Chapter 2: Russian
The asphalt was a griddle, cooking the air until it shimmered over the schoolyard. Heat rose in visible waves from the cracked blacktop, distorting the graffiti-tagged walls of the gymnasium. The scent was a complex soup: sun-baked concrete, cheap body spray from huddled groups of betas, the sharp, grassy smell of the football team drilling nearby, and underneath it all, the damp, primal odor of teenage bodies sweating through their uniforms.
Angel sat on the ground between Carmen’s spread knees, his back resting against her chest. The rough denim of her cargos scraped his bare shoulders, a pleasant abrasion. Her scent enveloped him—coffee, cloves, her—pushing everything else to the periphery. Around them, Carmen’s friends lounged on the shaded steps leading to a boarded-up emergency exit. They were a constellation of brown skin, loud laughter, and rapid-fire Spanglish, a world away from Sienna Reynolds’s polished disdain.
“Give me a drag, mi vida,” Angel whined, tipping his head back to look up at Carmen. His hair cascaded over her thighs.
“You don’t even like the taste,” Carmen rumbled, not looking down from her conversation with Antonio, a beta with a shaved head and intricate linework tattoos climbing his neck. She was telling a story about a brawl at a 24-hour laundromat, her hands moving through the air.
“I like your taste,” Angel persisted, bouncing lightly against her. The movement made his breasts shift under his flimsy top. “Come on. Just one.”
Carmen exhaled a plume of smoke, a slow, indulgent grin spreading across her face. She finally glanced down, her black eyes catching the light. “Such a fucking brat.” She brought the cigarette to her own lips, took a final, deep pull, and then, instead of handing it to him, leaned down.
She captured his mouth with hers, blowing the smoke gently into his lungs. It was a claiming, an intimacy that made the group whoop and catcall. Angel inhaled, coughing slightly at the harshness, but his eyes fluttered shut. When she broke the kiss, licking the seam of his lips, he was left dizzy, the nicotine buzz mixing with the heady drug of her proximity.
“Happy?” she murmured, her voice only for him.
“Mhm,” he nodded, settling back against her, a contented purr thrumming quietly in his chest.
Antonio watched them, a cigarette dangling from his own fingers. “So, Ivanov,” he said, his accent softening the vowels. “That’s not Miami. Where you actually from?”
Angel didn’t open his eyes. “Russia.”
A brief silence settled over the group. The only sounds were the distant thud of a football being caught, a burst of laughter from another clique, and the constant Miami traffic beyond the chain-link fence.
“Russia, Russia?” a girl named Valeria asked. She was an alpha too, smaller than Carmen but with a fierce, watchful energy. “Like, bears and snow Russia?”
“And shitty politicians,” Angel said, finally opening his eyes. He tilted his head. “Yes. Saint Petersburg, originally. Moved here five years ago.”
“You don’t have an accent,” Antonio noted, not unkindly, just stating a fact.
“I worked on it.” Angel’s voice was flat, a door clicking shut. It was a practiced line, smooth and uninviting. He felt Carmen’s arms tighten around his waist, a silent show of solidarity.
“Your parents brought you over?” Valeria pressed.
Angel smiled then, a real one that reached his dark blue eyes. “My dads. Yeah.”
Another beat of silence. This one was thicker. Antonio’s eyebrows crept toward his hairline. “Two dads?”
“Mmhm.”
“And they’re…?”
“Alphas. Both of them.” Angel said it easily, like he was stating the weather. He enjoyed the shock that flickered across their faces. It was a familiar dance.
“Coño,” Antonio breathed out, a laugh of pure disbelief. “Two alpha dads. In one house. And they let you out of the house dressed like that?” He gestured vaguely at Angel’s shorts, which were more of a suggestion than a garment.
“Papa says I have a gift for giving old betas heart attacks,” Angel said, his smile turning sharp. “Daddy just tells me to carry pepper spray.”
The group erupted in laughter, the tension broken. It was a world so far from their own experiences—full of single moms, crowded apartments, and absent fathers—that it seemed almost mythical. An alpha couple was rare; a stable, mated alpha couple with kids was the stuff of community center pamphlets.
“They’re protective, though,” Carmen added, her chin resting on top of Angel’s head. Her voice held a tone of deep respect. “Met them once. Scariest fucking barbecue of my life. His Papa, Dimitri, grilled me about my intentions for twenty minutes while sharpening a kebab skewer.”
“And you lived?” Valeria chuckled.
“Barely. I think I passed because I didn’t look away.” Carmen’s hand drifted up, her thumb stroking absent circles on Angel’s collarbone. “They’re good people. Built a life.”
The conversation drifted, meandering to weekend plans, a new taco truck, the unfairness of Mr. Henderson’s calculus syllabus. Angel basked in the warm cocoon of it—the casual touches, the shared smokes, the way he was simply one of them. He was Ivanov, Carmen’s omega, the kid from Russia with the scary dads and the mouth. It was an identity that fit better than any of his old ones.
The peace was shattered by a sudden, whistling sound.
