Chapter 8
THE THINGS WE BURY
Once you face the monsters, they lose their teeth
Della
I don’t remember leaving the fountain.
The next thing I know, I’m back in my hotel room—numb, cold, moving on autopilot.
I kick off my heels by the door and head straight to the shower. I watch the steam curl around me, washing away the scent of roasted garlic… and heartbreak.
Then I crawl under the sheets—exhausted, hollowed out by everything this day has dredged up.
The city glows outside the window, distant and indifferent. People laugh; cars rush by. Life moves on without a second thought.
But inside me?
It’s chaos.
Too many triggers. Too many feelings I’ve tried to bury.
Some small, fragile part of me—the one that somehow survived that night five years ago—wants to run straight into his arms. The only place that ever felt safe.
But the rest of me—the woman I’ve become—wants nothing more than to get as far away from Dorian Marshall as the ocean will allow it.
I close my eyes, my body aching.
And let the sleep take me under.
* * *
The dream starts quietly.
I’m back at the construction site—the one where Dorian was overseeing a new project, during our first month together.
The sun was fading slowly in late afternoon, casting golden streaks across the scaffolding and cement bags.
I remember stopping by to surprise him after class, just before we were supposed to head out for dinner.
I was wearing a dress with red flowers I loved, the fabric catching in the breeze as I walked past the metal frames.
The smell of fresh cement, dust, and paint clung to the air. The ground crunched under my heels.
And then—
“Frumoasa rochie.” (Nice dress.)
A voice behind me, smooth and familiar in its native cadence.
I turned, startled—and there he was.
One of the workers, clearly Romanian.
I forced a polite smile. “Mul?umesc.”(Thank you.)
He smiled back—friendly, maybe a little too friendly. There was something strange in his eyes. Something sharp beneath the charm.
