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The first time it happens is an accident.
All of Rozanov is buried so deep inside Shane that whatever escapes his mouth – whimper, groan, profanity – is not enough. Caught in sweat-dampened hotel sheets, Shane’s nails dig into Ilya’s back and leave eight perfect marks.
Shane sees them when Rozanov leaves the messy bed to go clean himself up.
The lines start at his shoulder blades and run down the length of at least seven inches. Like Shane really had to write down just how full he was at that moment; like whatever space Rozanov was taking up inside him also had to let out somewhere.
“Oh my God,” Shane groans. He’s still breathing hard, has barely come down from his orgasm, his body is still covered in come.
“What?”
“Oh my God,” Shane repeats. He presses his face into the nearest pillow. “Your back.”
Shane can hear hurried footsteps, although they’re muffled by the pillow. He wants that pillow to swallow him whole. Then, he hears Rozanov whistle in the bathroom. His feet tap-tap back.
“I fucked you that good?” he asks, an unsaid joke in his voice, and he throws his body back on the bed. The mattress shakes and Shane is promptly robbed of his emotional support object. It’s replaced with Rozanov’s body almost immediately. He lays on top of Shane like a lap dog unaware of its actual bodyweight, and Shane can’t so much as glance at his look of total delight.
He uses his hands to cover his face. “I’m so sorry.”
“What’s the problem, Hollander?” Rozanov slides off Shane’s body, settling next to him.
Shane peeks from behind his palms. Rozanov is resting on his stomach, curls still ruffled, and he’s holding himself up on his elbows. He’s delighted alright, and deeply amused.
“Someone’s gonna see,” Shane explains like Rozanov is five.
This is supposed to be a secret. Nobody is supposed to know. And now there’s blatant, red, hot-to-the-touch evidence trailing down Rozanov’s back.
But Rozanov just shrugs. “Anybody could have done that.”
“What?”
Rozanov looks at him, eyebrows arched. His silent version of Come on, Hollander, how long till you figure this one out?
But it takes Shane a good long moment. What Rozanov is saying, he finally realizes, is that this is not a first-time occurrence. What he’s saying is that there have been other people to scratch his back up in that desperate place between too-much and not-enough. He’s saying he can walk into the Raiders’ locker room and his teammates will pat him on the back, directly across those nail marks, and congratulate him on getting laid. What was she like? they’ll ask him, imagining a woman so beautiful it will get them hard.
No one will consider Montreal’s star center to be behind it.
No one will know.
Shane frowns.
“See?” Rozanov nudges him a little bit. “Nothing to be sorry about, Hollander. Calm down.”
But Rozanov will know.
It gives Shane a little bit of satisfaction – just a tinge. He has marked his territory, albeit accidentally, and Rozanov will have to walk around with that knowledge for at least a couple of days.
It makes Shane wish he dug his nails in a little deeper.
.
The season is almost over.
Shane is painfully aware of it even before he sets foot in Rozanov’s hotel room, and he can’t shake it while there, either.
Rozanov usually helps. Whatever is on his mind tends to quiet down around him. it’s like his brain zeroes in on the four walls embracing them—Shane Hollander is mercifully reduced to… just a guy.
Not tonight. Even Rozanov notices.
“You’re distracted,” he comments, surprisingly deadpan. Surprisingly, because Shane is on his knees, held in place by Rozanov’s strong legs, and his mouth is busy at work. And he thinks he’s been doing a stellar fucking job. By now, he knows when to press his tongue against the prominent vein that runs up the side of Rozanov’s cock; he knows when to suck hard enough that his cheeks hollow out; he can take all of him until it hits the back of his throat; he’s more than capable at twisting his wrist at the base in just the right angle.
Like, fuck, Rozanov’s hands are literally in Shane’s hair when he has the audacity to say this. He’s been pulling at it like it’s a leash, and he calls Shane distracted?
Shane doesn’t even give him an answer. He just pulls away with a loud pop. He frowns at Rozanov the hardest he can manage.
“Is true,” Rozanov confirms. “Now open your mouth for me again.”
The frown is still not gone, traces of it creasing Shane’s forehead, but the season is almost over and so he does as he’s told.
Rozanov’s cock is a familiar weight on his tongue, but he refuses to do anything about it. Even though he’s salivating. Even though his own dick twitches when he tastes the pre-come that’s slowly leaking out into his mouth.
