Page 61 of Inevitable Endings
I close my eyes, trying to hold onto the dream, trying to hold onto the warmth of him, but it’s slipping. Fading. The memory of his voice is becoming more distant, like the echo of something I once knew but can no longer grasp.
Tears fall, silent, unbidden. I don’t let them make a sound, but they burn as they slide down my face. I ache for him, for the warmth that’s gone, and I know that slowly, I’m forgetting what his voice sounds like. I’m slowly forgetting him.
With a shaky breath, I reach for the nightstand beside my bed. My hand brushes over the glass of water sitting there, almostforgotten, and I grasp it tightly, bringing it to my lips as if the simple act of drinking will steady my shaking hands.
I don’t feel the coolness of the water as it slides down my throat. It’s nothing more than a formality, something to fill the space, to keep me going. I set the glass down with a soft click, and my fingers reach for the small bottle next to it, the one that’s become too familiar. Pills and more pills.
I pull two out, the plastic of the bottle crinkling as I remove the lid. My hands are trembling again, too much for me to even grip the pills properly. I finally manage to swallow them, my throat tight, fighting the urge to choke as I dry my eyes with the back of my hand.
My mind might slip, but my heart won’t.
I’m so full of unsaid words.
I miss him.
I ache for him, not just for the man he was, but for the darkness he brought with him. It’s the kind of craving that clings to me, suffocating in its intensity. His touch wasn’t gentle. It was rough, primal, as if he knew every inch of my skin, every corner of my soul, and he didn’t need to tread lightly. I crave the way his hands would grip me, the way his fingers would leave marks that lingered far beyond the moment, reminding me of his claim over me. I thrived in it.
His voice—low, gravelly, with that unmistakable Russian accent—still echoes in my mind, but it’s fading, slipping away like sand through my fingers. I need it back. I need to hear him say my name, the way it sounded when he growled it in my ear.
The smell of smoke and his cologne haunts me. I catch it sometimes, lingering in the air, like a cruel joke, a reminder of the scent I can no longer touch, the presence I can no longer feel. It’s everywhere. It’s in the sheets that still carry his trace, in the hoodie I have left, the ones I can’t bring myself to wash. And when I close my eyes, it’s like he’s here again, filling thespace, overwhelming me with that intoxicating blend of danger and desire.
I crave the parts of him that were dark, the edges he wore like armor. The violence in his touch, the way he could break me and rebuild me all at once. That was his gift to me. The way he made me feel alive, like the darkness that lived in me had found a place to exist. It had nowhere to go now. Now that he’s gone, that darkness has no outlet. It claws at me from the inside, begging to be released. But there’s no one here to let it out, no one here to channel it the way he did.
Chapter 28
An Invitation
Isabella
In my sleep I have nightmares, awake I have my thoughts, I am not sure which one is worse.
Ada stands in front of the mirror, adjusting the cuffs of her tailored black suit. The sharp lines of the blazer frame her shoulders perfectly, exuding a quiet power. Her white blouse is crisp, buttoned high at the collar, a stark contrast against the dark fabric. The outfit is simple, elegant, but most importantly, it’s armor.
I stand behind her, fingers carefully twisting her thick hair into a sleek updo. “Hold still,” I murmur as I secure the last pin. “You want this to look effortless, but not like you tried too hard.”
Ada smirks at our reflection. “So, calculated indifference?”
I meet her gaze in the mirror. “Exactly.”
Her makeup is minimal, just enough to enhance her sharp cheekbones and keen eyes. A touch of mascara, a hint of nude lipstick. She doesn’t need much, her presence is enough. The Ada I know rarely dresses up, but when she does, it’s with precision. She knows the effect she has, and today, she’s using it to her advantage.
“You clean up well,” I admit, stepping back to assess my work.
Ada tilts her head, admiring the transformation. “I almost look like I belong in a high-rise corner office.”
I press my lips together, thinking. “You do. But don’t forget;you’re not just there to look the part. Tsepov is going to pick you apart the moment you step into that room.”
She exhales. “I know, if he even wants to see us.”
A car horn blares outside, short and impatient.
“That’s our cue,” she mutters, grabbing her phone from the dresser.
I follow her to the door, where Sawyer waits on the curb, leaning against the sleek black sedan. He’s traded his usual rugged look for something sharper; a navy suit, fitted and pressed, the top buttons of his shirt undone just enough to toe the line between business and intimidation. He looks good, I have to admit.
He gives Ada a once-over, then lets out a low whistle. “Damn. You’re going to make Tsepov rethink his whole operation.”
Ada smirks. “That’s the idea.”
