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His limbs were not his own. They belonged to Sharkovsky now. From the moment he stabbed the man and tried to run, he’d gotten his meaty fingers on his coat and told him to stop. Sharkovsky had known immediately what he was. Of course he did—that was Yasha’s luck.
He’d been ordered down the stairs into the cold Moscow air and climbed into the trunk of the car, where he’d been told to lay unmoving and silent. His entire body locked up as even breathing too hard became impossible. He could only shiver as he drowned inside the panic of his mind.
He hadn’t known what he was. Not until his mother told him where they’d hidden his coat before he had to run and watch his world burn down. In another life, his mother would’ve taught him to swim in the rivers and lakes, shift, and use their magic, which he’d only ever summoned by accident.
“Put the gun in your mouth and pull the trigger.” Yassen’s mind thrashed as he accepted the gun with trembling hands. The hearth fire cast monstrous shadows over Sharkovsky’s face, his hand gripping Yasha’s ratty coat. It was supposed to look like that so no one would try to steal it, but he’d also neglected it with his life falling apart. Maybe this was what happened to pups who failed to care for their coats—someone else would do it for them.
“In your mouth!” Sharkovsky growled, impatient. Yasha turned the revolver around and opened his mouth, tasting cold metal. Tears rolled down his eyes.
“Don’t cry like a baby,” Sharkovsky said. “Get on with it.” And Yasha’s tears dried in an instant. His thumb ghosted over the trigger, and despite his entire being fighting it, Yassen pulled it.
John breathed in as his hand hovered over the doorknob to Julia’s office. Being invited to her inner sanctum could only mean a few things, and none of them were particularly pleasant. He gave himself a couple seconds to go under and emerge as Hunter from the waters of his mind. A smile tugged at his lips as Hunter was about to meet with the love of his life, but still had to keep up a professional appearance.
Some days, it felt like he was drowning himself.
Julia wasn’t alone. She lounged in her chair, as graceful and deadly as a tigress, while playing with a dark grey hoodie. A boy sat across from her on the couch, perched precariously on the edge with his back ramrod straight.
John sent her a questioning look, but she only smiled back sweetly, which meant trouble. “John, I have a gift for you. I’d like you to meet our newest asset.” She turned to the boy. “Introduce yourself,” she ordered. John’s eyes flicked from her back to the boy. Asset, she’d said, not operative.
“My name is Yassen Gregorovich, sir,” the boy looked up and spoke with a heavy Russian accent. He was skinny and pale, and his dark curls made a flimsy attempt to hide his brown doe eyes. But he was beautiful, and John had to squash the urge to walk up to him and brush the curls out of his eyes. What was a kid like that doing here?
“Yassen here will need some special attention,” Julia continued, her voice light and her eyes fixed on the boy, “and I couldn’t think of a better handler than you. He’s already shown a lot of promise during his training.”
Assassins didn’t have handlers—spies did. But Julia had said it in such a way that there had to be a deeper meaning behind it. John kept his mouth shut and waited for her to explain.
Instead, Julia held the hoodie up in Yassen’s direction. “Make this look like something more presentable. I can’t have him wandering around in this.” She gave John a once-over, and he gave her a hint of smile and flutter of bedroom eyes. “What about a black leather jacket?” Yassen sent him a nervous glance before focusing on the hoodie, and like magic, the cotton washed away and left behind brand-new leather. John schooled his face as best he could but couldn’t prevent the slight widening of his eyes.
He’d heard of selkies—they were rare or tried to appear like that, shapeshifters that turned into beautiful people with magical abilities and who’d supposedly lured plenty of sailors to their deaths in the days of old. Understandable, in John’s opinion, when they’d be at your mercy if only you could take their coat. Where the hell had Julia found one?
“Much better. Now, be good to your new handler and let him take a closer look at you,” Julia said. Yassen stood up immediately and walked with the grace of a dancer who’d rather be eaten by sharks than be in this room. The moment Julia handed John the jacket and told him to put it on, Yassen stumbled as if someone had cut his strings. He righted himself within a fraction of a second. The trainers had done a good job.
The coat fit perfectly, and John couldn’t suppress the shiver at the thought that he was wearing someone’s skin. Julia’s grin widened as she noticed Yassen turned a shade paler.
John took stock of Yassen. He was even more handsome up close. Long eyelashes and slender limbs that hid compact muscles.
“How old are you?” he asked.
Yassen swallowed. “Nineteen.”
“And how long have you been with Scorpia?”
“Five months, sir.” Five months at that age, with no visible scars, meant he had no previous combat experience but was a fast learner. The trainers rarely got a blank slate.
Julia watched the two of them intently. “He’s sure to be a useful tool in your arsenal. He’ll do anything you say. You should try it out.” The glint in her eyes told John exactly what she wanted him to do. What happened to flowers and chocolates?
“You spoil me, Julia.” He sent her his most charming smile and knew he’d have to pay for his gift, this boy, sooner rather than later, so he kissed her.
John told him to follow, and Yassen did, two steps behind him in perfect sync with his own pace, and left for John’s quarters, as Yassen informed him he didn’t have his own. Of course he didn’t. John kept his expression blank. Sharing quarters meant no privacy, no chance to be John, only Hunter. He silently cursed Julia because Yassen didn’t deserve his ire. He had no choice in it. Neither of them did.
The room was an exercise in subtle elegance, nothing like the Spartan holes the trainees got. Yassen stepped inside and followed John with his gaze, never letting it stray higher than his face as he waited with his hands folded in front of him.
The sun disappeared behind the clouds.
John sat down on his bed to watch what the boy would do, but he silently stood there, waiting for instructions.