“Ugh, you’re no fun.” Rozanov wraps his fingers around himself and pulls out of Shane’s mouth.
“Calling me boring?” Shane scoffs, his jaw clicking close. “How original.”
“Did you come here to fight?”
“No.” Shane sighs. Then: “I won’t see you until next season.”
Rozanov seems taken aback at first. It’s almost like Shane has voiced something that’s on both of their minds, and it just so happens to be something they’re both trying to run away from. For a moment, whatever mask Rozanov wears – which only tends to slip on rare occasions – falls away completely. He’s wide-eyed, and maybe it’s just surprise, and before Shane can inspect it further, Rozanov quickly puts it behind a wall again.
“So let’s get on with it, yes?” Rozanov snaps in the end. “We only have a few hours. I don’t want to waste them.”
There is nothing softer about the way he speaks and there’s nothing softer about how he fucks Shane. Does it feel more desperate? Maybe. Shane really doesn’t know how to tell.
In the end, though, when Rozanov pulls Shane up for a kiss, what he does seems purposeful. Different.
His hand is around Shane’s jaw, and his teeth catch on Shane’s bottom lip. Neither of those things is irregular. What draws a surprised yelp, though, is when those teeth close around a piece of chapped skin and pull. And pull and pull until the skin is completely off and a bubble of blood appears in its spot.
They stare at each other for a second, saying nothing.
Then Shane licks the blood away and chases Rozanov’s lips again.
.
During the entirety of the summer, Shane worries on the small wound on his bottom lip every day.
Many times, his fingers itch to text Rozanov, to say something about it—he never does.
He rips it open with his teeth when he’s in the shower, and he angles his face until the overhead shower’s strong water pressure hits it and it stings.
He worries at it with his fingers while his other hand is wrapped tight around his cock.
During the days, doing whatever, he rolls his tongue over it absent-mindedly.
He tears it open so often, so regularly. Yet he never smears the blood. It only ever slips innocuously into his mouth—of course, his lips never quite meet when it happens. How could they when there are no m’s or p’s or b’s in Rozanov.
Worse yet, there are none in Ilya, Ilya, Ilya.
The wound is still there when the season starts anew.
.
The season has been going for over two weeks when Montreal finally hits the road and plays against Boston at their home rink. Hammersmith sends Shane flying to the ice and he sits out a two-minute penalty for high sticking because there’s blood running down Shane’s chin, but he really didn’t do anything. It was Shane’s own mouth guard that slipped and ripped his bottom lip open again – Hammersmith’s stick was just in the vicinity.
It makes Shane hungry for a win, but it makes him equally hungry for what’s going to happen in his hotel room later.
(Rozanov suggested meeting in his house, for the first time, which Shane shot down immediately.)
Shane can see this hunger reflected on Rozanov’s face when he opens his door for him. Montreal won 4:2, so Rozanov will be fucking frustrated tonight, and that fits Shane just right after suffering through his offseason.
Still, it’s nothing compared to when Rozanov’s eyes catch on Shane’s mouth. His intake of breath is so sharp Shane can hear even a few steps away.
“Hollander,” he sighs, “is that—”
Shane brings his fingers up to his mouth. His fingertips run over the familiar bump, and it feels like Rozanov bit it open just hours ago. Definitely not weeks, not months.
He nods, almost curtly.
Then Rozanov is on him, shoving him into the wall. Shane’s body goes loose and he lets himself be taken over. Rozanov’s hands are everywhere and his mouth stings when they clash together, but it feels like nothing short of relief.
Shane’s brain shuts off. It only takes a second before he starts mirroring every movement that is given to him. Rozanov’s skin is smooth and warm to the touch when his fingers slide under his grey shirt. It’s embarrassing, really, the way it makes Shane whine.
Rozanov likes it, though. His hips buck and roll. Even through jeans, Shane can feel that his cock is starting to reciprocate, too.
“How many?” Shane asks breathlessly when Rozanov’s mouth sloppily drags down to Shane’s neck.
“How many what.”
Rozanov’s breath is hot against his throat. It makes Shane shiver. “How many people did you fuck over the summer?”
Rozanov pulls away. It’s only his face that leaves the comfort of Shane’s neck, though. The rest of him stays pressed—if anything, it’s pressing more. The wall is digging into Shane’s shoulder blades.
“What the fuck, Hollander? Why are you asking me that?”
