christ, Shane! That fucking guy? I mean, I get it, he’s hot, and he was obviously pretty obsessed with you, but he’s just, he’s just such an asshole, not to mention he’s, you know, a fucking Russian diplomat’s son who, just for kicks, has the Russian mafia sniffing around him—you couldn’t have picked literally anyone else? I mean, fuck!”

I couldn’t, Shane thought. There never was anyone else, not like him. He pressed his thumb and forefinger hard over the bridge of his nose to stop the tears coming. It usually worked, but not this time, and he turned his head away watched his reflection blur in the passenger side window. “Sorry. Sorry, I just…”

Hayden blew out a quiet, “Shit.” He patted Shane on the shoulder, awkwardly sincere. “I’m sorry, dude. That was probably pretty unhelpful, huh? Sorry. I know you’re worried about him, and…” he sighed gustily. “Fuck, I guess I am, too. Have you tried calling him?”

Shane looked down at his lap, tears dripping off the edge of his nose. “I’m afraid to. I don’t want to make things worse for him, with his brother.”

“Right.” Hayden took his hand back, started the car. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’ve got a two-hour drive back to Montréal, at which point I’m dropping you off at home so you can shower and get some fucking sleep, okay?” Shane opened his mouth to protest, but Hayden shot him a look that shut him up before reaching into the backseat for his laptop. “You’ve got a report to write up, yeah? You can do it on the way. Meanwhile, I’ll give Marleau a call. Good money says he can tell us what the fuck is going on.”

Chapter End Notes

Авторитет - it's like a lieutenant

Где мой чёртов телефон? - Where’s my fucking phone?

Oтвратный пидорас - it’s a slur

Убирайся - get out

Так я его трахнул. И что с того? Скучно было. - So I fucked him. So what? It was boring.

Chapter 8

After Shane left, Ilya didn’t want to take a shower. He wasn’t the one with come all over his back, so he shouldn’t have to. He looked at his face in the mirror, ran his hands under the sink before scrubbing at the dried blood at the corner of his mouth. Alexei’s handprint had faded, leaving only a swollen, slightly red cheekbone that really only hurt when Ilya pressed on it.

He would have hit Alexei back if he’d tried it again; he’d stopped just letting Alexei punch him when he was fourteen. He shouldn’t have allowed it this time, couldn’t be sure why he had. A strange sense of fair play, maybe; Alexei had many reasons for hating Ilya, but the fact that Ilya fucked men was one he took particular pride in.

He’d stopped ratting him out to their father when Ilya was sixteen, when Grigori had found Sasha with Ilya’s cock in his mouth and nearly killed them both—a step too far, even for Alexei. They were both afraid of Grigori; it was maybe the only thing the brothers had in common.

Ilya showered after all. The water pressure in this apartment was excellent, and he stayed under the spray until the bathroom was thick with steam and the mirror had gone completely white. He got dressed and stripped his sheets. Marley tapped on his door, his big face with its big features crumpled with concern. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Ilya said sharply, and made up his bed himself.

When he came out, Alexei was gone. “He said to tell you he’ll be back,” Marley warned.

Probably gone to a meet, then, with Pichugin or someone else. Ilya parked himself on the unoccupied kitchen stool and ate the tuna sandwich Marly slid over to him. He swallowed, took another bite. “Do we have any ginger ale?” he asked, like he didn’t already know the answer.

Marley squeezed his shoulder and got up to get him a can from the refrigerator. “You dumb fuck,” he said kindly.

He didn’t comment when Ilya left most of the sandwich untouched, when he put his plate in the sink and took his ginger ale into the little room off the kitchen. Marley hummed noisily to himself, started washing up, and Ilya closed the door to shut him out.

It was such a pathetically small room. What was it supposed to have been, anyway? Servants quarters, pantry? There was barely space for the single air mattress—perfectly made, of course, the sleeping bag zipped and smoothed, the pillow squared. The yoga mat was rolled tight against the wall, and the weights were arranged by size in ascending order, seven kilos to twenty. Ilya reached overhead to tug at the pull-up bar before lifting and unhooking it. He put it and the weights in the large plastic bin that Shane had upended and been using as a nightstand, unplugged his phone charger and wound the cord carefully. He’d been reading a biography of Alexander Graham Bell, for reasons Ilya couldn’t fathom.

He eyed the stacks of folded clothing along the opposite wall—shirts creased along precise lines, socks paired and turned, the spare suit still in its dry-cleaning bag. He couldn’t imagine how Shane had managed to fit it all in the one bag he’d brought with him without balling everything up and shoving it in, and obviously, being Shane, he hadn’t done that. Ilya did his best, laying the spare suit jacket across the top, tugging at the zipper to get it to close.

And then he lay down on the air mattress and turned his face to the pillow, inhaling deeply. He’d keep Shane’s shampoo, he decided, and his conditioner and his baffling array of skin care products. He’d pat his eye cream over his eyes when he went to sleep, and he’d put on his sunscreen in the morning, and it would be almost like Shane was touching him.

Shane’s replacement, Sergei Tyurin, was his opposite in every way. Russian, obviously, and loud with it. He stomped around the place, farting and smoking so that his smell lingered in rooms he’d left. He’d taken one derisive look at the cubby hole and moved into the master bedroom; ostensibly the one that belonged to Grigori or Alexei whenever either of them were in town, but Marly and Ilya had the other two. It was fine; it wasn’t like Ilya wanted him sleeping in Shane’s room. It was just irksome.

Alexei had brought him round, made Ilya pour everyone a vodka so they could all toast his health and survival. “These letters,” New Guy had said disinterestedly, “they say why they want you dead?”

“Too many good reasons to choose from,” Alexei had said, and clapped Ilya hard on the back. “Don’t let him go anywhere,” he’d ordered, as if Ilya was a pet dog. “It’s not safe.”

Marley detested Tyurin, claiming he was the only one allowed to stomp and fart and sit around playing video games. Between the two of them, Ilya and Marley could easily have overpowered him. But Tyurin kept a gun on the couch beside him, and while he seemed generally disinterested in conversation, he kept an eye on Ilya in the peripheral way of someone who has been told to do exactly one thing and under no circumstances to fuck it up.

Marley refused to leave Ilya alone in a room with him, and had taken to sleeping with his door cracked.

“Have you heard from Hollander?” he’d asked once, low enough not to be heard over the sounds of Grand Theft Auto.

“No.” No, Shane had not called him, had not texted or emailed or offered Ilya so much as a liked Instagram post.

“Right.” Marley slid over a can of ginger ale; at the rate Ilya was going through them he’d have to buy more which was fucking insane because Ilya didn’t even like the stuff. “I have,” Marley said awkwardly, still quietly. “I mean, mostly I talk to Hayden. He’s worried about you. Shane is. Not that Hayden’s not…” he trailed off, and Ilya took pity on him.

“What have you told him?”

“That you’re okay. At first they were mostly concerned for your physical safety, after…” he gestured at Ilya’s face. “I told him that was it, there was no more, uh, punching. And I reminded him you could kick Alexei’s fucking ass, and if for some reason you didn’t want to, I could.”

Ilya gave him a half-smile. This fucking guy. He’d hired him as a joke, had met him in a bar six months ago and brought him back to the apartment and told his father, “Look, I have found a housekeeper.” Marley had still been hungover, but he’d needed the job, and as it turned out he was a really good cook.

So Shane was worried about Ilya. That was nice, probably. Ilya wasn’t an idiot; he knew Shane wouldn’t have fucked him if he hadn’t cared about him at least a little. And now he’d retreated, which was only to be expected, given the circumstances. Given the person Shane was.

Ilya had spent his life being cared about from a distance. His father was very good at it—Look, I have given you a house, money, security, what more do you want? Ilya had made peace with that kind of love a long time ago, had resigned himself to it.

But he couldn’t seem to resign himself to Shane Hollander, much less to the lack of him. In less than a month, Shane had unwittingly carved Ilya into a new shape, and his absence left him hollowed out, unbalanced.

He’d tried calling the number Shane had given him; it had been disconnected.

He knew he ought to care more that his brother had planted a thug in his sitting room—Alexei hadn’t bothered to be subtle—but the fear wouldn’t catch. He couldn’t pay attention to it, much less come up with a plan. He just locked himself in Shane’s cubby hole. Marley had taken most of Shane’s things back to his apartment, but Ilya had kept his weights and his yoga mat, even though he had to watch videos on YouTube to learn how to do some of the weird body-weight workouts Shane did, learned shrimp squats and frog stands, leopard crawls and lizard twists.

In the end, he called Svetlana.

“What do you want, I’m busy.”

“I fucked him. I know you told me not to, but I did.”

She was so quiet he could hear the sounds of the Embassy on the other end of the line, phones ringing, people talking, laughing. “I know,” she said, because of course she’d already heard. “Ilyusha, I know it was…” she trailed off, because she didn’t know; even Ilya didn’t know what it was. “I’m so sorry,” she said at last.

Ilya laughed, dropping his head onto his knees where they were bent up to his chest, the yoga mat beneath him slick with sweat. “So am I.”

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

Shane’s report went predictably nowhere. Scott assured him that he’d made clear it was a priority, that there was a credible threat in the midst of this fucking mess of a situation—but the fact of the matter was, Shane was the guy who’d fucked his principal. No one was going to take him seriously on anything, much less the safety of said principal, particularly when he was a 27 year old fuckboy from Moscow whose father may or may not have been on the take.

Homophobia probably played a part, too.

Marleau told them about Ilya’s new “bodyguard,” and based on the name—false—and the description—surprisingly detailed—Shane and Hayden had a pretty good guess who he was, which is to say no one in particular. A Бойцы, most likely, low enough in the pecking order that he wouldn’t be missed for an unspecified period, high enough that he could be trusted to do as he was told.

Shane knew everything it was possible for him to know, given the limited resources he had, but he did not know what Sorokov or Pichugin or whoever the fuck was calling the shots wanted with Ilya. Probably just to sit on him while Sorokov got his shipment in under Minister-Counsellor Rozanov’s say-so, but they had no way of knowing when that would be. It was an odd thing, to want the bad guys to hurry up and commit their crimes already so this could all be over.

Hayden took turns with him sitting in a car parked down the street from Le Château—it was a ratio of 70/30 in Shane’s favor at best, because even though Hayden had only slightly begrudgingly offered to sit in a cold Kia Carnival for an additional two hours a day, Shane hadn’t been willing to take him up on it. This whole mess was his fault. Ilya was alone and in danger because Shane hadn’t been able to control himself, and while he couldn’t exactly regret it (would he ever be able to think back on the warm feeling of Ilya’s come on his skin without getting hard and wanting to cry at the same time?) he sure as fuck was going to do everything he could to fix it.

So he gave himself six hours off-shift to sleep and shower, and spent the rest using every bit of his surveillance training to stay focused.

The Kia was a rental, anonymous silver, and he’d learned its singular discomforts the way you learned anything you spent enough time with. At some point in its past, some number of passengers in the back had spilled an unidentifiable brown liquid that Budget Rent-A-Car had given only a cursory attempt at cleaning; sometimes it smelled like beef curry, other times it smelled like coffee.

Ilya never left the apartment, which wasn’t too surprising. A man being held in place, even softly, with everyone going along with the fiction of protection, didn’t get to go out on a nice morning run. Marleau was the only one allowed in and out, for groceries or just to get a fucking break. He’d walk the half block to where Shane was parked, Shane would lean over and unlock the passenger door, and Marleau would fold himself inside as best he could, his knees at the dashboard, his hands tucked under his arms for warmth.

“How does he seem.”

Marleau never just said Fine. He gave specifics, and Shane thought he probably owed him his life for that alone. “He made me sit through two hours of a nature documentary about birds in the Amazon. You seen those crazy fuckers? What the shit is going on down there, man?”

And, “You got any tips for him on how to do that yoga stuff you do? Cause I think he’s going to pull something.”

And, “He’s rage-watching The West Wing. Every five minutes he’s pausing it to look up some word, and the rest of the time he’s complaining about self-righteous American sphincters. Which kind of sounds like something Toby Ziegler would say, if you ask me.”

But as the days wore on, Marleau was less and less able to make it seem like everything was fine. “He’s talking to Svetlana, I think,” he said quietly. “Which is good. I mean, they’re speaking Russian, obviously, but you know how he sounds when he’s with her…” he trailed off, eyeing Shane nervously, but Shane only shrugged. He did know. Yes, it made him jealous, but that hardly mattered.

“Good,” he said.

“Yeah.” Marleau cleared his throat and craned his neck to look at something out the window. “I, uh, I think it would be better if he talked to you, though. I think…I mean, I’ve been wondering why you haven’t just called him.”

Shane took a breath, took his own look out the window at nothing.

“It’s none of my business,” Marleau added quickly. “Whatever went down between you two. It’s not like he’s told me, and, uh, neither did Alexei obviously.”

“I am sure,” Shane managed, “you’ve made an educated guess.”

Marleau laughed, sort of. It fogged the window beside him. “Uh, yeah. Anyway. Just….you know, think about it.” He got out of the van, turned his collar back up, and set off for the Foodland.