He could just tell him to get some rest, give him the bed and take the couch, show him kindness, not touch him, and leave him in his hotel room during assignments. But Julia would know, and she’d look a little too close at John and his life, and then he and Yassen would both be dead men.
“Come here and kneel,” he ordered. Yassen’s feet moved as his eyes widened.
“Have you done this before?” Have you been forced? By who? When did it start?
“Yes, sir,” Yassen answered. John carded his hand through Yassen’s hair as if to reassure him. He could make him speak the names if he knew them. They wouldn’t be around for much longer.
Why would he think of bloody vengeance for this boy and not the half-a-dozen orphans stashed in Malagosto?
“Call me John.”
“Yes, John.” The words were spoken automatically.
“You know what to do, so get on with it.” John’s hand stayed in Yassen’s hair as his belt was unbuckled, and his fly was opened with trembling fingers. Yassen looked up at him again, his eyes resigned yet pleading for John to change his mind.
A dark part of John, perhaps a part of Hunter, wanted to see just what he could make Yassen do, test the limits of his control.
The thought melted away as he was enveloped in a soft, wet heat. Yassen worked him slowly, mouthing and licking until he hardened. A sigh escaped John’s throat, his hand idly petting the selkie sitting between his legs. Yassen kept his eyes closed, and his hand lay limply in his lap. That just wouldn’t do.
“Look at me,” he ordered, and didn’t he look so much better with his doe eyes staring up at John with his lips stretched around his cock? It was obscene; he should be ashamed; he couldn’t stop staring at the sight as he twitched in his mouth. “Now take your cock out and touch yourself as well.” Yassen obeyed immediately; the selkie curse bypassing his thoughts and reflexes was a sight to behold.
Arousal flared through John with every lick and bobbing of Yassen’s head. Every stroke and tug the selkie gave his own cock only stoked his hunger. Cold air tickled flushed skin. His fingers tightened around the curls, and John thrust. Tears sprung from Yassen’s eyes as he worked himself deeper down the selkie’s throat.
Except Yassen wouldn’t get hard. So John pulled him off his cock, then up. Yassen gasped as he was dragged into John’s lap, his lips caught and mouth invaded by John’s tongue before he could compose himself.
But he let it happen to him, even without commands. Another perk of the selkie coat, or did he know there was no point in struggling? He tasted himself and smelled the musk and sweat on Yassen’s skin, which conjured the lochs of John’s youth as he devoured him. He grabbed the selkie’s cock with only a slight flinch from the boy. Yassen gasped, and John bit his lip, gripping the curls to move his head just so. He was sloppy and nervous. Had anyone kissed him before?
It didn’t take long for Yassen’s cock to obey, and soon, the selkie panted as his hips stuttered with aborted thrusts into John’s hand. He couldn’t help but smile as he used his youth against him. Yassen hadn’t stopped touching himself either. His hands had gone from his cock to his nipples, rolling the buds between his fingers until they were as hard as their cocks. It was a pleasant surprise but something he’d have to be mindful of.
John abandoned Yassen’s lips for his throat, licking, sucking, and biting his way down to his pronounced collarbone, only stopping on the way to dig his teeth into his Adam’s apple to savour the flash of fear that flitted through Yassen. There was only so much John could take before his patience ran out.
“Strip, then get on the bed, legs spread,” he panted and released Yassen. The stripping was quick and methodical, but John saw the slight tremble not just in his hands but his entire body. And what a body, lean and tanned, with a smattering of scars and a dark treasure trail that was just as curly as his hair. Yassen moved past him and did as he asked, spreading himself out on John’s bed like a feast. Two dark eyes stared at him; his Adam’s apple, still bearing John’s teeth marks, bobbed nervously.
John could stop here. If anyone asked Yassen, he could honestly tell he’d been used for what Julia had intended, but that would mean stopping while his need was greatest.
He took off his shoes and crawled onto the bed. Yassen didn’t look at him; he squeezed his eyes closed as John got close. Guilt whispered in John’s ear. The boy had done this before, had never wanted this done to him before. He didn’t want this. The least John could do was make it feel good for him.
“I’m not going to tell you to relax, but it would be good for you if you tried.” He hesitated but didn’t continue airing his thoughts as Yassen owlishly blinked at him. He settled himself between his legs and grabbed a bottle of lube, slicking his fingers before pressing them against Yassen’s hole, with the only protest being a slight tensing of muscles as he slipped past them.
Yassen was tight and high-strung. John couldn’t decide if he should look forward to it or worry. It didn’t matter—he had a role to play in front of those huge dark eyes. John grabbed his legs to wrap around his waist and lined himself up. He buried himself in a wonderful tight heat and groaned in appreciation; Yassen pulsed erratically around him as he tried to adjust to the intrusion. John waited patiently, kissing his neck and petting his thigh.
“You can take your time. How does it feel?” he asked.
“Strange, full,” Yassen replied.
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
John thrust. Yassen grasped the bedsheets before clinging to him. He started slowly, rolling his hips until the discomfort on the selkie’s face was washed away and replaced with only pleasure as his body began to move in tandem. Soft whimpers and the slapping of skin filled the room. John nuzzled into the crook of Yassen’s neck to drink in his scent, now heady and sweet but still with that hint of morning dew.
“Keep touching yourself,” he murmured, and a hand slinked between their bodies, grabbing hold of Yassen’s cock and began pumping, all the hesitance long since evaporated.
John was boiling; all his clothes, including the leather jacket, were still on in the Malta heat. His hips sped up, and he hiked Yassen’s legs higher. The selkie’s eyes, which had barely looked at him since John ordered him onto the bed, flew open.
“Good?” he asked.
“Yes,” Yassen gasped. Blunt nails dug into John’s back.