Because he wants to know what’s underneath. Shane is desperate to have the answer before he sees it with his own eyes. Right now, as far as he knows, there are hickeys slowly fading around Rozanov’s collarbones. There are scratches that run down his back in multitudes. Somebody’s left imprints of their teeth across his inner thighs. Somebody else has pressed their thumb so deep into Rozanov’s birthmark-ridden chest that their fingerprints are still there.
Right now, as far as Shane knows, Rozanov’s body is a collection of other people’s pleasure.
He fucking hates it.
“I’m just curious.”
Rozanov is shaking his head. “I’m not telling you that.”
“Why not?” Shane grips Rozanov’s hips and pulls him even closer. Something in Russian falls quietly off Rozanov’s lips in an exhale. “Don’t you like to brag, Rozanov?”
“Fuck you.”
Shane breathes out. So much deflection, and for what? The number is either too high or too low. What are the chances of it being zero?
“Do you want to?”
Instead of answering, Rozanov drops to his knees and presses his perfect cheek against Shane’s crotch. His hands are rough when they unbutton and unzip the jeans and then haul them down together with Shane’s underwear. The fabric scratches his skin on its way down, but Rozanov’s palms are there to caress it right away.
He starts leaving open-mouthed kisses up Shane’s thigh; he drags his sharp teeth across the sensitive skin over Shane’s hip.
Rozanov hums. “Mm, that’s better,” he’s saying, his voice calmer now; quieter. “Show me you want it.”
Shane bangs his head against the wall with a loud thud. He hates that he’s getting harder without Rozanov so much as properly touching him. All it takes is his mouth somewhere around his cock and Shane can already feel anticipation building in his lower belly. It overcomes him as always, the way he wants more, the way he wants to demand more, the way he will die if there’s not more.
His hands disappear in Rozanov’s curls almost automatically. “Fuck. Can you—”
But Rozanov merely rests his cheek against Shane’s thigh while his fingers explore. They trail up the other thigh; his hand presses into the crease between Shane’s leg and crotch like a blade. He cups Shane’s balls, barely squeezes; moves on to his ass, teasing entrance before disappearing.
Shane is shivering.
If he opens his mouth right now, he’s going to say Ilya. He’s more certain than when he stands on the ice with a C on his jersey and a hockey stick in hand.
He stays quiet, only trying to move Rozanov’s head towards his cock with his hands. His fingers are still caught in his hair, but Rozanov slaps them away.
“Be patient.” The corner of his mouth is wet against Shane’s skin. “God, Hollander. Look at how hard you are for me already.”
Shane’s brain immediately interprets it as instruction. His eyes fall down and his breath hitches—not so much at the sight of his own cock standing at attention. Moreso at the sight of Rozanov on his knees in front of him, amused as always, nuzzling Shane’s leg. He looks so self-assured, so confident, so arrogant, and so fucking beautiful.
When Rozanov sees he has his full attention, he clamps one of his hands over Shane’s hip to hold him in place. The other is… somewhere that Shane can’t see, but it’s definitely a crime that it’s not anywhere on his body.
That’s his last thought before Rozanov tilts his head and runs his tongue over a patch of skin near Shane’s crotch. He experimentally presses it in, like he’s doing research on the territory, and Shane’s sweaty palms press against the wall behind him for support.
“What are you—”
Rozanov hums again. His lips close over the wet spot, teeth pressing where his tongue was just seconds ago, and suddenly there’s a feeling Shane is not familiar with.
They’ve kissed each other’s bodies, obviously, but it’s never really felt like this.
Rozanov is glued to Shane’s thigh, and when he starts sucking on the skin, it tickles and hurts at the same time.
It’s a different kind of pain than the sting on Shane’s lip every time he tore it open. It’s broader, and it rolls over his body like a sea-wave each time Rozanov stops to drag his teeth across it and then starts sucking again.
He spends fucking minutes doing this. Shane’s cock is twitching, and the pain is so pleasant it makes him want to buck again and again; except it’s just cold air hitting him, not Rozanov’s mouth—not even his hands.
Shane can’t take it anymore.
When Rozanov pinches the skin between his teeth, the same fucking skin that he’s been doing this to for minutes, Shane moans and one of his hands goes to his dick. Just like that.
Rozanov abandons Shane’s hip and grabs his wrist instead, mid-air.