It wasn’t like Shane hadn’t. It was all he thought about—talking to Ilya, hearing his voice, saying…

…and that was where he always faltered. Because what the fuck was Shane going to say? I’m sorry I put your life in more danger just so I could join the lengthy list of people who’ve made you come?

Shane wasn’t stupid; he knew Ilya had made his own decisions. But Shane had been there to do a job, and it had turned out to be the most important job he’d ever do, and now he couldn’t do it and he had no one but himself to blame.

And, selfishly, he wanted to put off the inevitable moment when Ilya said, This was fun, bye, as Shane knew he had said to so many other people so many times before. He knew Ilya liked him, maybe even as much as he wanted him—maybe, when all of this was over, Shane could one day rate an entire weekend, could be to Ilya what Svetlana Vetrova was to him, maybe. He knew that, for Ilya, that really meant something.

It would be so fucking far from enough that Shane couldn’t even bear thinking about it.

Still. Marleau said Ilya wanted him to call.

It rang only once before Ilya said, “Алло.”

Shane opened his mouth and nothing came out. “Hello?” Ilya said, impatient now. “Who is there?”

“It’s me. Shane Hollander.”

“Hollander.” It had been less than a week, but he hadn’t been prepared for how much he’d missed the sound of Ilya’s voice, the cadence of it, the breathiness of the H and the roughness of the R.

He realized belatedly that Ilya was still talking, fast and purposeful. “Sorry, what?”

“Are you not listening? The shipment, I know when it’s moving.”

Shane sat up so straight he jammed his ribcage into the steering wheel. “What?”

“October fourth, so six days from now, next Tuesday. They are moving it through…”

“Hang on.” Shane scrabbled in the center console for a pen, found a crumpled receipt in the side pocket of the door. “Ilya, shut up, that guy is right there, you have to—”

“He doesn’t speak English.”

“You can’t be sure of that.”

“Hollander, I’m telling you he doesn’t speak English. I have tested this many times. He is very stupid and I am very bored, okay? Listen.”

Shane pressed the phone between his ear and his shoulder and got the cap off the pen. “I’m listening.”

“Tuesday the fourth, they are moving it through the port at Bickerdike Terminal.”

“How do you know all this?”

“He said it, my new best friend, on the phone with his bosses just now. That terminal, it’s unusual, yes?”

“Uh, yeah. I think shipments coming out of there mostly go to Newfoundland and the islands.”

“Right, so. I remembered it, from something my father signed off on—Svetlana had the paperwork. It was an authorization for reduced inspection on a container flagged as agricultural equipment.”

Shane hesitated. “That’s kind of thin, Ilya, are you sure about this?”

Ilya’s scoff made the call go staticky. “No I am not sure. But it’s odd, yes? Why would my father be involved with, with machine parts, industrial lathes, a, uh…”

“A what?”

“I’m trying to think, Svetlana said it was strange…a CNC machine? Is that right?”

Shane’s pen stilled. “CNC? You’re sure?”

“No I am still not sure,” Ilya said, exasperated. “It was one piece of paper out of a thousand. But I think so. Why, is it important?”

“High-precision multi-axis CNC machines are sanctioned. They can be used for, I don’t know, weapons manufacturing. Missile guidance components, submarine propeller shafts, that kind of thing. They’re definitely not supposed to go to Russia, and I don’t know why they would be needed in Newfoundland.” He blew out a breath. “I don’t suppose you have a container number?”

Ilya gave a short laugh. “No. But I can call Svetlana, I was just about to do that when you…” his voice changed, the excitement fading a little. “Why did you call?”

Shane flushed. “I, uh. I’ve been meaning to. Obviously.”

“Not so obvious,” Ilya said. “I tried to reach you, but the number was dead.”

“Yeah, they, uh, they took my Service phone.” He looked down at his meager notes, shook his head. “Look, Ilya, this is—this is good, it’s really good. But I have to tell you, nobody’s listening to me right now. After…you know… my credibility is pretty nonexistent. So I’m going to do what I can, of course I will, but I don’t know how far I’ll get.”

There was a small pause. “Okay.”

Shane steeled himself to say what he’d picked up the phone to say in the first place. “And on that subject, I owe you an apology. You were in my care, and I…” he swallowed hard, tried to think of a way to say this that would allow him to come out the other side of it with even a little of his self-respect intact. “I let my, um, attraction or, uh, libido I guess.” What the fuck was he even saying. “Maybe you don’t know that word. It means, like, horny.”

“I know what it means.”

“Right.” Shane closed his eyes briefly. “I let that override my judgment. I should have been more professional, and I regret…” What was the most honest thing he could bring himself to say? “…that it’s put you in danger.”

There was a pause, so quiet that Shane wondered if the connection had been lost. “Ilya?”

“Yes. I heard you.” He heard a slight gust, an exhalation of breath. “Apology unnecessary. I will call Svetlana. It is late now, she is off work, but tomorrow she can look for the document again, see if there’s a container number, anything else. Is Pike still employed? Since I didn’t fuck him.”

“Uh, yeah. I mean, yes, he’s still with the PPS.”

“Maybe have him report it then, yes? They will listen to him, if not to you.”

It was disorienting; Ilya never talked about Hayden except to insult him. “Right, yeah. I’ll…I’ll talk to him. We can say you gave the information to him.”

“Though I am still the asshole who fucked his bodyguard.” Ilya’s tone was harsh enough to make Shane flinch. “Maybe CSIS won’t listen to me, either.”

“Ilya—”

“I need to call Svetlana now. Six days is not a lot of time, so.”

“…Right. Okay, yeah.” Shane pressed his thumb into the groove on the steering wheel, ran his fingertips over the places where it had worn smooth. “I’ll, uh, talk to you soon, then? After you’ve talked with her?”

“I will give her this number. She will be in touch.” And he hung up.

Shane ran a hand over his forehead, caught the moisture that had collected beneath his eyes with the heel of his palm, and then he called Hayden. After a brief debate they agreed he would make the report after they heard from Svetlana—the more information they could give, the more likely it was to be heeded.

After they hung up, he sat in the Kia, taking sips of coffee long since gone cold even in its thermos. The sun had set while he was on the phone, and the street was grey and dark already.

About half an hour later, Marleau walked past, reusable grocery bags in each hand, head bent against the wind. He gave Shane a brief nod, a friendly smile, and Shane automatically raised a hand, hello. He watched as Marleau went into Le Château, imagined him chatting with Freddie, riding the elevator, putting things away in cupboards.

Shane’s phone rang, and he answered it without looking. “Hayd, I’m going to—”

“He’s not here!” Marleau shouted, frantic. “They’re both—that motherfucker Tyurin, Ilya—they’re fucking gone!”

Chapter End Notes

Бойцы - low level Bratva operative

Алло - hello

Would Shane know all this stuff about sanctions and manufacturing equipment and ports? Probably not but let’s just assume he’s obsessive about a lot of stuff since in this universe he doesn’t have hockey

Chapter 10

Ilya was conscious, probably. The drug Tyurin had given him had been fast-acting but not entirely debilitating: he’d walked out of the apartment and down the stairs under his own steam, prompted by the pistol in his back. He’s always so happy to see me, Ilya thought, and giggled.

“Quiet,” Tyurin said, in English, probably. So he did speak English. Shit, Shane was going to be so annoyed about that.

“Sorry Shane,” Ilya said. He wondered where Shane was right now. He wondered where he was right now. He was sitting up, or possibly he was lying down. He tried to test it by standing up, and found that his legs were tied together, as well as his hands. He could see the back of Tyurin’s head, and there were orange lights flashing—streetlights. He was in a car. He wasn’t buckled, Shane would be so disappointed in him, for that and for the English. “But how could I know, Shane? Believe me, I was so annoying, you know I am good at this. I said his mother fucked that weird little creep who married his daughter. I’m not sure he knew who I was talking about. But I also said he looked like those stupid dogs who can’t even breathe right, pugs you know. They are not stupid, it is not their fault they can’t breathe and they are so ugly. Humans made them that way. I am sorry, pugs. I should have said he looked like humans.”

“I know who fucking Woody Allen is, you little shit,” Tyurin said. Ilya still couldn’t tell if they were speaking English.

“You look like human, you motherfucker,” Ilya said, and passed out.

Chapter 11

Shane was out of the car before Marleau had finished speaking. He was calling Hayden as he ran, telling him to call the RCMP, to call Scott. He ran past Freddie, took the stairs, and was in the apartment in three minutes.

“Is there any sign of a struggle?”

Marleau shook his head, his eyes wide and terrified. Shane didn’t take his word for it; he made his way through the apartment methodically, as he’d been trained to do. One room after the other—quick sweep, then a second look for details. Nothing seemed out of place. The television was still on the sitting room, the whining, overbright repetition of a video game menu. Ilya’s bedroom was clear; the bed was neatly made, the nightstand free of its usual vodka and cigarettes.

Marleau followed after him like a worried puppy, asking questions Shane couldn’t answer. “Where would they take him?” “What’s going to happen to him?” “Is he okay?”

“I don’t know,” Shane said again, as patiently as he could manage. He looked in the study, where Ilya never went, in the bathroom Shane had shared with Marleau, in the kitchen because frankly they had all spent more time there than anywhere else. Nothing. “There’s nothing,” he said.

There wouldn’t have needed to be. Tyurin could have just pointed his gun at Ilya and that would have been that. They could have left via the service entrance; Shane and Hayden had decided their best bet was to cover the front, but they’d known it was a risk. It would have been so fucking easy.

Marleau went into the cubby, made a choking sound, and instantly Shane followed him in. His weights were stacked against the wall—he’d missed them—his yoga mat was unrolled, and there on the floor was an empty syringe.

The RCMP arrived first. They were efficient, at least, as they photographed the scene, bagged the syringe and took it for processing, and Shane tried not to dwell on what might have been in it. That same MDMA mixture Pichugin had given him?

“And you’re the former security detail for Ilya Rozanov?”

This was Staff Sergeant Dumont; she moved quickly and intelligently, and nothing else about her was important enough to Shane for it to register. “Yes.”

“Right, and when were you dismissed?”

“Six days ago.”

“And yet you were first on the scene because…”

Shane shook his head to clear it. “I was parked outside. I didn’t trust the new security detail.” A uniformed officer moved past, dusting for fingerprints. “His name was given as Sergei Tyurin, but that’s likely an alias. I was speaking to Ilya on the phone just before he was taken—we were talking in English, it was…confidential information.” Dumont’s pencil paused, but she didn’t comment. “Ilya believed Tyurin didn’t speak English, but if he was wrong, and Tyurin heard, that’s probably why he—”

“Right, we’ve got people tracking Tyurin. Just, clarify a couple of things for me—why were you dismissed?”

“Because Ilya and I slept together.”

Dumont’s eyebrows went up. “I see.”

“It’s not…” Shane could see the path her thoughts would tread. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Yeah?” She put her pencil in her hair, stuck it in her bun like a hairpin. “What does it look like?”

“I know the statistics for kidnappings. But Ilya and I…we weren’t together. So we didn’t break up. His brother fired me, as he should have, but—”

“Alexei Rozanov?”

“Yes.” Shane moved slightly to let a photographer pass. “He works at the Russian Embassy in Ottawa, along with their father, Grigori Rozanov. Has someone been in touch with them yet?”

“Yes. Walk me through this timeline again. You were outside in the car, keeping watch even though it’s no longer your job. And even though you and Ilya Rozanov were never in a relationship.”

Shane let out a slow breath. “Correct.”

“Okay.” She flipped open her pad and consulted her notes. “At 5:45 or thereabouts, Cliff Marleau sat with you in your car, a Kia Carnival, and you talked for several minutes.”

“Yes.”

“And then he went to buy groceries, at which point you telephoned Ilya Rozanov.”

“Yes. The call was perhaps fifteen minutes long. You can check the phone records.”

“We’ll do that. And then at 6:45, Cliff Marleau saw you in your car on his way back into the building. Correct?”

“Yes. And then five minutes later he called me reporting that Ilya was missing.” Shane’s hand was tapping against his thigh; he couldn’t make it stop. “It’s been two hours since then. Ilya has been drugged. Have you checked the CCTV? Traffic cameras? Any idea where Tyurin might have taken him?”

“We’re checking on that. Just so I’m clear, there’s a period of thirty minutes after you spoke with Ilya Rozanov and before Cliff Marleau saw you in your car, right? Thirty minutes unaccounted for?”

“I didn’t have anything to do with this. There was a guy with a fucking gun in this apartment, there’s a syringe on the floor—”

“We’ve got to cover all the angles, Sergeant Hollander, you know that.”

“You’re wasting your time with me when Ilya—”

“Sergeant.” Dumont’s patience—and any kindness she had to spare—was wearing thin. “You were dismissed six days ago from an assignment you’ve continued to perform without authorization. You were in an intimate relationship with the victim, and you have a thirty-minute window in which you are your only alibi. You have documented access to this building—you know the layout, the service entrance, you know the victim’s routines better than anyone. You have motive, opportunity, and knowledge.” She paused,  spreading her hands and giving him a level look. “You can see why we might want to be thorough.”

By the time he got out of there, after confirming his address and contact information, that his fingerprints were on file, that he understood his right to an attorney, another hour had passed.