John hit the same spot over and over until a keening noise wrenched itself out of Yassen’s throat. His body shuddered as cum stained John’s shirt. The pressure was exquisite as he fucked him through his orgasm until he couldn’t keep his rhythm any longer and came not long after with a growl and a bite that almost drew blood.
They both lay there panting. John gave himself a full minute before pulling out, rolling off the boy and bed, then finding tissues. Yassen lay there still with his legs spread, still open and gaping.
“You can move freely again. It’s over.” The selkie sagged onto the sheets, following John’s movements with rapt attention, frowning slightly as he wiped the cum off of him.
“I’m sorry,” he said as John tried to clean up his shirt next.
“No need to worry,” he said, smiling, “it’ll get out in the wash. Do you want to shower first, or would you like to wait a little before going out?”
Yassen blinked. “Out?”
John put on his most charming smile, which had once dazzled Helen, then Julia, and plenty of other targets, though the dazzle never lasted long enough. “Yes, there’s an Italian restaurant not too far away. I’m sure you’re hungry, and it’s only fair I buy you dinner.”
Yassen wasn’t sure what he’d expected. It was better than anything Sharkovsky had done to him. They couldn’t trust him as a solo operative after his failed graduation; only his unique condition, as they’d called it, allowed him a second chance. Except this time, he’d be the weapon instead of the wielder and would be given to an experienced operative.
Julia had said he was a gift. Panic had surged through him, but he’d been told to stay quiet and calm. The man, John, was tall, handsome, and warm, with a cold undertow that made Yassen want to make him smile and fear what would happen if he couldn’t.
He wasn’t sure if people talked to their gifts or asked if something hurt or felt good. It was strange; Yassen felt like he was floating outside his body afterwards as he followed John to the restaurant without an order. Perhaps John saw something in him he didn’t.
“Could you tell me more about yourself?” John asked.
“I don’t know where to start,” he confessed. John gave him one of those smiles that made him warm up inside. He hoped John would be generous with those.
“What was the best present anyone ever gave you?”
“I’m not sure. Is that really what you want to know?”
John gave him a curious look as he took off the leather jacket, Yassen’s second skin, and placed it next to him in the booth. “Is this what you want me to ask about?” He patted the leather.
“It’s why I was given to you.” Yassen decided it was best to omit his own failures. He was skilled; the only thing he needed was a strong hand guiding him, and maybe, eventually, he’d be able to do it without John’s voice in his ear. For now, he’d be his weapon, but maybe, hopefully, they could be partners.
But John didn’t seem to like that answer. “I’d like to know more about you as a person; everything else can wait until training.” Their first course was served, and John offered him a piece of melon wrapped in prosciutto, and Yassen took it, nodding thoughtfully as he nibbled on it. That made sense in a way, even as his stomach lurched and fluttered at the thought.
So they talked; Yassen answered John’s questions as the second course arrived, and John insisted they stay for dessert, offering Yassen bites of his own food throughout. They didn’t speak of Scorpia, or training, or selkies. Yassen avoided any painful memories, and John was kind enough to drop any questions when he saw that his weapon looked too thoughtful. John was careful with his words and didn’t give a single order throughout the entire meal. Instead, he joked and laughed at Yassen’s own sub-par attempts at humour.
“There’s something I do want to ask you,” John said near the end of the meal. Yassen looked up from his tiramisu and waited. “Why join when you have this?” He held up the coat. “One only needs to grab it, and you’re compromised.” All the warmth they’d built up over dinner died with those words. He’d said he’d wait until tomorrow.
“That would never be an issue,” Yassen stated curtly. Why would John ask this? Why ask now?
“And why not?”
“My coat is to always be in the possession of another Scorpia operative or be left at a Scorpia base,” Yassen repeated what his trainers had said.
“Don’t you want to carry it yourself?” John asked.
“I don’t understand.” Was this a test? Did John not want him?
“Aren’t selkies supposed to be attached to their coats? You don’t seem to want yours at all.” Yassen reddened and hung his head. What was he supposed to tell him? That the longest he’d really owned his coat was for a few measly months where he’d barely been able to take care of it?
“It’s better if it’s in your hands. You’ll take good care of it,” take good care of him , he hoped, “they trust you with it after all.”
John sat back and stared Yassen down until he wanted to shrink down to nothing. “Scorpia has high hopes for you, Yassen. They think you might become a first-rate assassin. I don’t agree. You have a long way to go before you’re ready to kill on your own. You might never be ready.”
The temperature in the restaurant dropped by a degree. Clouds began to gather outside.
“How could you say that?”
He leaned forward. “Because you have no control, no drive, no desire for any agency necessary to carry out an assignment. You’re a weapon. Disposable.” John’s voice was cold. He might as well have slapped Yassen. But he didn’t give him any time to reply. “Come,” he ordered. “Be quiet on the way back.”
Yassen’s jaw clicked shut as he followed John, whose leather jacket shone in the warm light.
Only once they stepped into the compound did Yassen remember that there was no escaping John or his judgement. He belonged to him now. Once they got to John’s quarters and his order to shut up lifted, he was fully expecting to be ordered to find a place on the floor. It wouldn’t be the worst place he’d ever slept.
Rain pattered against the windows. John looked outside and rubbed his arm before he dropped the jacket on a chair, which now held a small duffle that hadn’t been there when they’d left. “Looks like they brought your things. Why don’t you get ready for bed and join me once you’re done?”
“Where do you want me?” Yassen asked.
John raised an eyebrow. “The bed? I fucked you on it—the least I could do is to also let you sleep on it.”
Yassen nodded as his cheeks warmed up. Within a few minutes, he slipped under the covers and waited. John joined not long after. They lay apart, with Yassen precariously lying on the edge. If John wanted him to come closer, he’d say so.
