Page 86 of All The Pretty Little Lies

A lump forms in my throat as I watch Oscar gently brush a strand of hair from Vesper's face. His touch is so tender, so reverent, it's almost painful to witness. I've known Oscar for years, seen him in the heat of battle and in the depths of despair, but I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at her.

And Zaire, the wild card of our group, stands as still as a statue, his eyes never wavering from Vesper's sleeping form. The tattoos that cover his arms seem to writhe in the dim light, creating a mesmerizing pattern that only adds to the surreal quality of the moment.

I find myself wondering what it would be like to love someone that deeply, that completely. To feel so connected to another person that their pain becomes your pain, their joy, your joy. The intensity of their devotion is almost palpable, filling the room with an energy that's both exhilarating and terrifying.

A part of me yearns for that kind of connection, that sense of belonging. But another part recoils from it, recognizing the vulnerability that comes with opening yourself up so completely to another person. In our world, love is a liability, a weakness that can be exploited by our enemies.

Yet looking at Oscar and Zaire, I can't help but think that maybe it's worth the risk. The way they stand guard over Vesper, ready to face any threat that might come her way, speaks of a strength that goes beyond physical prowess or tactical skill. It's a strength born of love, of unwavering loyalty and fierce protectiveness.

I think about my own feelings for Vesper. The way my heart races when she's near and the overwhelming urge to keep her safe. Is that love? Or just the natural protective instinct of a friend and ally? The line between the two seems increasingly blurred, and I'm not sure I'm ready to examine those feelings too closely.

With one last glance at the trio in the room, I force myself to turn away. The ache in my chest lingers as I make my way back downstairs, each step feeling heavier than the last.

As I reach the main floor, I throw myself into the task of securing our hideout. I check and double-check every lock, every alarm system. I review the camera feeds, scrutinizing each frame for any sign of unusual activity.

But even as I go through the motions, my mind keeps drifting back to that room upstairs.

VESPER

I stareat Zaire's peaceful face, his long lashes resting against his cheeks, his breathing slow and steady. The dim light filtering through the warehouse windows casts shadows across his features, accentuating the sharp line of his jaw and the curve of his lips. My eyes trace the intricate tattoos peeking out from beneath the collar of his shirt, a stark contrast to the unmarked skin of his twin lying behind me.

The weight of Oscar's arm draped over my waist is comforting, grounding me in this moment of surreal calm. I can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back, hisbreath warm on my neck. It's a cocoon of safety, nestled between these two powerful men who have become my unexpected protectors.

My mind drifts back to the events that led me here, but the memories are hazy, obscured by a fog of grief and shock. I remember fragments; the screech of tires, the low murmur of voices. The rest is a blur, my senses dulled by the overwhelming pain of betrayal.

I shift slightly, and Zaire's brow furrows in his sleep. His arm tightens around me, pulling me closer as if sensing my distress even in his dreams.

The warehouse is quiet save for the distant hum of the city beyond its walls. The smell of metal and leather permeates the air.

I close my eyes, trying to shut out the world and the pain it brings. But behind my eyelids, I see my uncle's face. The ache in my chest threatens to overwhelm me again, but the steady heartbeats of Oscar and Zaire on either side of me function as anchors, keeping me tethered to the present.

Ivanov's words echo in my mind, a haunting refrain that refuses to be silenced. I can still see his face, contorted with pain and fear, as he spilled the truth like poison from his lips. Not that I pity him. After what he did to me, and likely countless others, he deserved every moment of his fate. But his confession, extracted through means I'd rather not dwell on, has left me reeling.

"It was Mario Rossi," he had gasped. "He bought the embryo. Natasha...she arranged it all for him."

The betrayal cuts deeper than any knife, leaving a wound that I fear may never fully heal. Mario, the man who had bounced me on his knee as a child, who had taught me to shoot my first gun, who had sworn to always protect me; he had orchestrated my downfall. He had ordered the theft of my body. He had orderedthe creation of two embryos. The viable male embryo god knows where. Even more cruelly, the destruction of the female embryo. A life that would never draw her first breath.

A sob catches in my throat, threatening to break free. I swallow it down, not wanting to wake the twins, but the pain is like a living thing inside me, clawing at my insides. My hand instinctively moves to my stomach, flat and empty, mourning a child that never was.

She would have had my eyes, I think. Green like spring leaves, flecked with gold. Maybe she would have inherited the Rossi nose, straight and proud. I imagine her tiny fingers, perfect and delicate, grasping my own. The weight of her in my arms, the soft downy hair on her head. I can almost hear her first cry, see her first steps, feel the warmth of her first hug.

I think of all the firsts we'll never share - her first word, her first day of school, her first heartbreak. I'll never braid her hair or teach her to defend herself. I'll never see her grow into a strong, fierce woman who could have changed the world. The future I never knew I wanted has been ripped away, leaving a gaping hole in my heart.

But she'll never take those steps. She'll never cry or laugh or call me ‘Mama.’ She'll never know the fierce love that I already feel for her, this phantom child who exists only in my shattered dreams. The grief is overwhelming, a tidal wave threatening to drown me. How can I mourn someone who never existed? And yet, the loss feels as real and as raw as if I'd held her in my arms and watched her slip away.

Tears slip silently down my cheeks, soaking into the rough fabric beneath me. I mourn for the life unlived, the potential unrealized. I mourn for the mother I'll never be to her, the love I'll never get to give. The pain is a physical ache, as if a part of me has been carved out, leaving only emptiness behind.

I allow myself to feel the full weight of this loss. To grieve for a child who never drew breath, but who had already claimed a piece of my soul. The injustice of it all threatens to consume me. How someone could play God with life so carelessly, destroying a future as if it meant nothing.

I press my lips together to stifle a whimper, my body trembling with the force of my silent sobs. The warehouse suddenly feels too small, too confining. The air is thick with the ghosts of what might have been, suffocating me with possibilities that will never come to pass.

As I struggle to contain my grief, I feel a subtle shift in the air. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and I open my eyes to find Zaire's intense gaze fixed upon me. His silver eyes are filled with concern and something deeper, more primal. He doesn't speak, but his hand moves to cup my cheek, his calloused thumb gently wiping away a stray tear.

With a tenderness that belies his fierce exterior, Zaire draws me closer. I allow myself to be pulled into his embrace, nuzzling into the solid warmth of his chest. His scent envelops me. It's comforting and intoxicating all at once, and I find myself inhaling deeply, trying to memorize this moment of solace.

My tears flow freely now, soaking into the fabric of his shirt. Zaire's arms tighten around me, one hand cradling the back of my head, while the other traces soothing circles on my lower back. He murmurs soft words in Russian, the lyrical cadence of his native tongue washing over me like a balm.

Behind me, I feel Oscar beginning to stir. His arm tightens around my waist for a moment before relaxing. Without a word, Zaire shifts, his movements fluid and graceful despite his size. In one smooth motion, he scoops me into his arms, cradling me against his chest as if I weigh nothing.

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