Hayden was waiting outside, leaning against his Camry. “Looks like a shitshow in there.”

The Kia had been claimed by the RCMP. It was ringed with yellow tape now, not that they’d find anything useful there. Maybe they’d be able to identify the source of the brown smell. Shane got in Hayden’s car, and didn’t comment when Hayden drove to his place instead of Shane’s.

Jackie folded him into a hug and made him sit down at the table and eat chicken tenders and broccoli and macaroni and cheese with the children. Arthur claimed his usual seat on Shane’s lap, and his slightly stinky boy-child smell was a comfort.

Marleau came in not long after, looking haggard, smaller somehow, like the last few hours had taken inches from him. Hayden clapped shoulders with him in a hug, and he knelt down to introduce himself to the twins, then squeezed Shane’s bicep as he dropped into the chair beside him.

“I called Svetlana,” he said around a forkful of breaded chicken. “She’s on her way.”

“Did Ilya have a chance to call her? He said he was going to when we hung up.”

Marleau shook his head. “She said no. So Tyurin must have done it as soon as you and Ilya were off the phone.” He took another bite, his fork scraping against the plate. “Alexei and Grigori are both here. They drove straight over as soon as they got the call.”

Jackie set a can of ginger ale in front of Shane, along with beers for herself and Hayden and Marleau. “And? How do they seem?”

Marleau’s face tightened. He glanced at Ruby and Emma, who were watching him with wide-eyed fascination. “I don’t want to swear in front of the kids.”

“Shit, dude, I swear in front of them all the time,” Hayden said, just as Jackie said, “I appreciate that, Cliff.”

Shane smiled, though it felt strange on his face, unfamiliar. “Alexei was the one who hired Tyurin, right?”

Marleau nodded. “That day, after you left…he went out, and then four hours later he was back with Tyurin.” He stabbed a piece of broccoli with his fork. “The Minister-Counsellor’s upset. He’s not, like, crying or acting at all like you’d expect a father to do when their son’s been kidnapped, but I guess that’s just cause he’s fucking Russian or whatever.” Jackie cleared her throat, and Marleau flushed. “Sorry. Alexei, though…he looks freaked, man.”

Shane leaned forward, enough that Arthur made a small disgruntled sound. Shane pressed a kiss to the top of his head in apology. “Freaked how?”

“Like…you know how that guy is, right? You’d expect him to be yelling at RCMP, or at me, whoever’s in the room, basically. But he was just so quiet. Looked guilty as hell if you ask me.”

“You think he had his own brother kidnapped?” Hayden asked, shocked.

“Somebody got kidnapped?” Ruby asked. “Who?”

“Uncle Shane’s boyfriend,” Hayden said.

“You have a boyfriend now?”

Shane couldn’t tell if he was comforted by the idea or furious about it—probably a strange mixture of both. “He’s not my boyfriend.” Hayden snorted, exchanging a roll of the eyes with Marleau. “He’s not. He’s…someone I care about, and he’s missing.”

Jackie reached over to squeeze his hand, then got up to lift Arthur from his lap. “Come on, kids. There’s ice cream in the kitchen for those who want it.”

“But I didn’t finish my broccoli yet,” Arthur said, and Jackie kissed his nose.

“It’s okay, sweetie. I’ll give you a double-helping next time to make up for it.”

Arthur frowned, unsure if this exchange was going to be profitable for him or not, and Jackie herded the kids out while he was still deciding. The room felt smaller without them.

Shane drew a fingertip through the condensation forming on his can of ginger ale, trying to think. “I don’t believe Alexei would have him kidnapped,” he said. “I mean, he might have, but…” he frowned, trying to understand the few interactions he’d witnessed. Alexei had been angry, yes, and brutal, but Shane also had the sense that he’d been keeping Ilya’s bisexuality from their father, at least until Shane had made it impossible. That showed at least some brotherly affection, didn’t it?

Marleau seemed to agree with him. “Yeah, I don’t think so either. Still, he’s the one who brought in Tyurin. He’s got to be feeling pretty bad about that.”

“We’ve been figuring Tyurin is Russian mafia,” Hayden said, and Marleau nodded.

“Sure looked like it to me.” He shrugged. “Roz didn’t talk to me about that stuff. I think he figured the less I knew the better, you know? But I’m not as dumb as I look, and I put two and two together. Alexei, though? He’s definitely as dumb as he looks, and if he got rid of you guys, and he knew he still needed somebody to make sure Roz kept his mouth shut, where else would he go if he needed some muscle?”

“Did you have any idea Tyurin spoke English?”

Marleau shook his head. “None. And you should have seen the shit Ilya pulled on him to test it. Talking about his mother, his sister, you know how Roz can be. Guy never even flinched.”

“Somebody instructed him not to let on, probably.” Hayden tilted his chair back to look up at the ceiling. “Or maybe he only spoke a little, but he could pick out certain words, enough to know that Ilya had put it together.”

“You think he acted alone?”

Shane worried at his thumbnail. “Maybe. Or maybe he was instructed, by Pichugin or even Sorokov.” The implications of that were heavy enough that Hayden’s chair thudded back down to the floor. “When does Svetlana get here?”

“Less than an hour. I gave her this address. I told her she could stay here if that’s okay?”

Hayden blew out a breath. “Sure, why not. The kids all pile in my bed half the time anyway.”

Chapter 12

Svetlana arrived at 11:40 at night. Hayden welcomed her in somewhat awkwardly—the last time they’d met, she’d been fucking Ilya. Shane gave a small wave hello, feeling like a jackass.

The twins and Amber had been successfully put to bed hours before, but Arthur couldn’t manage it. He was too worried about Shane’s not-boyfriend who had been kidnapped.

“But who would do that? Why? Will they hurt him? Will they give him dinner? Why doesn’t Uncle Shane go get him back?” And so on.

Shane loved all of Hayden’s kids, and he probably even loved Arthur most of all, but he thought if he was asked another unanswerable question he would throw up. “Buddy,” he said again, raspy and exhausted. “I’m trying.”

Jackie shot him an apologetic look as she escorted her son back upstairs, holding his hand so he didn’t slip in his dinosaur footie PJs.

“Cute kid,” Svetlana said.

She was dressed as elegantly as ever, in a form-fitting wool dress that was only slightly wrinkled, but she didn’t look nearly as glamorous as she had the last time Shane had seen her—in fact she looked exhausted, far more so than the two-hour drive from Ottawa should have warranted. Or maybe that was just worry.

Arthur’s questions had been awful, but they’d also been embarrassing: “But why isn’t Ilya your boyfriend, Uncle Shane? If you care about him?”

Shane didn’t think Ilya had cheated on Svetlana with him. He was fairly certain that their relationship, whatever it entailed, was not exclusive. It was still really fucking awkward.

Svetlana didn’t seem to think so. She left her heels at the door and walked into the living room and threw her arms around Marleau, who hugged her so hard he lifted her off her feet.

“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I shouldn’t have…”

“It’s not your fault,” she said. Her voice wasn’t kind, which was probably a good thing—maybe that way Marleau would believe her.

“It’s not,” Shane said, in case he didn’t. “It’s mine.”

Svetlana smoothed her hand down Marleau’s chest before turning to give Shane a long, devastating look. He squared his shoulders and didn’t look away.

“I’m sorry,” he said steadily.

To his surprise, she smiled. “For what? He is the one who should be sorry. I told him to leave you alone.”

Shane opened his mouth, though he wasn’t sure what to say. “I…”

“He was annoying the shit out of me, with his little crush on you.”

Marleau laughed and ran a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ, no kidding. I thought he was going to start locking himself in his bedroom and listening to The Smiths.”

Hayden snorted, disbelieving. “Rozanov? Are we talking about the same guy?”

Marleau and Svetlana gave him identical Yes, obviously looks. Shane had thought it was a perfectly reasonable question.

He scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms. They were burning with exhaustion or worry, probably both. He couldn’t think about that now, knew that he didn’t deserve to feel the little kick of pleased excitement it gave him, . Who cared what Rozanov thought about him when he was fucking gone.

Svetlana must have seen some piece of that on his face, her smile fading away. She left her heels at the door and lifted her shoulder bag like it weighed fifty pounds, dropping it on the dining room table with a thud. “Okay,” she said. “Tell me what you know so far.”

Shane exchanged a look with Hayden, gesturing for him to do the talking.

“Uh, not much, I’m afraid.” Hayden settled himself in the chair across from Svetlana. “RCMP has a description of the man who took him, alias Tyurin, but no vehicle ID. There wasn’t much evidence in the bedroom he was using at the apartment—some clothes, toothbrush, etc. They’ll probably get some DNA, but they already ran the fingerprints and got nothing.”

“Nothing else?”

“Some parking stubs in pockets, gas station receipts, stuff like that.” Hayden shook his head. “Not a lot to go on.”

Marleau frowned. “Parking stubs? Le Château uses cards, like a hotel. No stubs.”

Shane leaned forward, his heartbeat quickening. “I always parked on the street, so I didn’t think…where are the stubs from, then?” To Svetlana, apologetically, he added, “The RCMP won’t tell me much of anything. Because of…” There was no possible way he could finish that sentence. Because of that time I let him fuck me. Because that makes me a suspect.

Svetlana nodded, giving him a not-quite-smile. I know.

Hayden scrolled through his phone. “I took a photo, kinda blurry cause it was through a plastic baggie, but…” He slid it to the middle of the table, and they all leaned forward to look at the picture. The card was rectangular, slightly creased, printed on thin cardstock in both French and English. GATE PASS—VEHICLE—VALID 24 HRS  LAISSEZ-PASSER—VOITURE—VALABLE 24 H. It had an unfamiliar logo and a serial number. 

“It’s a gate pass,” Svetlana said, “for a commercial logistics facility.”

“A what?” Hayden asked.

“A shipping warehouse,” Svetlana said. “The serial prefix—BI—is Bickerdike.”

“That’s where Ilya said the shipment was moving,” Shane said.

Svetlana’s eyes darted to him, sharp. “He told you this?”

Shane swallowed hard before he nodded. “Right before they took him. Do you think he could be there?”

It was a long moment before Svetlana shook her head, regretfully. “The terminal is too active. There are dock workers, port security, cameras everywhere. But the shipment will move through there, and if we can figure out where it is coming from, maybe that will lead us to where they are keeping him?”

It was a long shot, and they all knew it. Ilya could be anywhere. There was no reason to believe they’d take him anywhere near their smuggling operations—in fact, they probably wouldn’t.

Svetlana leaned over and dug through her enormous leather shoulderbag again, and pulled out a folder of photocopied documents covered in Cyrillic with stamps and signatures. “Three months ago, a lease was processed through the Embassy. The lessee is a numbered company—9284317 Corporation—and the property is a quarter-section of land outside Bracken, Saskatchewan. Population twenty-two.”

“Saskatchewan?” Hayden sounded incredulous.

“Yes. I traced the numbered company through the provincial corporate registry—there was one name available, Pavel Mironov. Does that mean anything to you?”

Shane glanced at Hayden, who shook his head. “No.”

Svetlana nodded, as if she’d expected nothing else. “Me neither. Probably he doesn’t exist. But that name is listed as the director of two other numbered companies, each of which holds property in remote areas. So our second possible location is on the north shore of Lake Superior, near a place called White River.”

“It’s a mining town,” Shane said.

“And the birthplace of Winnie the Pooh,” Jackie said, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

Svetlana looked mystified. “What?”

“It’s a kids’ thing,” Jackie said. “Sorry, go on.”

“The property,” Svetlana continued, a little warily, “is a decommissioned gold processing facility. Thirteen-hour drive from Montréal, so closer than Saskatchewan, but still very remote.”

Shane couldn’t sit still any longer, and he began pacing the length of the dining room, four steps to the wall, four steps back. “And the third?”

“The third,” Svetlana said heavily, “is the one that makes me the most afraid. It’s a fishing station on the coast of Newfoundland, very small, fewer than one hundred people, accessible only by boat or helicopter.”

“Jesus.” Shane tipped his head back, breathing in deep through his nose. “Bickerdike ships to Newfoundland.”

“Yes,” Svetlana said. “It is possible that Francois—that is the name of the village—is where the shipment is going, and from there to Russia.”

“It’s pronounced fransway,” Shane said absently.

It was the worst of the possible options, for so many reasons, not least that it was the least accessible. It was so remote that Shane probably couldn’t get there on his own, not without chartering some sort of boat, and it wasn’t like he had a bunch of cash sitting around. He had a good credit score, though.

But even if he could get to Francois, what were the odds that Ilya was even still there? If they went to the trouble of putting him on a boat to get there, they might very well have shipped him off to Russia while they were at it. He could be long gone, untraceable.

Marleau sat at the table with his shoulders hunched, too tall even sitting down, since most of his height was in his torso. Hayden was chewing the inside of his cheek, not looking at Shane. But Svetlana met his eye, composed and expressionless.

Jackie pulled up her laptop and started typing, loud in the silence. “Do you have addresses for these properties?”