A blur of brown leather spiraled through the air, moving too fast. It slammed into the chain-link fence a foot from Angel’s face with a deafening, metallic TWANG. The entire section of fence shuddered, rattling like a cage.
Angel flinched hard, his whole body jerking back into Carmen. The shock was a cold slap.
Silence dropped over their group. Then, from across the yard, a loud, familiar groan. “Oh, shit! My bad!”
Elijah jogged toward them, his football jersey damp with sweat, his mullet sticking to his neck. His teammate, a guy named Josh, trailed behind him, laughing. “Sorry, dude!” Elijah called again, his grin wide and unapologetic. “Arm’s too strong, you know how it is! Wrong play.”
Angel’s fear crystallized into white-hot fury. He untangled himself from Carmen’s arms and stood up on the sun-softened asphalt. His heart hammered against his ribs. He took two steps forward, planted his hands on his hips, and let the accent he worked so hard to bury every day claw its way to the surface. It wasn’t just Russian; it was the guttural, quick-fire street Russian of his childhood, sharp as a shiv.
“Ty chto, duračok, bespátluznij?!” he screeched, his voice cutting through the yard’s noise. Even the football players stopped to look. “Pochti po lichu mne popala! U tebya glaza iz zadnici vylezli, ili mozg prostoy proshivka? Idiot!”
The words, harsh and alien, hung in the humid air.
Elijah skidded to a stop a few yards away, his smile morphing into one of pure, brotherly delight. He barked a laugh, shaking his head. He replied in the same language, his own accent thicker, less polished. “Otklyuchis’, Angelochka. Sluchainost’.” Calm down, little Angel. It was an accident.
“Sluchainost’ moju zhopu!” Angel shot back, gesturing wildly at the still-vibrating fence. “Ya tebe shcheki naryvu, blin!” An accident my ass! I’ll tear your cheeks off!
Their exchange was a private thunderclap in the public space. Carmen’s friends stared, stunned. They’d never heard Angel speak anything but perfect, unaccented English. This was a different person—a spitfire with venom on his tongue and old, cold streets in his eyes.
Carmen watched, a slow, fascinated smile spreading across her face. She’d heard glimpses before, late at night when he was tired or truly pissed, but never a torrent like this. It was raw. It was real. It was a part of him he kept locked away, and seeing it unleashed made something possessive and deep clench in her gut.
Elijah just held up his hands, still grinning. “Okay, okay! Sorry!” he switched back to English, his voice carrying. “Jesus, your fucking lungs. I said I’m sorry!”
Angel took a deep, shuddering breath. The Russian mask slipped away as quickly as it had appeared, smoothed over by practiced habit. He crossed his arms over his chest, the picture of petulant annoyance once more. “You should be. You could have broken the fence. It’s a historic landmark.”
The tension broke. The football players laughed. Antonio let out a low whistle. “Damn, Ivanov. You got a demon in there.”
“Only for him,” Angel sniffed, turning his nose up. He walked back to Carmen, his heels clicking defiantly on the asphalt. She opened her arms and he sank back into her embrace, the fury melting away into a familiar, slightly trembling irritation.
Elijah jogged the rest of the way over, snatching the ball from where it had fallen. He looked at Carmen’s crew, his dark blue eyes—mirror images of Angel’s—danced with mischief. “He’s scary when he’s like that, right? Sounds like our Babushka when we’d track mud in her house.”
“Fuck off, Lijik,” Angel mumbled, burrowing into Carmen’s neck, inhaling her scent to calm the last jitters of adrenaline.
Elijah just winked. “See you at home. Don’t be late, Papa’s making pelmeni.” He turned and sprinted back to the field, yelling at his teammates to stop slacking.
A quiet settled over their group again, different now. Valeria was looking at Angel with new appraisal. Antonio stubbed out his cigarette on the step.
“So,” Antonio said finally, his voice thoughtful. “Two alpha dads. A twin alpha brother.” He glanced at Carmen, whose arms were wrapped firmly around Angel, a clear statement of ownership and protection. “And you’re here, with us. In this shithole yard.”
Angel turned his head, his cheek resting against Carmen’s tattooed forearm. He gave a small, defiant shrug, the ghost of his native tongue still a spark in his eyes. “Where else would I be?”
The final bell rang, a shrill, electronic dismissal. The yard exploded into motion, students grabbing backpacks, shouting plans, dispersing toward the gates. But for a moment longer, their little group remained, a anchored island in the chaotic current. Carmen pressed a kiss to Angel’s temple, her lips lingering on his skin.
“Come on, mi sol,” she murmured, her voice a vibration against his ear. “Let’s get out of this oven.”
As they stood, Angel caught a glimpse across the crowded yard. Sienna Reynolds was standing with her clique near the polished doors of the main building. She was watching him, her expression unreadable. She’d seen the football, heard the Russian outburst. Angel met her gaze, held it for a single, charged second, and then let Carmen steer him away, her large hand splayed possessively on the small of his back, leading him into the swirling, scented crowd.