He wasn’t sure if John would want more from him tonight. If he wanted him at all. What would happen to him if he marched back to Julia and said he wasn’t good enough? Yassen shivered. He was well aware of what happened to selkies with no better use.
A warm hand rested on his shoulder. “I can hear you thinking,” muttered John.
“I’m sorry.”
Strong arms enveloped him and pulled him close until their bodies were flush. John peppered his shoulder with butterfly kisses, making his heart stutter with each. “You shouldn’t worry about your readiness. That’s my job. Just focus on your training, okay?”
“Okay.” Yassen swallowed his nerves. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
“Are you doing that?” John’s voice was barely a breath in his ear. “The rain?”
“I think so,” Yassen answered just as softly.
“We’ll talk about that tomorrow, but for now, thanks.” John made no further moves; he just held him with his fingers occasionally brushing his skin. Yassen’s heart roiled with each touch.
The next weeks were devoted to training until they flowed and fought as one. John taught Yassen techniques and then made him fight others, only relying on his orders. Yassen knew he learned fast and was more skilled than his fellow trainees, but John taught him how to truly fight and win no matter what. Words and phrases were assigned techniques and tricks that put his opponents on the floor or in his hold within the blink of an eye, just like John.
He was faster and stronger when ordered to copy him. John moved like a snake or a bird of prey—striking before overpowering with crushing strength.
Yassen’s limbs moved of John’s accord, and he didn’t fight it this time. His body wasn’t his own, and yet he felt powerful, his heart soaring as he downed one of the teachers only for it to reach the skies as he looked up to be met with John’s smile, his eyes shining bright.
They walked on the beach together a few weeks into their training, the water rushing around their bare ankles. Yassen breathed in the salt air as the Malta sun beat down on them.
“So you have some control over the weather,” John stated. Yassen nodded, wondering where he was going with this. “What else can you do?”
Yassen hesitated before answering. “I’m not sure. I wasn’t ever taught anything.”
John turned to face him. His hair glowed gold in the light, his eyes pierced Yassen, and he knew that John could see something in him he couldn’t. Perhaps it was another of his special powers.
“But you can do more.”
“Yes.” Yassen’s eyes turned away from the beach. His kind of selkie wasn’t made for the salt water, but John didn’t know that. He hadn’t known himself until he’d jumped in the ocean during morning training and something primal in him recoiled. He’d pushed it down and kept going until his muscles burned and his eyes stung. He’d hated that part of his Scorpia education.
The waves around them stopped as if frozen in time. John held his breath as the water pooled and rose into a serpentine shape. Sweat dripped down Yassen’s neck. He had to impress John somehow, in any way.
The water coiled. Yassen picked his target, a rock a few meters behind them, and struck. John didn’t flinch when the water rushed past him as he watched it pierce the stone before it flowed back into the sea.
“You said you weren’t taught,” Yassen couldn’t tell if it was a question or not. John examined the rock up close. He grabbed a piece that had broken off and threw it into the ocean.
“I learnt I could do it by accident, then I practised whenever I could.” He remembered the ripples that had made no sense in the freezing water as he scrubbed the dishes. He remembered the beatings for staring into it instead of doing his chores. He remembered the glimmer of hope when the water bent to his will and every stolen moment of training afterwards. He hadn’t had a plan then, just a vague suggestion of a tool that could be sharpened for one.
“Raise the water again.” John ripped him out of his memories. The breath was knocked out of him as his magic bent to John’s will. “What else can you do with it?”
His body shook, sea water dripped onto him from the pillar, standing taller than he’d ever managed before, and his skin itched, begging for its missing layer. His limitations didn’t matter anymore. “Whatever you want,” he said.
“Can you hold someone with it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try it on yourself.” Another surge of power leached out of him, forcing the air out of his lungs and making him see stars at midday. The water wobbled and wrapped itself around him. John’s face didn’t betray anything.
“If you don’t use your powers, can you get out?”
Yassen tried and writhed, but the water was liquid steel. John got closer, his brows furrowed, then softened, and he brushed a wet lock of hair out of Yassen’s eye.
“You can stop now.” The vice around his body vanished and flowed away, leaving him drenched as his legs gave out. John’s arms wrapped around him. They settled into the sand until the trembling stopped.
“You alright?”
Yassen nodded shakily. He didn’t trust his limbs, but John would make sure he’d walk. “I didn’t know I could do that,” he confessed.
“I won’t make you do that unless I have to,” John promised, his voice soft. He pulled him up and helped him get back to their room.
“Does anyone else know you can do this?” John asked as they walked back.
“Just you,” Yassen replied. John hummed, deep in thought.
“Maybe it’s not too late for you to change your mind,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Yassen overtook him and stared at him, disbelieving.
“I’m thinking about your coat. I’m thinking about the last few weeks... and what you did just now. You seem like a nice kid to me...” he trailed off.
“I can do this. I just need a little more training.”
“But do you want to? Did you ever have a choice in this?”
“I couldn’t leave even with my coat. They’d kill me.”
John scoffed at that. “You’re overestimating your own value. Julia will fish some other poor selkie out of the ocean. They’d forget you sooner than you think. Besides, you have the skills to disappear now, with more options than a normal operative. You could walk into the ocean right now, and no one would be able to find you again.”
“Is that what you’re advising me?” Yassen asked.
“I’m not advising you anything. I’m just laying out the options.”
“I couldn’t,” Yassen muttered. John gave him a questioning look. “Walk into the ocean. My people come from Lake Baikal. I’m not made for salt water.”
John didn’t reply; he just kept walking, but Yassen could hear him say something under his breath.