Svetlana gave them to her, and Jackie pulled up satellite imagery from Google Maps. “Okay. The Saskatchewan place is probably the most remote, actually—there’s nothing nearby, not even a gas station for forty miles. You’ve got some quonset huts, an old farmhouse, what looks like a grain elevator. If you don’t want someone found, this is a pretty good bet.”

“What about White River?” Hayden asked.

“It’s busier,” she said. “Australia just got a stake in one of the mines up there, so people could be moving in and out. It’s possible he’s there, of course, but it seems less likely.”

Hayden leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Okay. So we take all this to the RCMP, right? They can check all three locations—”

Svetlana went pale. “They will know it was me. I will lose my job I mean…that’s fine. It’s Ilya. But…”

Shane was already shaking his head. “We can’t risk Sorokov or Pichugin finding out that you are involved. Ilya wouldn’t want that. But we can use the Bickerdike connection to draw their attention to Francois without naming Svetlana at all—Ilya told me about that, not her, and if they don’t trust me we’ve got Tyurin’s parking pass to back up the theory.”

“There are a lot of places a shipment can go from Bickerdike that aren’t a remote little fishing village,” Hayden said. “But I’ll call Staff Sergeant Dumont in the morning, make a case for it.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Later this morning.”

“Tell them I heard the name from Tyurin,” Marleau said unexpectedly. “‘Fransway,’ say he said it on the phone to somebody.”

“Good,” Shane said. “That’s good.” The tightness in his chest didn’t ease, exactly, but the restlessness calmed a little now that they had at least the beginnings of a plan. “I’ll go to Saskatchewan.”

There was a long pause—even Jackie stopped typing. The only sound was the tick of the radiator under the window.

“Uh,” Hayden said. “Buddy, I don’t think that’s a great idea.”

“If they don’t want him found, that’s where he is. If he’s alive.” Shane felt distantly grateful for how steady he sounded. “I can get there on my own, I can fly into Saskatoon and rent a car.”

“Sure, but what are you going to do when you get there? We have no idea what the situation is, how many men there are. I mean, shit, if he’s even there. He might be in White River for all we know! Or here in Montréal!”

“I’ll go to White River,” Marleau said, and shrugged when Hayden stared at him. “It’s the least likely possibility, I know, but someone should at least check it out. Makes sense that it would be me.”

“It shouldn’t be either of you!” Hayden said, exasperated. “This is the fucking Russian mob we’re talking about, what do you think you’re going to be able to do? Marleau doesn’t even have a gun!”

“Neither do I,” Shane pointed out. “I had to hand it in.”

Hayden looked like his eyes were going to bug out of his head, and Jackie reached over to take his hand. “They’re not going to do anything,” she said reassuringly. “They’re just going to look around. They can’t not look, sweetie, you can’t ask that of them. They’ll look, and if they see anything that makes them think Ilya might be there, they’ll call for backup. Right?” she said warningly, turning to Shane.

“I will call,” he promised.

Hayden said, a little wry, “And that’s it? You won’t do anything else?”

Shane spread his hands, and Hayden sighed. “Yeah, okay, I get it. Fuck you and fuck Rozanov especially, but I get it.” He lifted his wife’s hand and kissed her knuckles. “I’ll start looking up flights.”

Marleau left immediately, driving off with a thermos full of Jackie’s strongest coffee. Hayden went to get some sleep, muttering something about finding room for himself in a bed full of children, Jackie at his heels.

The next flight out was at five a.m., giving Shane enough time to shut his eyes for a couple of hours, but he didn’t bother trying. He sat on the couch instead, and after a few minutes Svetlana sat beside him.

“How long has he been gone?”

“Seven hours and twenty-six minutes,” Shane said.

She tapped her perfectly manicured fingernails together, click click click. “Not enough time to get to any of the places we talked about. Odds are he’s still in Montréal.”

Shane knew this was true; there would be no reason to haul Ilya all the way out to the middle of nowhere when there was entire fucking city they could stash him in. But the RCMP was already looking into all of the known Bratva locations, and Sorokov would have known they would be.

That, and Shane believed he would know, if Ilya were close by. It really seemed as if he ought to be able to feel it.

But all he said was, “By the time any of us can get there, he’d be well ahead of us.”

She nodded, and didn’t say anything else. They sat on Hayden’s living room couch and waited for the time to pass, and when at last it did, she drove him to Montréal-Trudeau International Airport.

She didn’t get out when she pulled up to the curb, her hand resting on the the gear shift. “Find him for me,” she said.

Shane nodded and opened the car door, but then her hand shot out to grab his arm, fingernails digging in through his jacket. “No, sorry, I meant—” she took a deep breath, and for the first time he saw tears glistening. “Find him for you, okay? For me also, but…he is yours, I think.” She wiped at her eyes with her wrists, leaving a streak of mascara. “So you have to find him, yes? You will make him very happy, I think, and he deserves to have that, he has to…”

Shane leaned into the car, over the center console, awkward, and hugged her, her masses of hair tickling his face. “I’ll find him. And I…” he swallowed hard, clearing a path for the words to get out. “I want him to be happy. With me, or…”

She laughed, a little wet, and shoved him away. “I don’t want him,” she said, half-scathing, half-affectionate. “I never have. We are friends only, okay? He is exhausting.”

Shane laughed too, because Ilya was. “Okay,” he said, and shut the door behind him with an awkward little wave. He looked back at the car before going up the escalator—she hadn’t pulled away, but was watching him go.

Chapter 13

Chapter Notes

Saskatoon airport at 9:30 a.m. local time was small and bright. The rental car agent asked what he would prefer, a Hyundai Kona or a Chevrolet Tahoe. “The Tahoe,” he said. His phone buzzed in his coat pocket with a text from Hayden.

-Dumont bought it, taking it to her superiors. You land ok?

Shane thumbed back his reply.

-Yes. Hitting the road.

-Good. Make sure you eat something.

Shane had eaten half of a tasteless egg sandwich at Trudeau, and felt that justified the thumbs up he gave in reply.

The fields opened up on either side of the SK-7 as he drove, long pale rectangles edged with low windbreaks of leafless poplars that probably didn’t do much of anything. The sky was a dim gray, weighty and saturated. The South Saskatchewan river was the color of weak tea, and a freight train ran along the far bank, keeping nearly the same pace—and then the highway curved, and the train went on without him.

The snow started to fall in clumps two hours in, heavy and wet, splatting against the windshield, but it was cold enough for it to stick, and Shane was glad he’d rented the heavier vehicle. The Tahoe’s heater was working hard, his jacket tossed onto the seat beside him. He stank of sweat and sour coffee and what somebody more poetic would probably have described as fear.

At last he merged onto SK-18, and he pulled up the rough map Svetlana and Jackie had put together for him. Off the highway the snow was thicker, colder, and he had to drive slower than he wanted to, the back end of the SUV drifting on every curve. Bracken wasn’t much of a town, or even a village—it had a post office, a chapel, a few scattered houses, and farmland stretching out to the horizon in every direction. He drove through it, such as it was, and onto a semi-paved road that ran straight through the fields for fifteen miles or so. From there, the directions were a bit fuzzy; the gravel “roads” weren’t marked on Google this far out.

Svetlana’s directions told him to go six kilometers south on RR 3134, then west at the second intersection, then four kilometers, then south again at the barn. The road was straight as a ruler and already coated in several inches of snow, and Shane had to lean forward over the wheel to keep the line of it in his headlights, watching the odometer.

There was no barn four kilometers west. He drove for another two kilometers before turning around, the Tahoe’s tires churning a slow three-point turn in the drifts, and headed back. Perhaps there had been a barn when the satellite images were taken—perhaps there were even the remains of one now, collapsed beams buried under the snow. But Shane could see no landmarks at all. The cloud cover was so flat that the world had gone monochrome, sky and earth a single gray wash of watercolor on white, and he realized that he couldn’t even be sure which way was west, that the animal sense of the sun is that way had abandoned him. He was using his phone compass, but he’d lost service long ago and he wasn’t sure how trustworthy it was.

He had about an eighth a tank of gas left, and so he kept driving, taking turns whenever it seemed like a good idea, making careful notes of which way he went so he could backtrack. He’d driven for at least another hour, working his way carefully as though across a grid, when he spotted it: a roof, curved long and low, the corrugated metal gleaming ever so slightly in the gray. The snow wasn’t sticking to it, so it must have been heated inside. There was a second quonset hut behind it, and through the falling snow he could see the dark spike of what might have been a grain elevator.

He stopped the car and pulled up the printout of the satellite image. It could be a match. The structures were about a half-mile away from where he was parked, across an open field, the wind blowing the snow off the stubble of grain in long thin veils that lifted and resettled.

He left the Tahoe where it was and set off on foot, turning up his coat and wishing he’d thought to bring a toque. There wasn’t exactly cover, and all he could hope was that no one would think to look for a lone man walking across a field. Perhaps he could pretend he was a bird-watcher or something, looking for snowy owls—assuming of course that there was anyone here at all.

He was perhaps 250 meters away when he saw the black SUV parked in between the quonset huts.

He dropped flat. The snow took up to his elbows, the cold going through his peacoat in a shockwave, and he had to catch his breath before he started to crawl. The stubble was worse than the snow, ankle-height and spiky, like sharpened pencils sticking up from the ground, and it jabbed up through his jacket and forced him to keep his head higher than he would have preferred. At least the wind was helping with the track he was leaving behind him, sweeping snow across it like waves smoothing the shore.

He angled wide, away from the gap between the buildings where the SUV sat, making for the closest quonset hut, the one the snow wasn’t sticking to, and for the last thirty meters he wriggled on his stomach with his face turned sideways and his cheek resting on his gloved hands. The snow had worked into his collar and down his back, his trousers were soaked through, and he could no longer feel his face or his extremities, though he was sweating beneath the coat. When he reached the corrugated metal wall, he lay quietly against it, trying to calm his breath enough that he could listen for what might be going on inside. It wasn’t much use; the loud clanging of a generator drowned out any voices he might have been able to hear from outside.

He worked his way along the base of the wall on his hands and knees, looking for a seam—and about two-thirds of the way along he found a panel where the corrugation had pulled away from its rivets, leaving a gap of two inches or so. The inside was lit, and he pressed his eye to the gap, staying low.

Ilya was sitting on an old plastic lawn chair, his hands tied to the arms and his ankles lashed together with what looked like a ratchet strap. His head was tipped back, eyes closed, but his chest was moving, and as Shane watched he shifted his weight a little, wincing at what had to be very cramped muscles.

He was alive. He looked uninjured, though Shane couldn’t be sure—but he was alive.

There were two other men at the far corner of the room by the door, huddled around the orange glow of an electric heater. They were smoking and drinking, playing cards at a small folding table. They were big, both in down vests and Sorel boots. A black holster sat on the table next to a camp lantern, and the man with his back to Shane had a second pistol jammed into his waistband.

Shane pulled his phone out of his inside pocket just to check, though he knew what he’d see: no service. He held it up the air, waved it around as if that would help, and then, with a near-silent “Fuck,” he put it back in his pocket.

He sat back on his heels to take stock. He had a rental Tahoe parked half a mile away, across an open field. He had a vague idea of how to get back to the village of Bracken, but it wouldn’t be fast and they would be easily tracked. He didn’t have a gun, or even so much as a pocket knife. Even the car key was an electric fob.

He crawled back the way he came and headed for the second quonset hut. The door was unlocked, because why would anyone bother? They were hours away from another living soul.

Inside it was dim and unheated, smelling of rust and spilled oil. Using his phone flashlight, he found a workbench, an assortment of tools laid across it—wrenches, baling wire, a hammer that Shane swung a few times, trying unsuccessfully to visualize hitting someone with it. For all his training, he’d never actually hurt anyone before.

He left the hammer where it was and instead pocketed a utility knife, and he took down a pry-bar from a nail in the wall. There were no windows, and as far as he could tell, no one here besides the two men with Ilya, so Shane walked upright back to the first quonset hut, which was a fucking relief after the long crawl. He went to the gap on the far side and squatted down to pry up the loose panel of roofing—it screeched loudly, like a shrieking cat—and then he raced to the corner of the building and dropped flat.

It took longer than he expected, and he lay in the snow counting his own breaths, but eventually the door at the front banged open, a voice muttering in Russian, and footsteps came around the side of the hut, crunching in the snow. Shane stayed low and peered around the corner. He could see the man’s Sorels, the fur edges pulled over the cuff of his jeans. He had his pistol out, but it was pointed at ground, and he kicked at the panel where it had come loose.

Shane came up out of the snow.

He swung the pry bar at the back of his knee, hard, and the man went down with no more than a grunt. Shane was on him before he hit the snow, both of them grappling for the gun. The man clawed at his face, shouting, and Shane grabbed the tire iron where he’d dropped it. He was on his knees over him when he brought it down on the side of the man’s head, once and then again, where it crunched wetly, sickeningly. The man stopped moving.

Shane took the pistol—a Glock—and stood up. His hands were shaking as he stripped off his blood-spattered gloves. He made sure the safety was off, dropped the magazine to confirm the count and clicked it back home. He heaved in a breath, his lungs burning in the cold, and made his way to the front door. It was shut.

There was no possible way the second man didn’t know he was there. In all likelihood he was holding a gun to Ilya’s head, ready to shoot. Going through the door would only get him killed, and possibly Shane, too.