He twines their fingers and squeezes.
Almost, it seems to say. Just give me a few more seconds and I’ll give you what you want.
Rozanov finally pulls away. Shane, from his angle and in this light, can only see a dark-purple shadow stretching just below his hip, like a cloud rolling across the sky. It does something to him anyway—his breaths quicken, and he can’t believe he’s gotten himself marked like this yet again.
Is he going to be pressing his thumb into the bruise for days now?
How pathetic.
Rozanov’s lips are red and swollen and stretched into a pleased smile and if Shane doesn’t kiss them right away, he’s going to go insane.
Shane’s hands grab at his hair again, and Rozanov lets himself be pulled up this time.
When they kiss, Rozanov hasn’t lost any of his hunger—it’s like he hasn’t just worked his mouth tirelessly for minutes, it’s like they’re kissing for the first time in months again; it’s everything.
“I want to fuck you now,” Rozanov breathes into Shane’s ear.
As if on command, Shane’s body unglues itself from the wall and melts into Rozanov’s. “Yes,” he murmurs in agreement.
“Yes,” Rozanov repeats like Shane was asking a question. “I want to fuck you until you forget your own name, Hollander.”
How about until I forget your name?
Shane moans in response, hands snaking around Rozanov’s torso. His cock hits the fabric of Rozanov’s pants, and it just makes him moan again.
“I could do it against this wall,” Rozanov continues, like he’s riling himself up, “or on the floor right here, and you’d take it.”
“Yes,” Shane breathes out.
“I could do anything to you and you’d take it.”
“Just please do something,” Shane demands, brow creased. “Please.”
“You’re so pretty when you beg,” Rozanov compliments him, but his voice is covered in that velvety tone of lust. “Wait in bed, okay?”
Shane watches and inspects every inch of Rozanov’s skin from the bed while the other man undresses. It’s pristine and unmarked, so Shane decides to be good. He waits with his legs wide open, ready for Rozanov to slide in between them.
Distantly, he can feel his own heartbeat in the outrageous bruise Rozanov has left on him, and he knows.
Afterwards, he’ll leave the same.
Not on a thigh or where Rozanov’s briefs would cover it most of the time.
No.
Shane is going to be patient, and he’s going to let Rozanov fuck him (well, he’ll say thank you, really), and then he’s going to curl up. Like a parasite. He’s going to burrow into Rozanov’s shoulder, and he’s going to mark his neck in this same violent shade of purple.
And then, Rozanov is going to have to tell his teammates exactly how his night went, and he’s going to have to tell them about the person who made him come so hard he saw fucking stars.
He can say she and he can say her, but they’ll both know it was just Shane Hollander bringing the great Ilya Rozanov to his knees.
And, well, vice versa.
.
They meet in Montreal about ten days later.
Shane has done remarkable amounts of research on marking a body by this point, and there’s a silver dagger in the second drawer of his night stand.
They don’t use it.
They’re not the type of people to talk about red and yellow and green—they’re not the type of people to talk about and around boundaries at all.
Shane doesn’t want to explain that he’s not interested in ripping Rozanov’s skin open.
He merely wants to cut through his underwear to show him what it’s like to take ownership of something.
Then he wants to hand the short dagger over and he wants to lie down and let Rozanov do the same.
He’s been falling asleep to the idea of the blade in Rozanov’s grip. The tip of it digging into his muscle; the edge running down his torso lightly enough to barely leave red scratches that will fade. He’s been shivering at the possibility of exposing himself with all he has and is, and knowing Rozanov will know what to do with it all.
He doesn’t have the words, though.
It’s difficult to suggest this level of bare trust when he can’t even bring himself to say Rozanov’s first name out loud.
When his mind has put the words yours and mine so far behind a wall they’re completely out of reach.
.
They don’t see each other for over a month, and their texting is non-existent. It has been non-existent since Sochi, but it’s somehow more unbearable now. Shane wonders (and hates himself for doing so) why, and whether the six-months-long silence has done something irreversible to his brain.
The hickey on his upper thigh fades, and the constant stress and pressure of an on-going season mean he slowly stops worrying the lip. There are effectively no marks on his body anymore—nothing that would suggest he belongs to someone in any capacity—and it fucking drains him until it feels like he’s running on empty.