They found a file waiting for them in John’s room with Yassen’s entire story, the one he’d told Julia, neatly typed out. Neither of them acknowledged the information, but that night, John had taken him to bed and unravelled him.
It wasn’t often that John used him. It was always preceded by a thoughtful mood or an intense training session that left Yassen panting on the mats. He’d begun to welcome those moments of intimacy as John’s hand carded through his hair or he was pulled into an embrace. Yassen moved to John’s tune. What had once been frightening was now familiar, allowing him to sink into the praise he didn’t deserve. John never asked if he wanted it, only if it felt good, and Yassen answered honestly every time as he was held in the aftermath.
Then, they had their first assignment. Yassen ached for his chance at redemption as his stomach twisted itself in knots as he tried to imagine the ways John would make him kill.
John had taken the shot, and Yassen had done nothing. He was reassured there would be more assignments, that this one was just to see how it was done by a real assassin. So Yassen swallowed his dark thoughts as John pulled him closer by his hips and kissed him under the stars.
They went to Nicaragua. They stalked the various dons and dealers to clear the board for Scorpia. They’d picked an old yacht as their meeting place. Don Andres had wanted a warehouse deeper inside the city but eventually relented. It was hard to deny a paying customer, after all.
Yassen’s coat was a light tan jacket, hiding John’s weapons. Sweat dripped down Yassen’s neck and forehead as he nervously glanced from the abandoned dock to the water beneath them. It was their first time meeting one of their targets face-to-face. John hadn’t let him read the file but told him the information and had made him memorise it. Yassen checked his gun for the third time.
“Put the gun away. Keep calm,” John said. Yassen put the gun in his waistband again, feeling his muscles relax and his heartbeat fight his nerves to slow down.
“What if he knows?”
“He doesn’t know anything. He’s selling, we’re buying. It’s that simple.” John studied him for a second longer. He had to know his body was at war with itself. “Ignore those last two orders,” he said before they heard footsteps, and Don Andres boarded with his entourage.
“Buenos dias, Don Adres. You’re a difficult man to find,” John said with a smile, but Yassen barely heard anything after that because adrenaline shot through his body.
He remembered the man standing in front of them. He remembered the way he’d been eyed as he ate pieces off Sharkovsky’s plate and prayed they weren’t poisoned, the quiet conversation he was just out of earshot for except for the mention of his name, the order, the handing over of his coat, the blood-stained silk sheets.
He wished John hadn’t rescinded those orders.
“May we see the unit?” John’s voice filtered through, and Yassen could finally rip his eyes from Don Andres and to the case one of his people placed on the table. John gestured for Yassen to inspect it as practised. He stepped forward as Andres’ eyes burned into him.
“Plastic casing, invisible to metal detectors. Nobody knows it’s there until you drive over it or step on it.” Drops of sweat trickled down Yassen’s spine, and the room grew colder. Was he still talking about the mine?
“But you know that already.” Yassen’s heart stuttered. “You must’ve heard the same when you met my two competitors, no?”
John remained unflappable and cocked his head. “Not sure I understand.”
“I think you do,” Andres chuckled—a low and dangerous thing that would’ve haunted Yassen’s dreams if Sharkovsky hadn’t stolen that from him too. “Two of the biggest arms dealers in the Americas besides me. Both of them dead now.” he paused for dramatic effect, now far closer, too close for Yassen’s comfort. “What does Sharkovsky have to say to that? You work for him, yes?”
“What are you talking about?” John retorted.
Andres raised an eyebrow. “You want to tell me you don’t work for him?”
“Look at me, Don Andres.” John opened his arms and stepped forward, drawing all attention to himself. “I work for nobody except myself.” It didn’t work. Yassen’s body pumped him full of adrenaline, coiling him like a snake ready to strike.
Don Andres gave a sly smile. “I think you two are here to kill me.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” John replied immediately, trying to keep up a ruse Yassen had single-handedly ruined with his presence.
Andres’ eyes turned to Yassen, hungry and full of hate. “He does. I’m surprised he let his pup into the field when he did so well in the bedroom.”
The water beneath them roiled. Yassen’s gun was in his hands before he registered it, already pointing at Don Andres before it was wrenched out of his hand and pushed against his cheek. John was already armed. His gun pointed not at Andres but at Yassen.
“If that’s true, I’ll kill him myself.”
Yassen struggled to breathe. The waves lapped at the deck. John’s eyes were walls of cocky confidence, revealing nothing. This would be the end. At least John would be able to make it quick. At least he wouldn’t ask him to do it himself.
“I have a different proposition,” Don Andres started, and Yassen’s breath hitched. “Give me his coat, leave him with me, and I’ll let you walk free. Sounds like a good deal, no? No one will have to die.”
John lowered his gun a fraction. Yassen silently begged him—to save him, to kill him, anything but giving him to Don Andres.
“Close your eyes,” John told him, and the world went dark. Yassen wished John’s last words hadn’t been an order, but it was the most he deserved for what he’d done. The last thing he’d ever see would be those blue eyes, which had to be enough.
A shot rang out. His cheek burst into flame. Had John missed? How?
“Clean the deck!” John shouted. Yassen’s legs gave out as John ripped the magic out of him. A hand grabbed his wrist before the water crashed down around them. He heard men screaming as they were swept away and dragged under.
The hand around his wrist was still there, grinding his bones together.
“Open your eyes.” Yassen was greeted by a drenched John and swallowed at the intense look. The deck behind them was empty. Yassen moved on shaky legs to find the nearest towel and dried himself off as best he could, wincing when it came away red. Once they were no longer dripping, John threw his own aside and signalled Yassen to follow them back to the cabin.