He moved fast and quiet around the side, and slid the pry bar back under the edge, yanking the opening wider, and immediately rolled away. As expected, the man fired blind toward the opening, three quick shots, the metal punching outward in tiny silver peaks where the rounds went through. But Shane was long gone, running for the door, shoving it open with his shoulder. Ilya saw him first, his eyes wide, but the man at the panel turned, too, faster than Shane had hoped for. Shane fired, the gunshot deafening in the enclosed metal space, but the Glock kicked harder than he was used to, and the round went wide, sparking off the wall in a bright orange flare.

The man fired back, and Shane felt a punch in his side, low and hot, like what he’d imagined it would feel like getting hit with the hammer. Ilya yelled something, Shane couldn’t understand it, couldn’t hear it over the ringing in his ears—but it didn’t matter, because he was firing again, adjusting for the recoil, and this time the man dropped, hand to his throat where Shane had clipped his carotid. There was arterial spray, brief and shocking, and then a slower welling, and then nothing at all.

The smell of cordite was thick, almost enough to overwhelm the scent of blood.

“Shane! Shane, are you hit, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Shane walked toward him, but his legs went unsteady halfway there. He pulled the peacoat aside to find his white dress shirt stained red on the left side, just above his belt.

“It’s okay,” Ilya said, high and frantic. “You’re okay, you’re going to be okay.”

Shane pulled the utility knife from his pocket. “Hold still.”

The webbing was tough and the knife wasn’t that sharp; he had to saw at it, which made his side scream at him. Ilya took the knife from him as soon as his wrist was free, and Shane sat down hard on the concrete, hand going to his side to keep the pressure on. The pain was arriving now, hot and distracting, flaring whenever he inhaled.

“How bad,” Ilya said, clipped, sawing away at his left wrist.

“I don’t know.”

Ilya swore in Russian and got to work on his ankles, and when at last he was free he fell to his knees in front of Shane. His wrists were rubbed raw where the rope had been, and he had no coat, but his hands were gentle as unbuttoned Shane’s shirt. Shane looked down with him at the small dark hole an inch above his hipbone, oozing red.

Ilya pushed him forward gently, peering at his back, his palm warm against Shane’s skin. “It went through. That’s good.” He sat back on his heels, his face pale and set. “That one, he had a radio. He called for help while you were fighting outside. We need to go now.”

Radio waves would go a long way, Shane thought distantly. In the plains, there’s nothing to stop them.

Ilya slid an arm beneath Shane’s shoulder, pulling him upright, steadying him when he swayed. He brought him to the door where he could lean against the frame. “Keep pressure on, yes?”

“Are you hurt?” Shane asked belatedly.

Ilya shook his head. “Thirsty, hungry,” he said. “A little dizzy from whatever they gave me. But I am okay.” He found the Glock where Shane had let it fall, and went outside to take the pistol from the second man before rummaging through his pockets for the car keys. He took the radio, too, and after a moment’s thought he stripped the bodies of their winter gear, including the Sorels.

Outside, the snow was still falling.

Shane must have passed out briefly, must have fallen into the snow, because the next thing he knew, Ilya was helping him to his feet again, half-carrying him out to the black SUV.

It was a Suburban, and filthy inside, one of the cupholders filled with cigarette butts, energy drink cans littering the backseat. Ilya used his forearm to clear snow from the windshield after getting Shane into the passenger seat, a down vest pressed against his side to stop the blood. Ilya started the engine and cranked up the heat, before driving carefully across the field, sliding a little in the snow. The wipers were losing the fight, two thin arcs of clear glass closing as fast as they swept.

“Which way,” Ilya said.

Shane pressed his hand harder into his side and tried to think. “Go…that way,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward where he’d left the Tahoe, hoping that by the time they got there he’d remember where to go next.

The radio burbled in Ilya’s lap, something in Russian. Shane gave him a questioning look, and Ilya shook his head. “They are not close,” he said. “Not yet.”

They turned onto the section road in a slow swimming arc, the rear end of the Suburban fishtailing gently. Ilya drove with both hands on the wheel and shoulders square, though he kept glancing at Shane, checking to make sure he was still awake.

“Turn soon?”

“Uh, yeah,” Shane said. “East, when you see it. Left.”

But there was no turn visible, eastern or otherwise. The world outside the windshield was a single moving wall of white, the road nearly indistinguishable from the fields on either side. Shane tried to help look, but every time they went over a bump in the gravel—and there were many—a stabbing pain shocked up to his ribs, turning his vision gray at the edges.

“Shane? Talk to me.”

“About what,” he murmured.

“Anything. So I know you are awake.”

Shane didn’t want to be awake; if he was sleeping, it probably wouldn’t hurt so much. But he forced himself to sit up straighter, to keep pressure on the exit wound in his back.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what? Saving my life for a second time?”

“No, for…” Shane closed his eyes firmly and then opened them again, inhaling as deeply as his aching ribs would permit. “For leaving you. This would never have happened if I’d been there. You were my responsibility.”

It was Ilya’s turn to go quiet, the only sounds the ineffective tick-tocking of the wipers. “It is my fault,” he said at last. “I…I know that you did not want…” He cursed in Russian, and fell into silence again.

“Of course I didn’t want to,” Shane said, a little confused. “I wouldn’t have, probably not ever.” It was a dismal thought, and a foolish one to be having under the circumstances, but there it was: Shane wouldn’t leave Ilya Rozanov, not ever. He would only be left, instead—because should they be lucky enough to get out of this, Ilya would eventually tire of him. Shane didn’t think he’d ever had that option, not since the day they’d met.

“I know,” Ilya said, uncharacteristically bleak. “It is not who you are, to want someone like me.”

Shane turned that over in his head several times, his eyes falling closed often enough that he had to keep hauling them back open by force. “Wait. You think you, what? Forced me to have sex with you?”

Ilya barked out a laugh, too loud in the hushed snow, almost like a gunshot. “No.” Shane paid close attention to the way Ilya looked him then, expecting derision or perhaps even cruelty, because that was how Ilya protected himself, he knew. But instead he saw something a little wistful. “No, I know that you…” he shrugged, taking one hand off the wheel long enough to gesture at the space between them. “That we have, what, chemistry? But it’s not more than that. I understand, and I appreciate that…” he looked at Shane again, eyes going down to his bloodied side, back up to his face. “Thank you for finding me,” he said stiffly.

This was too much for Shane to parse, as fuzzy as he was. What was it Ilya thought he understood? Because Shane didn’t feel clear on much of anything. Except: “Of course I came. How could I not.”

Ilya turned his lips inward, giving a loud sniff before looking away again. “Where is left?”

“What?”

Ilya waved a hand at the falling snow. “You said turn left soon. There is no turn.”

“I don’t…” He was sure he had come from the west, this was not the sort of thing he forgot. “We must have missed it. We should go back…”

The radio crackled again, sharper, and Ilya slowed to a stop, thumbing up the volume to listen. “Cука блять,” he said distinctly, and while Shane didn’t know what it meant, he could guess.

“They’re coming?” They remained unnamed but it didn’t really matter: they were Sorokov’s men, one way or another.

“Yes.” Ilya breathed out through his nose, long and loud. He leaned over to check Shane’s wound, muttered something indistinct, then flipped the vest around so it was dry-side facing, packing it in tighter. “I am sorry,” he said. “It will be bumpy.”

He killed the headlights, the world collapsing immediately from bright-white to a dim gray, moving gray, and Shane realized that it was nearing dusk, the light fading fast. Slowly, carefully, Ilya turned off the road, driving into the field. It was bumpy, horribly so, and Shane hissed through his teeth as they rattled over the grain stubble. “Where,” he gritted out, “are we going?”

“I will let you know when we get there,” Ilya said, infuriatingly calm.

There turned out to be a shallow gap in a ditch that they found by driving directly into it, thumping forward and down with a jerk that had Shane crying out in pain. “Sorry, sorry,” Ilya said, his hand thrown protectively across Shane’s chest. “Just a little more.”

The rear wheels spun, kicking ump a fine sift of white that the wind immediately snatched away, but the Suburban nosed forward, edging into the snowbank until the hood was buried up to the wipers. Ilya shut the car off and scrambled outside, using the other down vest to hurl the snow up around the vehicle, trying to hide it from view. He wasn’t particularly effective—the engine was still hot, melting away his efforts—but the snow was falling thick enough that visibility was limited, thick enough, Shane hoped, that it would soon hide the track they’d carved into the field.

“How long do we wait?” he asked, when Ilya climbed back in. A small flurry came with him, settling on the dashboard in a fine cold dust.

“Until the storm has passed, I think. So we can see where we are going, get some help. I would try radioing for help, but…”

“Who knows who might be listening,” Shane said, nodding. “Okay.”

“It’s not fucking okay,” Ilya said, low and furious. “We are lost, there is nothing out here but snow and men who want to kill us, and you’re going to fucking bleed to death. It is not okay.”

Shane swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. “You’re alive, though,” he said hoarsely. “A few hours ago, that wasn’t something I knew for sure. And I’m not going to bleed to death,” he added, with some of his usual asperity. “It’s already slowing. Through and through, remember?”

“Right, unless it hit your kidney or your liver or your…”

“Ilya.” Shane stretched out a hand, winced when he saw it was covered in drying blood, and tried to take it back again. Ilya snatched it before he could, gripping it tightly. Shane didn’t say anything else, but apparently he didn’t need to: Ilya looked at him, his eyes darting back and forth, intense and uncharacteristically earnest. “Okay,” he said softly. “Yes. It will be okay. I will make sure of it, солнышко.”

He pressed a kiss to Shane’s wrist—Shane hoped vaguely that he’d found a place free of blood—before setting his hand gently back in his lap.

He climbed out of the car again and moved Shane to the back seat—a painful process, Shane would just as soon have stayed where he was, but Ilya was insistent on laying him flat across the bench. He sat awkwardly in the footwell while he removed Shane’s sodden dress shoes, rubbed his feet dry, and slid them into one of the pairs of Sorels. He found a length of paracord in the glove box and used it to bind the two fleece vests over the entry and exit wounds, positioning Shane so the pressure stayed on but he was not too uncomfortable. He covered Shane with one of the parkas before donning the other himself, and grunted as he shoved his feet into the remaining Sorels.

“Too small?” Shane asked.

“It’s fine,” Ilya said shortly, and squeezed his hip. “I will be back.”

Shane watched him through the window, a dark moving shape indistinct against the white, as he banked snow up against the windward side of the Suburban, building a low ridge that would break the worst of the wind from cutting under the vehicle. He cleared the exhaust pipe and stuck a length of the paracord into the snow before tying it to the roof rack, so he would know where to dig if the exhaust got buried again.

He tossed the cigarette butts outside, piling snow into the cupholders before climbing back in the front seat. He turned the car on just long enough to crack the front window. “In case of carbon monoxide,” he explained briefly. “We will run the engine for ten minutes every hour. Are you okay? Are you cold?”

“I’m fine,” Shane said. “Tired, that’s all”

Ilya twisted around in his seat, his eyebrows heavy. “When you feel warm and tired, that means you are dying. My grandfather told me, your body lies to you. So. Are you cold?”

“Yeah. I’m cold.”

“Good.” Ilya nodded shortly before turning back around. “I will ask you this many times.” He scowled down at the snow piled in the cupholders as if that would make it melt faster. “You need water.”

“I’m fine,” Shane said again.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood. Blood is mostly water.”

“I thought the expression was, blood is thicker than water.”

Ilya heaved a beleaguered sigh. “What? What are you talking about, Hollander? Are you delirious now?” Shane could hear the note of anxiety beneath the pretend annoyance, and he smiled, trying to look reassuring.

“It means, family is what matters most.”

Ilya huffed a humorless laugh. “Ah, yes. What a Canadian thing to say. Whereas my family…” he trailed off, spreading his hands.

Shane bit his lip, then said, “Pretty sure Canadians have assholes for fathers, too. And brothers. You’re not special. Yeah, they’re terrible—like, really fucking bad, I hate them for what’s happened to you—but that doesn’t have anything to do with you. You’re not your father.”

Ilya twitched in the front seat, his hands drumming against the steering wheel, but he didn’t say anything.

Shane sighed. “That wasn’t the family I meant, anyway. I was thinking about your grandfather.”

Ilya didn’t answer for a long time. The wind picked at the corners of the SUV, rocking it gently like a hand on a cradle. The radio crackled on occasion, seemingly more indistinct now, which Shane thought meant maybe the men who were looking for them were farther away. But that might just have been wishful thinking.

“He would have liked you,” Ilya said, and Shane startled; he’d started to drift off. “You are good at whatever you do, he would have liked that.” He sighed, then yanked at the lever that tipped his seat back, so that he was lying prone on Shane’s legs, turned on his side so he could look him in the face. “Yes. I think he would have liked you very much.”

Chapter End Notes

Cука блять - Fucking bitch-whore.

солнышко - solnyshko, sweetheart

Chapter 14

Ilya watched Shane sleep. It was better for him to sleep, he knew that—Shane would use less oxygen, expend less energy, feel less pain. But it was also terrifying, because it meant his eyes were closed and Ilya couldn’t see them, couldn’t make sure they stayed clear. Instead he watched the rise and fall of Shane’s chest, the flutter of the parka’s fake wool as he breathed.

