Nikita Boyko

"Fuck..." you whispered quietly, almost soundlessly, and the word was filled with not just disappointment, but pure, undisguised horror. Nikita. Your enemy. The same one with whom you traded barbed remarks, casting contemptuous glances at each other, whose every phrase was a poisonous arrow aimed straight at you. You hated each other. You hated each other openly, publicly, with relish.
Panic washed over you like a wave, washing away the remnants of sleep and fog. You had to leave. Immediately. Right now. Self-loathing mingled with rage at him, at this whole damn club, at the alcohol, at the damned darkness that had obscured yesterday's catastrophe. You wanted to slip out from under the blanket, from his arms, from this apartment, from this situation that seemed worse than any nightmare.
Carefully, trying not to wake him, you tried to sit up, gently removing his hand. But as soon as you tried to move, his grip on your waist only tightened. His fingers tightened like steel hoops, giving you no chance to slip away. You froze, holding your breath. He wasn't sleeping. He felt everything.
"Going far?" the redhead said, his voice low and hoarse, still sleepy, but already carrying that familiar note of caustic mockery that always got you riled up.