My grip tightens. Strokes faster. Remember the way she'd whispered, "I've always been yours." The way I'd said "I love you" into the dark where she couldn't hear. The way she'd smiled against my chest and made me believe, for one perfect night, that we could actually last.
I come hard. Groaning her name into the steam. "Alena—" My hand shakes. My voice breaks. The word echoes off the tile. Pathetic. Desperate. The truth I can't tell anyone.
I slump against the wall. Water still running. Breathing ragged. Wipe my hand. Watch the evidence of my weakness circle the drain.
Two years. Two years of this. Two years of becoming a monster by day and jerking off to her memory by night like some lovesick teenager who can't let go.
I turn off the water. Step out. Dry off. Catch my reflection in the mirror—Bratva stars on my collarbones, epaulettes on my shoulders, tiger on my thigh, all the symbols of violence and rank I've earned through blood and lies. And over my heart: Alena. Still there. Still hers. Even if she'll never know. Even if I'm nothing but a memory to her now.
I go to bed. I rest the tablet with her live feed on the next pillow as I do every night. I watch her move around, and I trace her with my fingers. I don’t think I can sleep without seeing her. I close my eyes and dream of a woman who still belongs to me.
Mine.
32
ALENA
"I hate red."
Lucy holds up the dress—crimson silk, backless, the kind of thing that screams trying too hard.
"But babe," she says, grinning like she's personally saving my life, "you look so good in it."
I stare at the dress. At myself in the mirror. Hair done. Makeup perfect. One year sober-ish and I barely recognize the woman staring back.
"I look like I'm going to a funeral," I mutter.
"You look like you're going on a date." Lucy shoves the dress at me. "Which you are. So put it on."
I take it. Hold it at arm's length like it might bite. "This is a terrible idea."
"It's a brilliant idea." Lucy sits on my bed, already looking smug. "You haven't been on a date in two years. You need this."
"I need a lobotomy."
"Same thing." She grins. "Come on. Oliver's nice. Polite. Rich. Marcus vetted him—no criminal record, no secret wives, not even a parking ticket."
"Sounds thrilling."
"He's perfect."
"That's the problem."
I slip the dress on anyway. Because Lucy's been pushing this for months. Because Marcus thinks I need to "move on." Because my therapist—the fourth one—says isolation isn'thealthy. Because maybe they're right. Maybe two years is long enough to mourn a man who left without looking back.
The dress fits perfectly. Of course it does. Lucy probably had it tailored.
I look at myself in the mirror. Red silk. Bare back. Hair falling in soft waves. Lipstick the exact shade of the dress.
I look… good.
I hate it.
"You're gorgeous," Lucy says, standing behind me. "He's going to lose his mind."
"I don't want him to lose his mind. I want him to buy me drinks and leave me alone."
"That's the spirit." She squeezes my shoulders. "Just… try, okay? For me."