“я тебя люблю,” he said, and then again in English, for good measure. “I love you. You cannot die, okay? Promise me.”

Shane breathed, in and out, all the answer he could give.

Every hour on the hour he got out of the car, cursing, to clear the exhaust pipe, and then he ran the heater for ten minutes, no more. He woke Shane once the snow had melted enough to drink, hoping that ice water was better than no water. Shane sipped dutifully and tried to make conversation, Ilya shushed him and stroked his cheek, ran his fingers through his hair until he went back to sleep.

After a while the wind died down, and the snow was falling vertically, a little lighter perhaps. The radio had gone quiet, too, though Ilya wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Hearing the voices had meant they were still looking, still communicating; silence could mean they’d given up the search for the time being—but it could also mean they knew exactly where to look, now, and were waiting for daylight.

Ilya, too, was waiting for daylight. Once the snow stopped he would set out on foot, he’d decided. It would be easier for him to drop flat in case he saw someone suspicious, and easier, too, to flag down a passing farmer, presuming there were any out here in this wasteland. He didn’t like the idea of leaving Shane on his own, but he didn’t see any alternative.

“Hey,” Shane said, and Ilya rolled over onto his side, though it was too dark to see much of anything at all.

“Hey.” Ilya leaned over the edge of the front seat, awkward and uncomfortable, to press his lips to Shane’s forehead the way his mother used to do, feeling for fever. The skin was cool, too cool possibly, but not burning. “How are you? Cold?”

“Yes. I feel better, though. I think the shock has worn off.” He inhaled deeply, let it out without flinching. “Yeah. Better.”

“Good.”  He tipped the melted snow to Shane’s lips, listened for his swallow.

“Thank you. Did you get any sleep?”

Ilya shrugged, though the gesture was wasted in the dark. “I slept plenty when they drugged me. I am not tired.” This was an enormous lie, comical—his entire body ached with exhaustion, his eyes dry and painful, but he couldn’t have slept even if he’d allowed himself to try.

Shane huffed but didn’t argue. “So I’m going to say some things. And you’re just going to listen, okay?”

“Hollander, this isn’t the time—”

“I think it is. I think this is probably the only chance I’m likely to get—the only time you can’t run away.”

“I don’t run,” Ilya said, stung. “You are the one who left.” The words were out of his mouth before he could take them back, and they were humiliating because they were stupid—he knew Shane hadn’t wanted to go, that he hadn’t had a choice. Being hurt because, what, Shane hadn’t called him? That was stupid.

“I know,” Shane said gently. “I know, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I would give anything to fix it—anything except not being with you. Like, obviously I wish it didn’t happen the way it did, Christ.” He sounded disgusted, and Ilya felt a twist of nausea, sickening.

“No, not like that,” Shane said, though Ilya hadn’t said anything at all, hadn’t so much as moved. “Everything about the, the sex—that was good, okay? It was so fucking good. I wanted to stay there like that forever, and it made me stupid, and that almost got you killed. That’s what I regret.”

“I am not the one who is dying right now,” Ilya said, and then winced. “Sorry, no, you are not dying, you are going to be fine, do not worry—”

There was a brief pause, and then Shane said tartly, “Obviously I’m not dying. But I am in some pain, and you know what would make me feel better?”

Ilya swallowed hard. “What? What can I do, tell me.” He had already searched for painkillers and come up empty.

“Ilya,” Shane said, and through the darkness Ilya felt his fingertips brush his chin, searching for his mouth. “Would you kiss me? Please?”

It was not an easy request to fulfill, for all it was something Ilya had wanted to do since the moment he’d seen Shane come through the quonset hut door. He ended up darting outside and climbing into the backseat, sitting awkwardly in the footbed with the front seats shoved as far forward as they would go.

“Imagine if those guys had a smaller car,” Shane said, a little breathless.

“Probably I should have put the seats down,” Ilya said. “You could lie more comfortably that way. I just thought it would be warmer if—”

Shane’s hand found his jaw again, and Ilya turned his face to his palm, felt his callused fingers stroking along his stubbled cheek. “Please,” he said again.

It was unlike any kiss they’d had before—because they had all the time in the world. They were alone in the soundless darkness, and maybe there were threats beyond the cold, but Shane’s mouth was soft and warm, achingly tender. He tasted kind of terrible, like old coffee, and he smelled like sweat and blood—Ilya doubted he smelled any better—but the sweetness of Shane underneath it all was enough to wrench Ilya’s heart from his chest, it made him want to collapse, to shout into the snowfall that Shane Hollander existed, and that he kissed Ilya like this, like he was someone to be treasured.

The tears fell, but Ilya still didn’t stop kissing him, didn’t try to hide them—it was Shane who pulled away, who ran his lips along Ilya’s damp cheek, whispering, “It’s okay. Hey. It’s okay.”

It was a lie, the same stupid lie Shane had been making him comply with since the moment he’d gotten himself shot on Ilya’s behalf: It was fucking not okay. It was unbearable, and Ilya had been sitting with it for hours, while Shane slept and bled and breathed shallow in the darkness. An ugly sob broke free, and he kissed Shane again, harder, and Shane made a sound against him, a sharp exhale. Ilya pulled back instantly, horrified.

“I’m sorry, did I hurt you—”

Shane’s fingers tightened on his jaw. “No. Don’t stop.”

So Ilya kept kissing him, too hard, and when that wasn’t enough to stop the tears from coming, his slid his hands underneath the parka, undid Shane’s zipper just enough to pull his cock free. He wasn’t all the way hard, but he wasn’t soft, either, and he let out a moan. “Please,” he said. “Please, yes, I want you to.”

It was an objectively stupid thing to do. Shane had a fucking hole in his side. But Ilya couldn’t keep his head clear, couldn’t think of anything except that Shane was alive, that he had to stay alive, that his blood had to stay in his body—and the proof was right there, filling his cock, making it pulse with heat in the cold darkness.

Ilya took him into his mouth and held him there, pressing his lips against the plastic zipper, Shane’s thickening cock a reassuring warmth at the back of his tongue. Shane exhaled above him, a long sigh, and his hand came down to rest on the back of Ilya’s head, petting him gently.

“Yes,” Shane whispered. “That’s good.”

Ilya stayed just like that, long enough that his back cramped and his jaw ached, and then longer still, so that he forgot all about the discomfort and thought only, Shane. And Shane never said anything, never tried to hurry him or get him to move, to suck, even though Ilya could taste the occasional drip of precome falling down his throat. He just kept petting Ilya’s hair, whispering to him. “I’m okay,” he said, again and again. “We’re going to be all right, I promise.”

And despite everything, Ilya believed him.

He didn’t mean to fall asleep. In the early morning light, he mouthed drowsily at Shane’s now-soft cock, pressed a little kiss to it, grateful that, at some point, he’d had the presence of mind to duck under the parka, covering his head with it. There was a tapping sound, like a bird at a window, and beneath his cheek Shane shifted with a low murmuring sound of protest.

Tap, tap, tap.

Ilya woke up fully, abruptly, and lifted his head, the parka falling aside briefly before he yanked it back into place. The face at the car window belonged to an older man, sixties probably, in a quilted brown Carhatt jacket with a bright orange cap pulled low over his forehead.

“Saw the car from the road. You fellas alive in there?” His voice was muffled by the glass, with long, flat, Canadian vowels.

“Yes,” Shane said. “We could use a lift, though.”

“A hospital,” Ilya said, and winced as his back cramped. “And the police, please.”

The farmer—his name was Spencer—took a long look at the Suburban before giving it up for a lost cause. “We’ll get someone to haul it out in the Spring,” he said. But he drove his enormous truck with matching enormous tires as far into the field as he could, and between the two of them, he and Ilya got Shane up and in. It was a bench seat, and they were none of them small men; Ilya held Shane across his lap, one arm braced behind his head, the other careful around his middle.

At the hospital, they took Shane away from him.

They put him on a gurney, even though he insisted he was fine, he could walk, and Ilya wanted to yell at him for that, and also at the people who were insistently steering him by the elbow, demanding to know who he was, who Shane was, how did he got shot, did Shane have any allergies, who was his next of kin, his emergency contact.

“I don’t know,” Ilya said, again and again.

He gave them Hayden Pike’s phone number, and he allowed himself to be steered to a small curtained room where they treated the abrasions on his wrists and hooked him up to an IV, insisting he was dehydrated—apparently that was something you could tell just from plucking at the skin at the back of his hands, who knew.

Eventually some police officers came, and asked him many more questions—these he could answer, describing his former “bodyguard” Tyurin and his partner, explaining that they’d kidnapped him and that Shane had no choice, had been acting only to protect him.

“We’re just asking questions, Mr. Rozanov,” they said. “Tell us again, this farm where you were held, where is it exactly?”

So he tried to explain it to them again, though he didn’t know exactly, while a nurse came in and out and while somewhere in this building Shane was okay, he was probably okay, but Ilya didn’t know that for sure and no one would tell him.

Chapter 15

No one would tell him where Ilya was.

“I’m fine,” Shane said through his teeth, striving for politeness but almost certainly not achieving it. “Thank you so much. But if you could just—”

The nurse checking his bandage gave him a tight smile. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hollander, but I can’t give you any more information than I already have. Mr. Rozanov is currently being questioned.”

“About what?” Shane demanded. “Are they going to arrest him for being fucking kidnapped? What the hell is—”

“Please lower your voice, sir. And I would appreciate it if you didn’t use that kind of language.”

Shane took a breath, or tried to. The dressing wrapped around his torso, just below the ribs on his right side, was tight and packed thick. The IV in the back of his left hand was for fluids, and there was a second line running into the crook of his right elbow, feeding him a steady stream of antibiotics. The surgeon had been a small, exhausted-looking woman who’d told him that the bullet had hit no major vessels or organs, had sliced through a chunk of muscle that had been debrided, stitched, and packed: in short, he was a lucky son of a bitch.

“I know,” he’d said, and tried to smile. “Can you tell me anything about the man who came in with me? Ilya Rozanov?”

“Not my department,” she’d said. “But I’ll ask around for you.”

She was an excellent surgeon, and Shane was very grateful to her. She had not, however, asked around.

His pain was being managed by the catheter running up his back into the epidural space, which Shane had sort of thought was just for, like, uteruses. His right side, from his ribs to his mid-thigh, felt like it belonged to a mannequin. The anesthesiologist had explained that this was normal, that it would wear off in a few hours, but in the meantime he should not attempt to stand without help.

As soon as the surgeon left, Shane had tried to stand without help, and his leg had folded under him like it wasn’t even attached to his body. The IV pole toppled with him, the pulse ox shrieked and several disapproving people had reinstalled him in his bed, explaining that even if his leg could support him, his blood pressure couldn’t because, if he recalled, he’d lost a substantial amount of blood.

“Does he even know if I’m okay?” Shane asked the nurse now. “He was so scared. If you could please, just--”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said tonelessly, and pulled the curtain closed behind her on her way out.

Shane let his head fall back against the pillow. The ceiling tiles were old and mildly stained, dotted with little holes that never quite resolved into a pattern, though he kept trying to find one. He was testing his leg, pinching at it to see if he was regaining any sensation, and starting to seriously consider whether he could just fucking crawl, when he heard Scott Hunter’s voice out in the hallway.

The curtain swept open, and there was Scott, his face tight with worry, and next to him, ashen and more than a little flipped out, was Hayden. “Jesus Christ, Shane,” Hayden said, and flung himself across the room, catching himself just before he crashed into Shane’s chest.

“Hi,” Shane said. “So, uh. Ilya was here after all.”

“No shit,” Hayden said, his voice muffled because he’d buried his face against Shane’s shoulder. He looked exhausted. Scott was already turning, one hand on the doorframe, talking to someone in the hall over his shoulder.  “I called your folks. They’re on their way.”

Shane nodded, a small knot of tension easing. “Thank you. What happened with CSIS? Did they listen to you?”

Hayden’s face broken open in a grin. “They sure did. CSIS listened to me. They got the shipment heading to Francois in Newfoundland, just like we thought. They arrested a couple of guys, lower level Bratva probably, but maybe it’ll be enough to tie in Pichugin, even Sorokov if we’re lucky.”

“What about the Rozanovs? Alexei and Grigori,” Shane clarified.

“Tough to say. I know CSIS is pretty fucking unhappy, but with diplomatic immunity…” he spread his hands. “In all likelihood they’ll just end up getting their asses sent back to Russia. The sooner the better, if you ask me.”

“Hollander,” Scott said, looming tall in his suit, though he looked fairly rumpled as well. “You okay?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Glad to hear it. You’re a stupid son of a bitch, of course.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I can’t fucking believe you went in there on your own.”

“Yes, sir.”

Scott’s hand landed on Shane’s shoulder, squeezing firmly. “Rozanov says you saved his life.”

Shane swallowed thickly. “Pretty sure it was mutual, sir. Is he…where is he? Have you spoken to him?”

