Bossa Nova
Note: Well hello! This is the snippet for my upcoming Heated Rivalry story Bossa Nova. If you haven't yet, please go to the index and read the disclaimer. I hope you all enjoy! My goal is to have the first chapter out by some point either tomorrow or the day after. I really hope to do this series justice, I love the books and the series. The warnings for the snippet are as follows: strong language, use of a female oc, and implications of dv (not between the the main characters). Love you guys and happy reading. MDNI. Feel free to let me know what you think. Hate speech will not be tolerated. <3
Two taps at the door and a hesitant third one make Ilya grunt as he pushes off of the couch, turning to press a firm kiss to Shane’s knuckle and an absent pat of his hand to his freckled cheek before he makes his way to the door. He pulls it open and leans against the frame, humorlessly huffing out an almost laugh.
“Yes, that is very discreet.”
“Fuck off, I didn’t have a lot of time, okay?”
He snorts again as he barely steps out of the way to let her in, her shoulder brushing his chest and his eyes following her as the door slams shut behind her. He looks her over, crowding her while she takes her jacket off and kicks off her shoes. “Let me see.”
Ilya doesn’t wait for her to give him permission, and instead starts tugging at the pieces of her ridiculous disguise, working against her stammers of ‘being fine’ and to whines for him to ‘leave it’, pushing away her swatting hands and tugging off the little blue paper mask and shades she used to cover her face from any possible fans or paparazzi. And, apparently, today, them.
“Ilya-” she doesn’t get to finish, his large hand is encasing her jaw, tilting her head so he can get a good look, his own jaw working in irritation.
“Посмотри на себя. Я должен его, блять, убить.” Look at you. I should fucking kill him.
“I don’t even know-you know what? Where’s Shane?” She pulls away from him to make her way deeper into the hotel suite, Ilya hot on her heels continuing to grumble angrily in a language she can’t hope to understand, and suddenly she’s a little sorry for all of the times her and Shane teased him by absolutely refusing to speak in any language other than french when he’s agitated one, or more frequently both of them. She makes her way to the room and finds Shane sitting on the couch, head tilted back, one arm draped on his knee and the other resting on the arm of the couch with a makeshift icepack balancing precariously on the back of his hand. “Fuck, Shane.”
He lifts his head and offers her a small quirk of his lips, “s’fine. Doesn’t even hurt. Ilya’s just dramatic.”
Ilya throws his head back in disbelief, making his way back to the chair. “I am dramatic? Look at what his ugly face did to your fucking hand.” Ilya huffs, flopping on the couch next to Shane. “I am dramatic.” he grumbles. “Tell you how to hold your hand when you punch, you do not listen-”
“Yes, Ilya, you are dramatic, it’s a scrape on my knuckle. I’m fine.” He furrows his eyebrows slightly, tilting his head toward her with intention. For her this time. “I am fine. I swear.”
The three of them sit in the silence for a second. All very fucking uncomfortable with how the night has unraveled thus far. The air is intense in a way that activates all of their tells, her shifting her weight from one foot to the other, Ilya’s jaw setting so hard that it’s damn near a dental emergency, and Shane clenching and unclenching his uninjured hand against his thigh, fighting the temptation to pick at an imaginary hangnail because the elephant in the room is fucking suffocating all of them.
“So-”
“This is fucking-”
“Thank you.”
She said it quietly, at first. A rushed out breath of air with words so quick that they can barely make them out the first time. Then, hesitant steps towards the couch, one, two, a pause and then a braver final third and fourth. The cushion on the opposite side of Shane dips lightly under her weight. Her head dips and hair is rushing forward, only to be scooped up and held into a makeshift ponytail held together by Ilya’s hand the plastic bag full of chunky hotel ice is tossed to the side and her lips are on the cool, damp skin of his battered knuckles.
“Seriously. Thank you.”
