Ahead of us, Blade appears.
He’s standing a few feet away, unharmed, watching me with that same steady intensity. Not angry. Not afraid. Just waiting.
“You don’t belong there anymore,” Alexei murmurs. “That life is already over.”
I tighten my grip on the gun. My hands aren’t shaking this time.
“He loves you,” Alexei continues. “But love does not keep you alive.”
Blade opens his mouth like he’s going to say my name.
Alexei’s hand closes over mine, guiding the barrel upward, steady and certain.
“Pull the trigger,” he whispers. “Kill that part of your life. End it cleanly.”
Tears blur my vision. “I can’t.”
“You already have,” he says calmly. “This is just the part where you accept it.”
I look at Blade one last time, and something in his expression changes. Not anger. Not betrayal.Understanding.
It breaks me.
Tears spill over, hot and unstoppable, and I shake my head hard, my chest caving in on itself. “I can’t,” I sob, my voice cracking as I look back at Alexei. “I won’t. I won’t do this. I won’t kill him.”
My hands tremble violently around the gun, the weight of it unbearable now, dragging my arms down like it’s trying to pull me into the ground with it.
Alexei’s grip tightens over mine, firm but patient, like he’s waiting me out. “You’re hurting yourself,” he says calmly. “Let it end.”
“No,” I choke. “Please. Don’t make me.”
Blade doesn’t move. He doesn’t beg. He just watches me with that same quiet steadiness, like he knows exactly how much this is costing me and loves me anyway.
The pressure in my chest builds until I can barely breathe. The world blurs. The road tilts. Everything feels too loud and too close and too wrong. I scream his name. And then I’m gasping awake, tears already soaking my pillow, my heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to escape my body.
“???????,” Alexei says gently, right beside me. “Baby girl. It’s time to wake.”
His hand is on my arm, warm and grounding, and my fingers are still curled like they’re holding something that isn’t there anymore. I can still feel the weight of the gun. And I hate him for putting it there.
It’s been over a month since I was taken. I blink up at him, still caught halfway between sleep and awareness, and for a second I forget where I am. The room is dim, curtains drawn tight, early light leaking around the edges. He’s already dressed in an expensive suit, calm and composed, like he’s been awake for hours while I was still dreaming.
His knuckles brush across my cheek, warm and familiar in a way I hate that my body recognizes.
I want to cringe. I want to pull away. But I don’t. That’s the part that scares me the most. Something feels different. Not safer,exactly, but changed. Like a line has shifted somewhere and neither of us has said it out loud yet.
He studies my face, searching for something, then straightens and reaches for the nightstand. “I have something for you,” he says, and there’s an edge of anticipation in his voice that makes my stomach tighten. He sets two things on the bed between us. One is a small gift bag, simple and elegant. The other is a wrapped box, heavier, more deliberate. “Choose,” he says.
I hesitate only a second before reaching for the wrapped box, because somehow that feels like the safer option. I peel the paper back carefully and open it.
Inside is another dress. It’s beautiful, of course. Soft fabric. Perfect cut. The kind of thing that makes people look at you twice when you walk into a room. I already know it will fit me exactly because everything he gives me always does.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, because I’ve learned that gratitude is expected.
He watches my face, not the dress, and then slides the small gift bag toward me. “And this.”
I pull a small velvet box from inside and pause, my fingers tightening around it as I look up at him.
His mouth curves into a smile, real and unmistakably pleased, and he nods once. “Open it.”
