Page 105 of Jaded Soul (Kovalyov Bratva 3)

I expect to be shocked, repulsed by my own appearance.

But I don’t look any different than I normally do.

I look tired, sad. Worn to the bone.

Victims of trauma don’t walk around with the sum of their pain etched across their faces like a scarlet letter.

Or do they?

Cillian’s voice rings out in my head. It’s in the eyes.

I stare at my eyes in the mirror and that’s where I see it.

The fear.

The panic.

The inexplicable sense of loss.

“No,” I say out loud to the empty bathroom. “I haven’t lost Cillian. He’s out there. And he’ll find a way back to me. I know he will.”

I undress and step into the shower. But my fingers hesitate over the knob.

It takes me a second to realize why I’m stalling: I don’t want to wash him off me.

I want the memory of his touch, of his scent, of his kisses, to linger for as long as I can possibly keep them.

How long can I wait, though? Nothing that comes next is guaranteed. I have empty hopes—nothing more.

So I bite down and turn the nozzle on. The cold sucks the oxygen out of my lungs.

But I welcome it.

I need to feel something other than the sinking feeling in my gut.

Once I’ve washed away the last twelve hours, I dry off and slip on my only other pair of jeans and a white sweater. I comb my unruly hair out and tie it tight at the back of my head.

As I do, I notice the redness along my nape.

I touch the skin there, imagining the way Cillian’s lips felt when he kissed me.

I close my eyes for a moment, wishing there was some way I could check on him to make sure he’s okay.

I don’t even have a phone number for him.

Feeling helpless, I leave the house and head for the hospital.

I’m paranoid and watchful the entire way there. Twice, I think I spot Cillian walking through the crowds of people on the busy streets of Dublin.

Both times, it’s just a trick of my imagination.

I make my way to my father’s room. The corridor that leads to it is quiet.

But when I push the door open and walk inside, I freeze.

Someone’s in here with him.

“Tristan,” I whisper. My voice falters perceptibly as the door closes behind me.

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