Still, he’s more preoccupied with the idea of Rozanov’s body and its state. His neck is now also bruise-free, and while it’s good to not see Shane’s mark be replaced with somebody else’s, it’s distressing on a different level.
Shane’s mind runs on a loop in which he sees a world where Rozanov is not hiding Shane from the world but the world from Shane. He’s continuously obsessed with what the rest of him must look like in shared showers and locker rooms, and he can’t stop thinking about bruises in different places.
Over and over again, he goes back to that first hotel room where his nails left Rozanov’s back raw and open.
He leaves generous tips in every hotel room he fingers himself open thinking of Rozanov’s cock, and rubs down every shower he stains with his come.
Shane digs his nails into his own skin, impatiently waiting for Boston’s next visit to Montreal.
.
The most brilliant thing about Ilya Rozanov is his stickhandling on the ice.
A close second is his ability to read Shane without needing to hear a single word out of his mouth.
In the privacy of Shane’s Mr-Landlord apartment, it takes him less than a minute to realize that Shane wants him naked. The tables have turned; Boston won over Montreal (although barely) and he’s feeling generous. He’s discarding clothes like breadcrumbs from the door all the way to the bed.
Shane climbs onto the bed with him and his eyes do an inspection alongside his hands. There are no new scars or bumps marring Rozanov’s perfect body, and no bruising or markings meet Shane’s gaze.
And Shane looks and touches everywhere he can.
What he’s surprised at is when Rozanov wordlessly takes his turn doing the same. Shane feels like he’s under a microscope; that’s how intent Rozanov’s eyes are.
Look at me, he thinks anyway. I’m in the state you left me.
Easily, they move on to kissing.
Shane will never get bored of kissing. Every time Rozanov’s tongue slides into his mouth, it feels just a little bit like fucking. It’s wet and open and when their lips meet, it unlocks Shane’s entire body. He could do it for hours—he’s desperate for more even when his jaw starts to hurt and his lips start swelling.
“Turn around,” Rozanov says eventually, his accent rolling over the r’s right in Shane’s ear.
As much as Shane doesn’t want to lose any contact, he obeys. His stomach hits the sheets where his back has warmed them, and Rozanov’s warmth covers him from the other side. Shane’s low moan sounds quieter than it really is when Rozanov kisses his neck and his fingers run down his back.
That hum in Rozanov’s throat is back—that hum that echoes when he’s happy with something.
Right now, he’s got his fingers by Shane’s hole, and he must be feeling the wetness around it.
“You got yourself ready for me?” he asks breathlessly.
Shane buries his face into the bed when Rozanov slides one finger in. “Yes. You always take ages.”
The one finger is not enough. Shane’s opened himself up well. He squirms against the single digit now, feeling empty, feeling hollow.
Rozanov’s mouth is wet and open against Shane’s shoulder blade. “Fuck, Hollander.” His voice is low—a romance novel would call it husky. To Shane, it just sounds like the lowest setting on a good vibrator, in that it makes him want more. Always more, always more, it’s so sickening.
“More,” Shane says out loud, to his horror.
Rozanov adds another finger. It’s still not quite right, but it makes Shane shudder regardless.
“Mm, so good to me tonight,” Rozanov continues directly into Shane’s skin. “I can be good, too.”
“Yeah?”
“Can you— Show me how much you want it.”
He’s so quick to switch from asking to ordering. Shane wishes it wasn’t such a turn on.
He moves up on his knees just a little bit so he has something to brace himself on. With his eyes closed, he slowly pulls himself an inch or so off Rozanov’s fingers and then lowers his ass right back down.
It’s the next best thing. It really is.
Shane’s body reacts immediately—he’s barely aware of the way his hips start rocking back and forth. The only thing he can focus on is getting those fingers to hit his prostate and when they do—
“Shit,” Shane exhales, quickly trying to repeat the motion. He’s pressing himself down on those two fingers as hard as he can, willing them to go deeper. “Fuck, I—”
“Tell me,” Rozanov says. His voice sounds a little shaky.
“I want your cock,” Shane says, his face still pressed against the bed. “I want you inside me so bad,” Ilya.
“Okay, krasavchik.”
Shane can’t understand this bullshit right now. Russian is beautiful and all that, but unless Rozanov just told him I’ll bury my cock inside you now in that one word, he doesn’t want to hear it.
He’s squirming again. The fingers are not enough. “C’mon, I— I need it, I need it so bad—”
“Yes, Hollander, I hear you.” He’s slowly pulling his fingers out. “I want you too.”