Scott’s brow furrowed. “Not directly. He had the hospital call Hayden, and Hayden called me, and then we got a report from RCMP. Why? You don’t know where he is?”

Shane shook his head, a fraction of the anxiety he’d been carrying for the past several hours showing on his face—how many hours had it even been, since they got to the hospital? Eight? Nine?

Scott sighed. “I’ll ask around.”

Hayden busied himself with getting Shane ice chips from the small pink plastic pitcher on the rolling table. He asked about his pain, and Shane answered him though half his attention was on Scott, talking in the hallway.

“…You’re going to want to bring Mr. Rozanov in here, please, because as I understand it he is neither a suspect nor under arrest, and he’s been through an ordeal. I don’t care what your procedure is for foreign nationals—no, he is not involved in organized crime. I don’t give a fuck what—”

Hayden had dragged the nurse’s stool over to the side of the bed and was swiveling on it, one foot pushing against the metal bedframe. “How bad.”

“Through and through,” Shane recited dutifully. “Antibiotics for ten days and I can’t lift anything for six weeks. Other than that, totally fine.”

“You scared the shit out of me. I should never have let you come up here alone.”

Shane shrugged; it wasn’t like Hayden could have stopped him. “Did you let Marleau know Ilya’s okay?”

“Yeah. He’s on his way, but,” Hayden’s grin went spiky, “he didn’t get the elite transportation provided by the Parliamentary Protective Service. Scott and I got to ride in a jet.”

Scott came back into the room with a black look on his face. “They’re bringing him up for a visit. But…” he blew out a frustrated breath. “Okay. Don’t lose your shit.”

Nothing was more likely to make Shane panic than someone telling him not to. “What? Tell me.”

“They’ve got him in custody. He’s a suspect, and they can detain him for 24 hours without charging him. Maybe longer given he isn’t a citizen.”

“What the fuck?” Shane sat upright, and Hayden jumped to his feet to shove him back down. “No, that’s bullshit—what do they think, he kidnapped himself? Am I under arrest, too?”

“No. You’ll be questioned regarding the two deaths, of course, but everyone seems to be very clear that you were acting in Rozanov’s defense.”

“So—”

“However,” Scott added pointedly, “his father and brother were running a goddamn smuggling operation through the Russian consulate. CSIS would be incompetent if they weren’t investigating him thoroughly.”

Shane shut his eyes. The epidural was finally wearing off in patches, pins and needles crawling up his groin. “Are they going to deport him?”

Scott hesitated. “I don’t…it’s a possibility,” he admitted. “I’m not in the loop on all of this, but my guess is Russia is already working to get the Rozanovs on the next flight to Moscow, and I doubt they’d keep Ilya out of it.”

“They can’t do that. He has rights—”

“He’s not a citizen,” Scott said again. “And it’s not like our diplomatic relations with Russia are what you’d call stellar.”

“Well, he’s about to be a citizen,” Shane snapped. “I’ll fucking marry him right now.”

Hayden made a punched-out noise of dismay. “Man, seriously?” Shane glared at him, and Hayden threw up his hands. “Right, sorry. I’m on board with the whole Rozanov thing. I guess.”

Scott just looked pained. “Look. Hollander. You’ve been through a shock, you have a serious injury. You’re on some pretty heavy medication.”

“The epidural’s barely systemic. The anesthesiologist explained—”

“Shane. I don’t think that’s even how it works—”

“Is there a judge? A fucking justice of the peace or whatever? A chaplain?”

“That’s for last rites, dude,” Hayden said.

“So? They don’t do marriage, too?”

“Who is getting married?”

The voice came from the doorway, low and tired and unmistakable. Shane whipped around, sending a sickening bolt of pain through his side but he didn’t care—Ilya was there.

He looked like shit. Someone had given him a clean Ottawa Centaurs t-shirt but he still had on the jeans he’d been wearing when Tyurin took him. The abrasions at his wrists had bloomed purple, and he was limping slightly. His eyes were red-rimmed and exhausted, but they were fixed on Shane like he was the only thing in the room.

There were two RCMP officers behind him, and one of them was actually gripping his elbow like Ilya was about to bolt.

“Ilya,” Shane breathed, and stretched out his hands, urging him closer.

Ilya took a step forward, but then stopped abruptly when Hayden flung his arms around him in a hug, clapping him noisily on the back.

“Um,” Ilya said. “Why?”

“Don’t be an asshole,” Hayden said, letting him go and stepping back. “I’m glad you’re okay, all right?”

“All right,” Ilya said, still a little dubious. His eyes flicked to Shane and then away, back to Scott, to the officers beside him. “Can I…?”

The officer at his elbow hesitated, but Scott cleared his throat meaningfully. “Fine,” the man said. “We’ll be right outside.”

Shane held out his hands again, and Ilya stepped in close to the side of the bed, though he didn’t touch him. “You are okay,” he said.

Shane nodded, wishing Ilya would look at him for more than a fraction of a second. “I’m okay. Would you sit down?”

Hayden kicked the stool over, and Shane frowned at him—he’d wanted Ilya to sit on the bed. Ilya sat, knees together, looking for all the world like a schoolboy. “Do you have an infection? Hypothermia? They wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“I’m okay,” Shane said again, and willed himself to appear as robust as possible, which was difficult while wearing a backless gown with a tube stuck up his spine. “You took good care of me.”

Ilya swallowed hard and looked away. “What were you saying?”

“What was who saying?”

Ilya gave an annoyed sniff. “You, Hollander. Just now. You are getting married?”

“Oh, that.” Shane shook his head, angry all over again. “It’s so fucking stupid, I can’t believe they’ve arrested you. And probably there are other ways to handle it, like you have to have some rights, they can’t just…but it seems to me that if we got married, we could at least get a leg up on the citizenship—”

“Whose citizenship?”

Shane stopped and squinted at him. “Yours, obviously.”

“Right,” Ilya’s laugh was a little high-pitched. “Obviously. So…you are, what. Offering to marry me for citizenship?” he asked flatly.

“Well, not just that.” Shane felt mystified; Ilya sounded almost angry with him. “But yeah, that’s certainly why it would make sense to do it now rather than later. I mean, I don’t really care about weddings and stuff, but if you…” he waved a vague hand meant to indicate and stuff, because he genuinely didn’t know what that would entail.

“If I what?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Scott muttered. “I can’t…are they always like this?”

Hayden shrugged. “I don’t know, man. I just work here.”

Shane shot them both an aggrieved look. “I’m just saying, it seems like the most straightforward option to me, but if you want to do the legal bit now and have some kind of ceremony after, that’s fine.”

“If I want…” Ilya trailed off. His hands had gone tight on his knees, the knuckles white. “Hollander. Why are you saying this? Why would you want us to get married?”

Shane was absolutely baffled. “Because I’m in love with you? Why do you think?”

Ilya stared at him, his mouth open and his face gone pale. He didn’t say anything.

Shane’s gunshot wound suddenly felt like nothing at all, like a pinprick next to the hollow dropping sensation in his stomach. “Do you…not want to be with me?” he asked slowly. “I…I’m sorry. I guess I thought…”

Ilya surged forward, and his mouth crashed against Shane’s, his hand gripping his jaw so hard it hurt; Shane didn’t care. The kiss was rough and wet, and Ilya was moaning into him, half on the bed, though he was careful to hover over Shane so as not to hurt him.

Dimly, he heard Scott murmur, “Oh my fucking god.”

“Wow, I did not need to see your tongue, Rozanov,” Hayden said loudly.

Ilya ignored them; if anything the kiss got dirtier, more desperate, and Shane was grabbing at him, fisting his hands in his hair, his shirt, whatever he could reach.

“Oh, no, that’s…Shane, your IV…”

Ilya pulled back at that, reaching to wheel the pole back into position. His eyes were wet, his mouth red, and his smile was wide and helpless. He laughed, a little deliriously, and kissed Shane again, mouthing half-formed words in Russian, and Shane was laughing too, even though some part of him was aware that his boss was still in the room, probably planning on ensuring that Shane never went on active duty ever again.

“No, excuse me,” said a loud, easily recognized voice. “I don’t think you understand. My son is in there, and if you don’t—”

The curtain ripped open, and Yuna and David were there, a cowed-looking pair of RCMP officers behind them.

“Shane, are you okay? Hayden said you’d been shot, you—”

She broke off as Ilya pulled away, a trail of saliva stretching from his mouth to Shane’s.

“Ah,” Ilya said, and wiped his mouth with his wrist. “Hello.” He got to his feet, careful not to jostle Shane, and clasped his hands in front of him, penitent.

“Hello,” David said after a long moment. “Uh, it’s nice to meet you…”

“Ilya Rozanov,” Scott supplied. He now looked ever so slightly entertained. “Shane’s former principal.”

Yuna’s jaw dropped open. “Shane! You didn’t…”

Shane’s mouth moved silently as he tried to think what to say, to remember how to talk at all. “I…”

“He saved my life,” Ilya said. “He killed two men for me. Your son is incredibly brave.”

“He what?”

“Ilya,” Shane said weakly. “Maybe don’t—”

The nurse bustled in, shouldering past the Hollanders. “Excuse me!” she said loudly. “You can’t all be in here! Immediate family only, this isn’t a—”

“We’ll leave,” Hayden assured her, raising both hands in surrender. “Probably should have left a while ago. Like, I’ve seen things I can’t unsee now.” He stepped around Ilya just enough to clap Shane gently on the shoulder.

Scott cleared his throat. “Mr. and Mrs. Hollander, I can assure you that Shane was operating with the full support of the PPS. You don’t need to worry—”

“Out!” the nurse said, exasperated. “If you are not a relative, you need to come during regular visiting hours, and even then…”

“I am family,” Ilya said. His hand had shot out to grip Shane’s shoulder. “I am not leaving.”

David and Yuna stood aside to let Scott and Hayden pass; the nurse eyed the remaining three people suspiciously before following them out.

“I’m sorry,” Yuna said into the sudden silence. “I really hope you’re not some long-lost nephew or…”

“Mom! Jesus!”

“Well, I don’t know anything, Shane! Who is this man?”

Ilya stepped forward, a hand held out to shake, an enormous, glowing smile on his face. “Ilya. Shane’s fiancé.”

Shane closed his eyes. “Ilya. Can we give them, like, a minute.”

“I’m sorry,” Ilya said, not sounding sorry at all. “I cannot help. I am very happy.”

Shane took a deep breath and opened his eyes again to find that his mother was still staring at him, and his father had his hand on her shoulder like he was trying to keep her tethered to the earth. Ilya had dropped his hand but not his smile; he was bouncing on his heels like it was Christmas morning. “I am very happy, too,” Shane said, a little helplessly. “We…we love each other, I guess.”

It occurred to him that Ilya hadn’t actually said those words—and clearly it occurred to Ilya at the same moment, because he ducked down to press a quick kiss to Shane’s lips.

“Yes,” he murmured. “I love you, Shane.”

He tried to straighten, but Shane couldn’t let him go. He caught him with a hand at the back of his neck and held him in place, kissing him firmly. When he let him go, Ilya was blushing, and Yuna and David’s expressions had shifted from confusion to something approaching awe—which was, Shane supposed, understandable. They’d never seen him in love before.

“Wow,” David said. “Wow. Yeah, okay. Um, welcome to the family, I guess…” he scratched at his head. “I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Ilya,” Shane supplied. “Rozanov.”

“Right, Ilya. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Ilya said. “It’s a lot to take in.”

Yuna choked out a laugh, a little hysterical. She was looking at where Ilya’s thumb was stroking the join of Shane’s neck and shoulder, dipping slightly down beneath the hospital gown. “Do you think,” she said, “you could start at the beginning?”

Chapter 16: Epilogue

Chapter Notes

Six months later

The IRCC—Immigration, Refugees, and Citizen Canada— office in downtown Ottawa was, unfortunately, becoming something of a second home. Officer Pia Demers (“Call me Officer Demers”) had met with them multiple times, along with the immigration lawyer Yuna had found for them. Thus far, Ilya had…not been deported. The courthouse marriage they’d held the day after Ilya was released from police custody had granted him the right to apply for permanent residency, but not citizenship, and even that was frustratingly hard to come by.

This sponsorship interview was simply the most recent of the many, many hurdles they had been forced to jump through—but at least it was an important one. If, that is, they could establish that their relationship was real and that their marriage had in no way been motivated by, say for instance, a desire to keep Ilya alive.

Elle Paulsen, their attorney, had reminded them in the elevator that the story of how they met had been widely publicized, and so it was unlikely that they would receive many questions about that. Instead, they should answer forthrightly about the specifics of their relationship. “Who makes the coffee, how you each take your eggs, what do you fight about, who loads the dishwasher correctly. That sort of thing.”

“I do,” Shane said, and Ilya grinned.

When they entered the conference room, Officer Demers glanced up, but didn’t offer so much as a “Good morning.” Beside her—and they had not been informed this would be the case—was a man in a charcoal suit with a small notebook and a Bic pen. CSIS, presumably. He did not introduce himself.

“Mr. Rozanov, Mr. Hollander,” Officer Demers said. “You understand that this conversation is being recorded, and that you’re under no obligation to answer any specific question?”

“Yes,” they said, almost in unison.