The door locked behind him with an ominous click, and Yassen tried not to let on how his stomach and heart twisted with every breath.
“What was that?” John hissed once they were inside.
“I wanted—”
“—You nearly got us both killed.”
“He recognised me,” Yassen choked out. “He knew who I was. He’d take my coat, and then…” Yassen couldn’t say what would happen then, overwhelmed by memories of silk, steel, and blood.
“He used you,” John stated. His face and voice had become devoid of any tells. Yassen nodded. “He used you, you saw him, and you panicked. How many of them are there?”
“What?”
John closed in. “How many others did you fuck while with Sharkovsky? How many of them will recognise you? And how many more assignments will you ruin with it?”
John’s face robbed him of his voice. John had saved him, yet it was a look people would see before they died.
“Do you know what they’d do with that information if they found out?” John asked. The water roiled again, and Yassen’s stomach lurched as it only brought John closer.
“I don’t understand.” He blinked, and he was pinned against the wall. His wrists clamped in John’s hand as the other undid his belt. Yassen tried to buck him off, but John outmatched him in strength and weight.
“Don’t fight.” And Yassen went limp in his grip. “You’re going to tell me what he did to you, and you’re going to be good for me like you were for him, understood?”
“Yes, John.” The words were gunmetal on his tongue. His back arched, he pressed back into John as if to ask for something he didn’t want.
John used to hold him, and now he slammed him further into the wall as if he could push him through. More clinking of belt buckles and rustling of fabric, and Yassen bit back a scream as John forced himself in dry.
It burned as the cock slid in and out in a space too tight for it as John snapped his hips. Didn’t it hurt for him? Or did he enjoy the pain? He couldn’t tell by the sound of John’s grunts. He was relentless, but even through the brutality, the pain began to subside. The stabbing of a knife turned to needle pricks. Still present and not quite enjoyable. He closed his eyes and tried to pretend he wanted it.
“What did he do to you?”
Cold metal flashed in his mind, as wicked as the smile of the man wielding it.
“He cut me.” He felt the same steel against the skin on his back, like a nightmare made manifest before he remembered John had a knife on him at all times. A hand wrapped around his neck to keep him upright as Yassen’s shirt fell away. The sting of his skin splitting was barely noticeable. He could already see it in his mind’s eye: shallow cuts welling beads of red that would run down his back and mix with his sweat.
John cut the way he did everything else: with ruthless proficiency. The cuts deepened, and Yassen grit his teeth at the sharp spikes, followed by a low, throbbing heat. The knife sliced the skin around his shoulder, and the sweet smell of blood hung heavy in the air. John wouldn’t damage him permanently, he told himself. He was teaching him a lesson. He just had to repeat that thought, and perhaps he’d get a chance to atone.
But his thoughts were swept away as a new heat joined the fray, hot and soft, followed by the roughness of a beard Yassen had become intimately familiar with. John rolled his hips again, and Yassen moaned as John lapped up his blood.
“What else?” Hot breath tickled his ear.
“He choked me,” he whispered. He could still remember the meaty fingers wrapping around his throat. He told himself that John’s fingers were strong and calloused and different as his hand moved to do the same. The pressure built up slowly with the pressure on his carotids. Should he say it hadn’t happened like this? That the pressure had been instant, crushing his windpipe? Only letting up when Yassen had been convinced it was the end?
He hissed, letting out precious air as John pulled him close, his bloody back against John’s shirt and coat. Stars danced before his eyes as John increased the pressure as gently as a snake. His body begged to resist, but he’d been ordered not to. His hand wound its way into John’s hair instead and rested there.
John wouldn’t hurt him without reason. Nothing could break that truth in Yassen’s mind. Just as he craned his neck to kiss him, John pulled back, and his hand fell away from his throat.
“Scorpia would send you right back to them. To gather intel, blackmail, and opportunities for contracts. You wouldn’t be an assassin anymore. Do you want that?”
He could feel John’s heartbeat through the cock buried inside him. Yassen couldn’t look him in the eye. He stared at the white wall paint, seeing the little cracks where it would one day flake off. “No,” he said.
“Then tell me what you want.”
“I don’t want anyone like Sharkovsky and Andres to control me again,” he confessed, not knowing he had the thought until the words slipped out.
“And what about someone like me?” The grip on him loosened, John slipped out of him, and Yassen mourned the loss. It was pathetic. He couldn’t even take his punishment correctly.
“You’re right,” was all Yassen could say. It didn’t answer his question, or maybe it did. “I’m taking your advice.”
“I didn’t give you that advice.” John’s shoulders sagged just a little bit. Was it disappointment or relief? It didn’t matter. All Yassen wanted was to say goodbye right.
He grabbed John’s hand and put it on his wounded cheek. It would scar and be a reminder that John had protected him once. He could see his eyes widen just a bit before Yassen surged forward and captured his lips. John reciprocated, sighing as he deepened the kiss.
He took off his jacket and threw it over Yassen’s shoulders. His shirt followed suit.
It was a strange feeling; orders upon orders were instantly revoked as if his strings had been cut. Yassen had been put in stress positions before, and it was like collapsing after being forced into one for ages. It was relief and clumsiness as muscles relearned they could do more than just one thing.
Yassen looked up at John, wordlessly asking why. His skin tingled as his coat wanted to slip on and merge with him to protect his wounds.
John smiled one of his true smiles, and Yassen’s mind raced, and his heart surged. Was this another lesson? A reward? He didn’t know, but he wouldn’t waste this opportunity. He put on his coat and kissed John again and again, with each pushing him back until John’s legs hit the bed. He laid down without protest or question.
Yassen climbed on top to take in the sight of John beneath him and the feeling of his hands sliding up and down his thighs.
