“No, Stella. You’ve said your piece. I guess I was the one who held out hope that you didn’t hate me the way I feared you did. It was foolish to believe otherwise. I promise not to interrupt you again.” She leaves, and I just stand there, feeling like the shittiest daughter on the planet.
Fuck.
The rest of my day passes in a blur, my classes nothing more than background noise I can’t focus on. This morning’s fight with my mother keeps replaying in my mind in a vicious loop. Why can’t I be more patient with her? Why do I always say the wrong thing? Why do I hurt her so easily? And why does she get under my skin the way she does?
I guess… I guess I lash out at her because she sees too much. She always has. It’s easier to be angry at her than to admit I’m hurting. Easier to shove her away than let her get close enoughto notice the cracks under my armor. Easier to pretend I’m unbreakable than face the truth that something inside me has been broken… somewhere between Russia and a pair of dark eyes.
It’s as if a piece of me were missing. I hate that there is a hole in my chest, but what I hate most is the man who put it there in the first place.
“Siri, translatedusha moyato English again.”
“The Russian endearment,dusha moya,means my soul.”
“Repeat.”
“Dusha moyameans my soul.”
I close my eyes and pretend the robotic tone has been replaced with Kirill’s voice. His deep masculine voice calling me his soul, over and over again in my ear until a part of me begins to believe him.
‘You’re running. That’s what you’re doing. I got too close and now…now you’re running home pretending none of it meant shit to you. That I don’t mean anything to you.’
Is he right? Am I running? Have I been shutting him out these last two months because he got too close?
He was never meant to matter. But now I taste his name on my tongue every time I tell that lie to myself.
“Fuck my life,” I grumble, slamming my head back onto the headrest of the car seat.
Why does catching feelings have to be so fucking hard for people like us? And when I say us, I mean my family.
You only have to pay a tiny bit of attention to know that we Romanos are fucking cursed when it comes to the love department. None of us, starting with our parents, has ever chosen the easy route when it comes to matters of the heart.
My mother fell in love with not one, but three of her best friends, unable to part with any of them. That right there sounds like a Greek tragedy just begging to happen.
My eldest brother, Jude, fell head over heels for the heiress of the Firm, Mina, which was hard from the get-go since it meant that he needed to choose between his birthright and the woman he loved.
Enzo is beyond fucked since he turned a monogamous leaf, vowing only to ever love his priest, Alejandro, even if Alejandro’s vows won’t allow him to fully commit himself to my brother.
Lucky found the one in Frankie, only to discover she’s aBratvaprincess.
Even Marcello is now fighting tooth and nail not to give in to his obvious feelings forNonno’snew trainer, Isobel, mostly because the devil that corrupts his soul won’t allow him a moment’s peace, much less love.
And me? Well, I’m parked on a street in Little Russia across from theObsidian, just hoping to catch a glimpse of the man who has consumed my every thought since I left Moscow.
I just hope Annamaria has better luck in the love department and finds a nice young man who can love her freely and wholeheartedly without such complications.
Not being able to be with the person we love hurts like hell.
“Stop that, Stella. You are not in love with Kirill-fucking-Petrov!” I hiss at myself, disgusted that the thought even crossed my mind.
Knowing I’m acting ridiculous, I shove my key into the ignition, only to freeze when Kirill steps out of his club and lights a cigarette.
I stay perfectly still, breath locked in my chest, just as my heart remembers how to beat again.
Kirill isn’t wearing his long black winter coat, not even bothering to shield himself from the cold that bites through the air. It never seems to touch him, though. If anything, the night air recoils from him.
The amber flare brightens his face with every pull, and the smoke rises around him as if starving for his attention, curling over his shoulders in a way that almost crowns him. For a second, he looks like something more than human—danger incarnate wearing a halo of his own making.
I just sit there, staring at him as he smokes the cigarette down to its end, looking up at the night sky as if he hated its color.