“Tell me about the first time you spoke to each other outside a strictly professional context.”

Hollander turned his head ever so slightly, dragged his tongue between Ilya’s first and second fingers before taking them into his mouth with a moan. “Hollander. Shane. Shane, listen to me, listen.” He pulled his fingers away, hissed a curse as Shane whimpered at the loss, looking up at Ilya with wet, needy eyes. He was extraordinarily beautiful like this.

“Please,” he mumbled.

Ilya stroked his hair gently. “Прости, дорогая. You don’t want this, not really. We stop now.”

Shane shook his head, the movement sending a tear spilling from the outside corner of his eye. Ilya brushed it away with his thumb, brought it to his mouth to taste it. “I do want this. I do. I want you so much.”

“Shh.” Ilya bent down to kiss his cheek, awkward in the tight space. “You will be so upset tomorrow.”

“We were in the car,” Ilya said. “We talked about what we want out of life, and found that we have much in common.”

“And when did things become romantic, between you?”

It was less a kiss than an accusation: this is your fault, you did this, you’ve been doing this since you walked into my life. Ilya shoved at him, and Hollander went, crashing back into the wall, his hands gripping at Ilya’s shirt, keeping him close.

Ilya bit his lower lip hard, and Hollander gasped, thrust compulsively, his hard cock against Ilya’s hip. “Fuck.”  Ilya tried to pull back—it was too much, everything about this man was too much for him—but Shane wouldn’t let him, dragged his mouth across Ilya’s temples, his nose, his tight-shut eyes.

“Please,” Shane said raggedly. “Ilya. Please fuck me.”

“The next day,” Shane said. “We had another conversation, and discussed our growing feelings for one another.”

“And how long had those ‘feelings’ been growing, would you say?”

Shane shifted in his seat and glanced at Ilya. “Probably within a week or two of beginning the assignment. Ilya can be very charming.”

Officer Demers did not look as though she agreed. “And you, Mr. Rozanov?”

“The first day,” Ilya said immediately. “As soon as he walked in the door. I was attracted to him very early. He took longer.”

“I was attracted to you,” Shane argued, flushing. “I just…she asked about feelings. You didn’t make a great first impression, you know that.”

“Oh?” Officer Demers looked ready to pounce on that, and Elle shifted in her seat next to Ilya. “What was your first impression?”

Ilya Rozanov was asleep on his stomach, an arm thrown over the edge of the mattress, the sheets pushed down to somewhere around his knees. With his entire body on display, it was clear that he was almost alarmingly fit, in a way that made Shane feel inexplicably competitive, made him want to add some more pull-ups to his morning routine. And some more squats.

His face looked soft in sleep, younger than his 26 years, and he had dishwater curls that clung to his forehead, a scattering of moles on his cheek and across his back. Beside him, equally uncovered and facing the opposite direction, was a woman with dark hair fanned across the pillow, her breathing slow and even. Ilya’s eyes blinked open, and he lay still for a heartbeat before rolling over.

The sheets did not go with him. He was half-hard, uncut below a dusting of golden-brown hair that trailed up his belly before disappearing almost entirely.

“I thought,” Shane said, “that Ilya looked like a very well-rested person, with few responsibilities. Now I know that he frequently has trouble sleeping, and while he likes to have fun, if he says he will do something, he will do it. He is extremely reliable.”

“And what are some things you do together for fun?”

“Race you,” Ilya said.

Shane bounced on the balls of his feet, keeping his heart rate up. “To where?”

“Full loop. The falls and back.”

Shane considered. It was 7.9 km, uphill at the end. Ilya was better than he was at distance. “What do I get if I win?”

Ilya grinned, his eyes bright. “I have a trophy for you in the car, right now.”

“And what do you get if you win?” Shane asked dubiously.

Ilya leered at him. “Same thing.”

Shane won—barely, calves screaming on the last switchback—and when they got back to the car he took the discreet package into the trailhead restroom, and came back out red-faced and huffing. Ilya was leaning against the hood with his arms crossed, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. “Hmm,” he said.

He tested the remote, and Shane jumped as the plug up his ass jolted. “I think,” he said, strained, “you had better drive.”

Ilya kissed him, a quick stroke of his tongue. “Oh no, солнышко. I couldn’t possibly. I know how you hate my driving.”

Shane had to pull over, down a rutted shoulder where a fire road branched off into the trees, screened from the highway by a stand of cedars. “Ilya—”

“Look at you.” Ilya had turned in his seat, one knee tucked up under him, the remote held loosely between two fingers. The steady pulsing quickened, merciless, and Shane’s head tipped back against the headrest. He was so hard it ached, and his thin running shorts were stained wet at the crotch.

“Ah,” Ilya chided him. “Don’t touch yourself.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

Ilya ran a fingertip up the inside of his trembling thigh. “Liar.”

Shane gave a ragged laugh and pressed his hands flat against the ceiling instead, arching his back and pushing his hips up.

“Good, very good,” Ilya crooned, and clicked the remote up one more time.

Shane made a high, undignified noise and then he was coming, spilling into his running shorts, hips stuttering off the seat while Ilya watched him greedily, thumb still pressed to the remote until Shane was whimpering, oversensitive, pleading with him to turn it off.

“We like to go trail running,” Ilya said. “It’s good to stay in shape. I used to like to go to the gym, but Shane has made me appreciate the outdoors.”

“Mmm-hmm. Now walk me through your current living arrangement. You live together at 1140 Wellington, is that correct?”

“Yes,” Shane said.

“And you’ve been there since…?”

“January of this year. We lived in Montreal briefly before moving to Ottawa to be closer to my parents, as well as Ilya’s good friend Svetlana Vetrova.”

“How would you describe how you divide responsibilities in the household?”

“I’m fucking sick of doing your dishes, Ilya!”

Ilya glanced up from where he was stretched out on the couch.“You don’t like it when I do dishes. I do it ‘wrong.’ Seems to me you should do all of them if I am so bad at it.”

Shane huffed and slammed the dishwasher tray back into place so hard the plates rattled. “If you put the wineglasses on the bottom rack they will break. That’s all I said.”

“Are glasses broken?”

“No, because I just fucking moved them, asshole. Would you please…” Shane stopped. “What are you doing.”

Ilya’s hand had slid down his pants, his wrist jerking. “I have very sexy husband, what do you think?”

“I’m—” Shane sputtered. “I’m pissed at you right now.”

“Yes, I can tell. You get all red in the face, your eyes go all squinty-angry. Like I said, very sexy.”

Shane watched as Ilya tugged down the waistband of his sweatpants, licking his own palm before bringing it back to his cock. “I’m not coming over there,” he said, unconvincingly.

“I know,” Ilya said. “You are much too angry. You will probably not ever forgive me, not even if I went to all the trouble to figure out what we will have for dinner every night this week, not even if I went to the store to buy all the ingredients, including your disgusting creatine protein powder.”

“It’s not disgusting, it…you went grocery shopping?”

“Yes,” Ilya said smugly. “While you were on zoom call with Scott Hunter.”

“I hate grocery shopping.”

“Oh,” Ilya said, pulling a mock-surprised face. “Really? I did not know this about you.”

Shane shifted his weight back and forth. Ilya could see his erection straining at his jeans. “I’m not going to come over there and suck your dick just because you bought groceries. That’s just, basic chore-sharing. You don’t get a reward for that.”

“Of course not,” Ilya agreed. He made a ring with his thumb and forefinger and slipped it over the head, pumping his hips up into it. He was breathing a little heavily now. “You will come over here and suck my dick because it is your favorite thing to do.”

Shane made an aggravated noise and stomped over, falling to his knees in front of the couch with a huff. “It’s not my favorite,” he argued, and swallowed Ilya down so far and so fast he saw stars.

“We split things fairly evenly,” Shane said. “I do most of the cleaning because I’m particular about it. Ilya handles the cooking and runs errands.”

“And how do you handle disagreements?”

“We talk,” Ilya said.

Officer Demers raised an eyebrow, and Elle shifted in her seat, encouraging.

Shane glanced at him and gave a small shrug. Ilya sighed.

“Alexei texted you,” Shane said stiffly, sliding Ilya’s phone across the counter. “I didn’t know you were still in contact. I thought we talked about that.”

“We aren’t. It was just a text.”

“If the perception is that you are still close with your family—”

“I was never close with my family.”

“—then that could harm your chances of attaining permanent residency status,” Shane said, flat and measured. “Plus, you know, he almost got you fucking killed.”

“He did not mean for me to get hurt.”

“Oh, sure, because there was absolutely no way to anticipate that bringing in a Bratva thug—”

“He’s my fucking brother!” Ilya shouted. “What do you want me to do?”

Shane didn’t flinch. He never did. “I want you to block his number. I want you to stop pretending that blood matters more than the man currently sponsoring your fucking visa.”

Ilya stared at him. And then he laughed, short and ugly, and shoved off the counter. “Fuck you, Shane.”

He was already moving, snatching his jacket from the hook and his keys from the bowl in the hall. He didn’t look back, because if he did, he would probably smash something—the framed photo of them at their wedding, maybe, when Shane had looked more worried than happy.

He made it three steps before a hand closed around his bicep and yanked, spinning him so that Ilya’s shoulder blades hit the wall hard enough to rattle that same picture frame, and then Shane’s mouth was on his. Ilya bit him hard enough to draw blood, got a hand between them and shoved—but Shane wouldn’t be moved, wouldn’t be pushed away.

So Ilya moved them both, turning them around so that Shane’s back was to the wall, and then Ilya yanked down his sweatpants, leaving them stuck around his thighs.

Shane’s hand caught him at the throat, hauled him in, and Ilya went willingly, pulling him closer in turn. Shane’s teeth scraped against Ilya’s jaw, his neck, his collarbone. “If you want to fuck me,” he said, low and furious, “you have to fucking stay.”

Ilya shuddered, all the anger and fear and rage—most of it for his father and brother, but some of it for Shane, deserved or not—hardening into the certainty that he was never, ever going anywhere.

There was nothing tender about any of it. They kept lube in the hallway, in the drawer of the end table that held the bowl that held the keys, because this wouldn’t be the first time they fucked up against the door, nor the last. Ilya shoved two fingers into Shane, scissoring them apart, then did it again, adding more lube—and then he spun Shane around, yanked his hips backward, and slammed into him, the framed photograph of their wedding day rattling threateningly over his shoulder.

“Come on,” he gritted out, and took Shane’s dripping cock in his hand and stroked him in rough time with the snap of his hips. “Come on, Hollander. Come for me.”

“Fuck you,” Shane said on a gasp, and reached back to tug sharply at Ilya’s hair.

“I love you, where would I go, there’s nowhere, I just—” Ilya broke off, slamming into Shane so hard that the picture frame gave up and crashed down hard, glass cracking against the hardwood. Shane cried out and came all over the door, the floor, and Ilya followed a half dozen strokes later.

For a long moment, they didn’t move. Behind them, glass glittered across the floor like scattered stars, but the photograph lay face-up among the pieces, intact.

Ilya didn’t block Alexei’s number, and they still fought about it sometimes.

“Sometimes it’s difficult,” he acknowledged. “We…there are things we don’t agree on, even though I think we understand where we are each coming from.” Below the table, he felt Shane’s heel click against his, their calves pressing together. “We are both very stubborn, and sometimes we are not so good at listening to each other. We fight about it, sometimes there is shouting.”

“I’m a lot more direct than Ilya is,” Shane said. “Sometimes. I think some decisions should be easy, that things are simple and black-and-white, and that’s just not how life is. And sometimes I think Ilya wants me to guess what he’s feeling, what he’s trying to say, without being very clear about it.” He smiled ruefully. “My success rate at that is pretty abysmal. We’re working on it.”

Officer Demers smiled for the first time since they’d walked in. “That’s very good. It’s one of the things we look for, actually.”

“Sorry?” Shane asked. “What is?”

“Couples who fight,” she said simply. “Who can describe the ways in which their relationship is imperfect. Couples in fraudulent marriages tend to describe their relationships as conflict-free.”

Ilya glanced at Shane, a small smirk on his face. “We fight,” he said. “We make up, after. Sometimes during.”

Beside him, Elle coughed, but Ilya thought it might have been a laugh, really.

“Your sexual relationship does not fall under the bounds of this inquiry,” Officer Demers said primly. “Mr. Laughlin, did you have something?”

The CSIS man—Laughlin, apparently—looked up from his notebook. “Mr. Rozanov, I just have one question, if I may. Prior to one year ago, you resided primarily in Moscow while your father and brother served at the Russian Consulate here in Ottawa. Your father and brother have returned to the Russian Federation and are by all accounts doing well there, while you have refused to go. You have cooperated extensively with the CSIS and the RCMP, and have agreed to testify when it is required. You’ve broken with essentially every meaningful connection to your country of origin. What provoked this choice? Why do you want to stay here in Canada?”

This struck Ilya as a remarkably stupid question, after a morning spent answering so very many stupid questions. “Why do you think?” he said flatly, and turned to his husband, who was watching him with a small smile, his limpid brown eyes warm. “My family is here.”

Chapter End Notes

Прости, дорогая - Sorry, precious

 

солнышко - sweetheart