Page 88 of Inevitable Endings
The words feel like stones in my mouth, too heavy, too difficult to speak. But the truth spills out, against my will.
“I don’t know where he is.”
‘‘Hmm,’’ he murmurs, as if considering something. ‘‘Perhaps Petrov knows, then. He’s been telling me such useful information lately.’’ His voice is laced with mock sincerity, the kind that makes my blood run cold.
A surge of something primal rises in me, rage, helplessness, both of them tangled together in a gnawing knot.Petrov. He has nothing to lose and yet he is spitting secrets like it’s Christmas.
I tug at the restraints, my hands straining against the cold metal, desperate to move, to do anything—but they hold firm. The leather digs into my wrists, biting into my skin as I pull harder, my breath coming in shallow gasps. I ignore the pain, the ache of the restraints cutting into me. All I can think of is Petrov, and how if I could just break free, I could tear that man apart with my bare hands.
This bastard never planned to form a unit.
“The time will come,” he continues, his voice now almost bored, “when I won’t need you anymore.” His words drag out, a slow caress that cuts deeper than the water ever could. “And then…” He pauses, letting the silence hang between us. “You’ll live up to the myth of being dead, and unlike you Russians, I won’t get my own hands dirty.”
Death sounds like a kindness.
Nick makes as if to walk away, his footsteps echoing through the room, but I can’t stand it. I can’t just let him leave, not like this, not after everything.
The scream erupts from me before I can stop it, a raw, guttural sound filled with frustration and rage. “Who the fuck are you?” The words tear through the air, jagged, desperate. “Who the fuck do you think you are to do this to me?”
Nick stops, just for a moment, his back still turned, his posture casual as if he’s not even fazed by my outburst. Then, a chuckle, low and dark, escapes from his lips. It’s a sound of amusement, of someone who knows they’ve won—before they’ve even finished the game.
He turns back slowly, that same cold amusement dancing in his eyes, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Who am I?” he repeats, as if savoring the question.
‘‘I’m the biggest surprise of your life, Aslanov.’’
Chapter 40
There is Love in Acknowledgment
Isabella
The truth is, I had always secretly dreamt of being a mother. It was the one dream I never dared to say out loud, the one hope I let live in the quietest corners of my heart. To hold a child in my arms and give them the love I had never been given. To be the softness, the safety, the unwavering warmth that I had longed for my entire life.
I lay in the hospital bed, my skin pallid as a waning moon. The IV whispers into my veins, drop by drop, a slow transfusion of iron and borrowed blood. A renewal that is not mine but given to me, bestowed like a fragile offering from unseen hands. It is strange, I think, how a body can empty itself so completely and yet demand to be filled again.
The room hums with quiet, machines tracing the fragile thread of my existence, beeping with a detached certainty. A nurse moves gently around me, adjusting the line, pressing warm fingers against the crook of my elbow where bruises bloom like violets beneath my skin.
I feel the weight of loss, of something torn from me, yet I remain, tethered here by the reluctant pulse in my throat. I think of the blood coursing back into me, thick with the memory of another, of someone else’s fight and surrender. It feels foreignand familiar all at once, a river of warmth pouring into the barren valleys of my body. Is this what resurrection feels like? A quiet, unseen stitching of soul to flesh?
The door creaks open, and my breath stills. Sawyer stands there, frozen, his eyes dark with something I don’t want to name. His lips part like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t, not at first. He just looks at me, his gaze sweeping over the tubes, the wires, the shadows bruising my skin. I see it in his face; the way it shatters him to see me like this, fragile and broken.
The man of so little words.
Finally, he steps inside, his hands curling into fists before he exhales and lets them go. His voice, when he speaks, is barely above a whisper.
“You didn’t know?”
I shake my head, and something flickers across his face; hurt, disbelief. He rubs a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to steady himself.
I look away, suddenly small beneath the weight of this question. My fingers twitch against the blanket, gripping it as I search for the right words. The truth feels heavy, like something buried deep inside me that I’ve spent years trying to forget.
“I never really had a regular period,” I admit, my voice uneven. “Or… a period at all.”
Sawyer doesn’t speak, but I feel the shift in the air between us. His silence isn’t judgment—it’s waiting, giving me space to say the things I never say.
“When I was a kid, I didn’t get enough to eat,” I continue, my throat tightening. “I was underfed. Neglected. My body never developed the way it should have. The doctors said my hormones were… imbalanced. That I had a very low chance of ever… of ever being able to…”