“Enjoying the view?” John asked, a grin playing on his lips. Yassen smiled back and let himself explore, mapping John’s skin for the last time. He was bloody, but so was Yassen—so was their work and their world. It was only fitting.
John’s cock twitched and pressed against Yassen’s arse, so Yassen stroked him, enjoying the little grunt John let out and the tension in his body of wanting to buck into his grip. He lined himself up and sank down with a satisfied sigh. The burn was still present but pleasant now, and John filled him completely. Yassen peeked at his face and found nothing but pleasure, so he lifted himself tentatively before dropping down again.
It felt different, being in control, not being thrust into it. He set a pace he liked and found an angle that would let him hit his prostate just so that he’d feel that spark shoot up his spine and straight to his cock. John’s hands remained on his thighs, not grabbing or demanding anything. Yassen threw his head back as his cock twitched for attention. His own hand was about to reach for it when John spoke up. “May I?”
Yassen hummed, and John’s hand wrapped around it. The same hand that shot to save his life, that cut and strangled, now stroked him with the right pressure and speed. A smirk flashed across John’s face whenever a twist made Yassen gasp or stutter. The heat inside him built up, becoming almost unbearable as he split his focus between spearing himself on John’s cock and thrusting into his fist.
The sun began to set, bathing their cabin in an orange glow as the wind died down and left them becalmed.
His come spilt all over them as he fucked himself through his orgasm until he felt John twitch and spill his own load inside. Both of them panted as they gripped each other. Yassen’s head spun, but he wasn’t sure why. He laid down next to John, already magically wiped down, and was pulled in a hug, taking care not to touch his wounded back.
“I need to clean you up,” John muttered into his neck. “It’ll take a while to heal.”
They untangled themselves after laying there for longer than they should, with John putting some of his clothes back on. He took their first aid kit and cleaned every wound he’d caused that day. Yassen stopped him when he took out the bandages.
“I have a faster way,” Yassen replied and pulled back. John frowned until Yassen tugged the jacket closer around him.
“When was the last time you… changed?”
“A while ago.” The last time, he’d been someone else. He’d snuck away from Dima and his crew and carefully dipped himself into the Moskva River a few days before he broke into Sharkovsky’s apartment.
“May I see?”
Yassen hesitated for a moment before he let his skin wrap around him, shifting from a muted tan to a glossy black. Before John knew it, he was lying in bed with a Baikal seal. Yassen realised a little too late that this could’ve been done at a better time and with more grace. That didn’t diminish what John’s look of utter delight did to him.
“I didn’t realise you’d look so bloody cute.” He grinned and reached out his hand, allowing Yassen to close the gap to be petted, even as he huffed.
“When was the last time you’ve been in the water?” John asked, seemingly unaware that seal-vocal cords made communicating impossible. Yassen shook his head.
“Would you like to?” John glanced at the sea outside their cabin. Yassen looked across the wide expanse, smelling the salt and shook his head again. Instead, he undid his coat and let it drape over himself as he curled up inside it. He could leave right now as he said he would, like John wanted him to, but the sea repelled him and compelled him to stay.
John leaned over with a smile on his face and eyes that told him something was going on in his mind, brushing one of Yassen’s curls out of his face.
“I’m going to leave soon,” he confessed. Yassen perked up and looked at him. Was it a trick? He could ask why, but the reason wouldn’t matter in the end. If John had come to a decision like that, he must have his reasons.
“When?” he asked instead. A hole was opening up inside him, one he feared he’d fall through.
“I have some things to take care of at Malagosto, but then I’m going back to England.” He sounded almost reluctant as he ghosted over Yassen’s leg. “I don’t know who will be your handler after that or if they’ll expect you to be able to act as a solo operative.” Yassen didn’t need to hear the softness of his voice to tell that he had no faith in him on that front, not after today when he had to be directed like a marionette just to survive. It was impressive how just a few words could open the floodgates and nearly drown Yassen in shame.
He thought about all the progress he’d made with John and how that would be for nothing. If he wasn’t killed, he’d be given to someone else, and he shuddered as he thought back to his first night with John. None of the other operatives would be as kind. He’d seen the looks they’d given him once they realised what he was.
“Let me come with you,” the words were out before Yassen could reconsider.
“Yassen—”
“—You want me to leave, so let me leave with you,” he interrupted, something he’d never done before. His heart hammered in his chest. He’d once thought he could become something special. Instead, his choices lay between fading into obscurity and returning to give his coat to a new Sharkovsky.
He took his off, folded it up, got on his knees, and placed it in front of John. “Please, I can still be useful.” He bowed his head. He’d heard of this tradition while he was researching at Malagosto. His coat hadn’t been his to give back then, but John had given it back, giving him a choice.
“No, Yassen, I can’t risk it.” John unfolded the coat and wrapped it back around Yassen. “We’re leaving in the morning. Get some rest.” he gave him one more sad, pitying smile before walking away, his hand brushing past the wound on his cheek. Yassen didn’t see John until the morning.
He lay in his bed, thinking about where he’d gone wrong. John’s words swirled around his head. I can’t risk it. What if Yassen made himself worth the risk? If he became good enough to lower the risk?
So, all he had to do was prove himself. If he couldn’t… Yassen didn’t want to think about that.
The next morning, he left for Russia. He faced Sharkovsky for the first time in years wearing his own coat, now shiny and supple, a leather jacket fully zipped up. Someone would have to fight him to get it off.
It hadn’t been necessary. Sharkovsky hadn’t even recognised him. The revolver in his hand felt heavy as he aimed it at Sharkovsky.
He faltered with no one to direct him.