The admission is almost soft. Rozanov is full of bold exclamations on what he wants, but it’s almost never this… unvulgar. It makes Shane feel like he’s not the only one who lives his day-to-day life with a pit in his guts that can only be sated by this one thing.
When Shane feels Rozanov’s hand pressing down against his back, he shuffles. “I want to see you.”
At least Rozanov is quick at condoms. By the time Shane turns around and repositions himself so he’s comfortable, he’s already rolling it over his cock. Shane feels deep regret that he didn’t get to blow him tonight, but—well. Maybe later. Maybe next time.
Shane’s back arches involuntarily when Rozanov finally lets himself sink into him. He always goes so slow at first, making Shane feel every inch as it disappears in his warmth, and never once has Shane been able to hold his body back from moving or his throat from making noise.
With Rozanov’s hands on his hips, it feels like he’s pulling Shane onto himself rather than entering him, and Shane loves the friction, loves the sensation; he never feels as alive as when Rozanov’s dick locks inside him after a period of absence.
“Good?” Rozanov asks, holding Shane in place, fingers digging in like he’s barely stopping himself from moving.
Shane nods vehemently. “Yes, yes, good, please move.”
Rozanov pulls out halfway, equally slow. Shane can see him looking down; looking at his dick sliding out before going back in.
“Faster.” Is it begging if he doesn’t say please? “Like you fucking mean it, Rozanov.”
Rozanov manages a smirk. “I’ll be good now,” he promises. He releases Shane’s hips from his grip and leans over him instead, his arms caging Shane on both sides of his head. His necklace brushes against Shane’s chin, the metal cold to the touch.
Shane wraps his legs around Rozanov’s back and he digs his heels in. Closer, deeper, come on.
“When I fuck you,” Rozanov starts, “use your nails on me again. Okay?”
Shane is going to explode. “Yes. Yes.”
Rozanov is nodding. “Good. That’s good.”
Shane has his fingers ready on Rozanov’s back before they move again.
.
In a hotel room in Boston, shortly before their Christmas break, Shane gets hard but he doesn’t get fucked.
The two hours they have this time are spent on other things.
They lie face-to-face in the end, jerking each other off like teenagers who don’t know how to do anything else, other than maybe rutting against thighs and hips, and their bodies ache in different places.
Purple-red bruises line the underside of Shane’s left collarbone.
There’s a bitemark, red and angry, on Rozanov’s right bicep.
Shane’s ass stings with scratches left behind by Rozanov’s perfectly shaped nails.
Another bruise blooms right behind Rozanov’s ear, and its twin sits proudly on top of his shoulder.
They won’t see each other until halfway through January and Shane doesn’t know how else to say that it makes him want to scream. That the idea of Rozanov with someone else makes him fucking sick.
And he doesn’t know why he can’t just go out and say it. Judging by the state of his own body, Rozanov feels the same. Why they resort to ruining each other in a physical way, too, is beyond him.
They come over each other’s hands. If that’s not intimacy, what is?
If that’s not calling somebody yours, what is?
Shane wants to say it. Ilya sits on his lips like something that’s ready to jump off, and he bites it back each time. Except it’s getting increasingly harder to swallow with each passing day.
“Come to my house,” Rozanov says seconds before he leaves Shane’s hotel room. “Just come to my fucking house in January.”
It’s another way of marking, maybe.
Not with a knife, really—more so with a gun. Rozanov is holding it against Shane’s temple with this question, and the bare trust he’s been so scared of is right here anyway. Rozanov might pull the trigger. It might just be the end of it all.
In this metaphor, though, when Shane answers, he gently takes Rozanov’s wrist and moves his hand from his temple towards the heart.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll come to your house if you want.”
Something in Rozanov lights up, but it’s like when Shane once put a 50-watt lightbulb into a lamp that could only handle 30. It’s bright and strong and buzzing and it could go out at any moment.
“Shit, Hollander,” he says, clearly fighting a smile. “Finally, no?”
“Sure,” Shane replies, fighting his own. “I’ll see you in January.”
Rozanov’s eyes rake over Shane’s marked-up body one more time. “See you in January.”
Maybe then you’ll be mine, Shane thinks but doesn’t say out loud. Maybe then I’ll call you Ilya and the world won’t end.
Maybe.