Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(57)

It shouldn’t hurt this much.

And yet, I can’t. Move. I can’t lift my foot or spin around. I torture myself by staying here.

The red glow of his necklace swathes his face, his features as devilish and masculine as that first night we met. Only I’m not the subject of his intensity. You know this happens every Saturday, Thora. I know. It’s nothing, really. It all means nothing—in every direction.

A couple brutal minutes pass and he’s finished, inking a well-drawn heart on her left butt cheek. Carefully, he places a bandage on the tattoo and tugs her dress down, covering her thong. She wobbles as she stands, and he rights her with a protective hand to her waist.

“Thora,” I hear Timo say in concern.

I open my mouth, but no words come.

In a millisecond, the girl goes from clutching his biceps. To leaning in.

Her lips are on his.

And he grips the back of her head, reciprocating the single kiss. My breath is padlocked in my lungs. Even after they disconnect. Nikolai kisses her cheek and gestures to a group of girls who cheer and shout things like get it, Rachel! They must be her friends.

The girl returns to them with the smuggest, happiest grin. She kissed the God of Russia and can now recount the tale. He’s already scanning the room with a charming smile, searching for his next volunteer. Hands shoot all around me.

Timo squeezes my shoulder again and then he shouts something in Russian. His voice overpowers the music and causes Nikolai to rotate towards us.

His eyes stop dead on me.

And that smile fades in an instant.

I can’t pick apart my feelings. Or his. But if I could assume anything at all—it’d be on the precipice of pain and distress. I’m rethinking my choice in glowstick. This is utterly complicated.

“Let’s go dance,” John tells me, reaching for my arm past Timo.

“Yeah, I could dance,” Timo nods.

“Not you—ugh, whatever, come on, Thora.” John guides me through the masses and closer to the mosh pit dance floor, people jumping or grinding, depending on their level of intoxication.

I’m surprised my feet moved at all.

John tips a waitress an extra twenty to steal the drinks off her tray, and he passes me the shot and keeps the other two for himself.

“You seriously aren’t going to share?” Timo asks with the tilt of his head. He rests his forearm on John’s shoulder.

“I’m seriously not sharing,” John replies, and to further his point, he throws back the first shot and then the second.

Timo isn’t discouraged in the least. He dances with better rhythm than most everyone here. The three of us group off in a cluster, blocking out the surrounding people. I’m less overwhelmed, and the shot will help too. Normally I’d take an economic sip, but I mimic John and toss mine back.

It burns my throat, and I cough into my fist.

“Easy, Thora James!” Timo shouts over the music. When I look at him, his eyes beam like he’s having the time of his life. In the prime of his youth. And it lightens my weighted body, immeasurably.

It’s ordinary when you’re simply happy.

It’s remarkable when you can make others feel what you do.

“Don’t stare into his eyes!” John shouts to me. “Little parts of you will die inside!”

He almost lifts my spirits.

A smile stretches Timo’s beautiful features. “So you’re admitting to feeling something from me, John?!”

John glares. “Death. I feel death!”

Timo whistles, but I can’t hear the sound from the pop song. “That’s a strong feeling.”

John looks like he wants to drown his irritations in an eighty-foot pool, though he’s still here. So there’s that. He snatches more shots off a tray, and this time, the server lets him take them. He knows her, I guess. And he passes me two shots and keeps one for himself.

I down both, the burn not as terrible. I actually like it. Then I sway to the music, and I notice older guys near a high-top table eyeing our three-person group. Only their attention is plastered to Timo—with lustful, I want to fuck you looks.

I realize that Timo has been scoping out the club, and he grazes that area a bit, knowing how many men are watching him. A weird pressure sits on my chest, and it takes me a second to discern the sentiment. Protective—I feel strangely protective over him.

He’s eighteen, I remember. But he carries himself like the world is a playground for his appetite. Vegas is his home. He’s not a fish-out-of-water like I was—still am sometimes. He’s okay.

John follows my gaze to the other guys. He rolls his eyes and quite literally blocks them out with his back.

Hands touch my waist, and I jump and slide to the left to see Nikolai. I freeze cold. He stares down, his gaze deepening into mine, carrying a storm past comprehension. I don’t know what to make of it.

“Hi.” His husky voice solidifies my bones. Just one word. That’s all I get.

“…hey,” I manage with a nod. The liquor starts to churn my insides like molten lava, no longer warm and comforting.

Nikolai keeps his hand on my hip, filling the almost non-existent gap between me and Timo. I hone in on his hand, on each finger that slips further around me. I can’t—I step out of his grasp, and his arm falls. I stare at the red strobe lights on the ceiling as though God will impart me with some much-needed wisdom.