Cold metal against his temple. He could hear John whisper in his ear, his hand around his when he directed his aim. He placed his life in the hands of fate.
“Shoot.”
Yassen stood on the bank of the Moskva River. The full moon battled the warm street lamps to light up the night. He breathed in the freezing night air and was, for the first time in forever, free. It was the perfect night for a swim. His coat, now long and made of inky wool, fluttered in the wind.
He’d stood in the office surrounded by blood and gore and hadn’t proven himself worthy. Perhaps being human wasn’t the right thing for him. It crushed his heart to realise that.
He was about to shift when he heard a small sniffle. He scanned the banks and, hidden underneath some trash, a bit of white caught the moonlight. The little piece of white sniffled again, and Yassen heard the despair being expelled from its little lungs.
He approached, as silent as John had taught him to be, and yet the white froze before he’d reached it. Yassen knelt down and saw a pair of huge eyes shrouded in white fur staring back at him. The selkie pup didn’t dare to breathe.
Yassen couldn’t help but stare at the pup. He’d never met another selkie besides his mother before. Something about him drew him closer.
He was unhurt and not starving yet but too young to shift on his own. The trash hideout had been deliberately placed around him, and the most damning bit of evidence was the fluffy white coat, making him no more than a few years old. The pup was a harp selkie, and Yassen had read that those tended to abandon their young.
How long would it take for someone to find the pup? How long would it take them to notice he was a selkie? If he was lucky, someone would kill him for his coat. If he wasn’t, he’d be forcefully shifted back and live as a slave for the rest of his life.
Yassen’s already shattered heart couldn’t bear the thought, and he reached out his hand. The pup followed it with his eyes and struggled as he was grabbed by the scruff and pulled out. Yassen was a killer. He’d abandoned every single moral and belief. A child had no place with him.
Except John was a killer, but he hadn’t abandoned everything. He was good to selkies. Perhaps he could take the little one off Yassen’s hands?
The pup whined and wriggled in Yassen’s grip. He whistled and made the same soft noises he remembered his mother making when she thought he was asleep. The wriggling stopped, and the pup looked up at him with impossibly wide eyes. He was still not breathing right, but he wasn’t trying to free himself anymore. Yassen walked back to his car, a little bundle of fluff half hidden in his coat.
Only once the pup was in the back seat did he force the boy to shift. A mop of blond hair and frightened blue eyes peeked up at him from underneath the hood of a white fuzzy pelt. The boy didn’t even know how to change his coat yet. Yassen would have to teach him since John wouldn’t know how to do that either.
“Who are you? My parents will find you if you hurt me!” the boy yelled. Yassen nodded thoughtfully and sat down next to him.
“My name is Yassen, and no, I don’t want to hurt you. I’m like you.”
“Prove it.” The boy stared up at him with hard eyes, challenging him. Yassen cracked a smile, pointed at the sky, and focused. The temperature dropped, and the moon disappeared behind the gathering clouds. Within a minute, the first snowflakes fell onto the riverbank. His skin no longer tingled, he was no longer left breathless, and he wasn’t sure what had caused the change.
The boy laughed and clambered into Yassen’s lap to chase them, making the same soft noises a pup makes, even in his human form. Something warm unfurled in Yassen as watched the boy. Up close, he looked so much like John. No one would argue he wasn’t his son.
“How did you do that?” the boy asked, delight written all over his face.
“It’s something we can do.”
“Could you teach me?”
Yassen hummed. “Perhaps. What’s your name, little one?”
“Alex! Do you know my parents? Did they ask you to pick me up?” the little boy bounced in his lap, hope written all over his face, which Yassen shattered with just a few words.
“No… they’re not coming back,” Yassen hesitated as he saw Alex freeze as he processed the heartbreaking realisation and tears began to well up in his eyes, “but I’ll take you to someone who will take care of you. You’ll like him,” he added before Alex could begin wailing. He stroked the boy’s hair before stepping out and getting behind the wheel. Alex buckled himself in without any prompting.
“Is he also like us?” he asked after several minutes of silence, “a… a selkie?”
“No, but he’s good. He was kind to me.”
“Mom said not to trust anyone who isn’t a selkie. That they’ll steal your coat and do mean things!” Alex said. Yassen didn’t say anything for a while.
“He gave mine back.” The boy looked so painfully young. Was that what John had seen when he’d first met him?
John adored Alex from the moment he saw him in Yassen’s arms. Yassen had considered just leaving him on his doorstep, but he couldn’t let another pup grow up ignorant and vulnerable, even if he would have John.
John had smiled when Yassen told him he’d stick around to teach Alex the things John couldn’t, and then he’d retire, leaving John to his own life. Alex would have a father who’d love and protect him.
Except there was so much to teach a selkie child. Every time he thought he was almost done, he felt the warmth of pride as Alex mastered skill after skill. He or John would pull him back in, and the cycle would begin again.
They moved to a house near a lake. John had said it was so Alex could learn how to swim without extensive trips to the coast, but every time, it was Yassen who he asked to join him in the water.
Winter turned to spring, then summer, and Yassen was still there. Nothing, yet everything, had changed between him and John. The first time he’d invited Yassen back into his bed, it had been exactly that: an invitation. It had been one Yassen gladly accepted.
The late summer sun filtered through the curtains, waking Yassen before anyone else. It was warm, and during his training, he’d have gotten out of bed immediately. Nowadays, however, he wanted to stay and bask in the comfort.
A small form twisted in his arms, and Yassen looked down at Alex’s golden mop of hair. The boy snuggled up to him, sighing contentedly.
An arm, strong and safe, shifted around Yassen’s waist to press him closer to John and the ghost of a kiss was pressed into his neck.
It would break their hearts if he left now. So perhaps he could stay.