Between Darkness and Longing
Chapter 63
Between Darkness and Longing
Isabella
The drive back to the cabin is quiet, the steady hum of the car mingling with the soft rustle of the trees as the city fades into the distance. Snow clings to the edges of the road, the pale light of the moon casting a soft glow on the frosted landscape. I glance at Aslanov, his hands steady on the wheel, his jaw set in that familiar tension I’ve come to recognize. The warm ease of the café is gone now, replaced by something heavier—something that presses down on both of us.
He doesn’t speak, but I can feel the weight of his thoughts. His gaze flickers to the rearview mirror, then to the side windows, scanning the empty road. Even here, miles from the city’s noise, his vigilance never fades.
When we reach the cabin, I notice the shadows first—men moving silently along the tree line, their figures dark against the snow. Their presence is unspoken but undeniable, a quiet reminder that danger isn’t as far away as it feels.
Aslanov stops the car in front of the cabin and kills the engine. For a moment, he doesn’t move, his fingers tightening briefly on the steering wheel before he exhales and steps out. The crunch of his boots on the snow is sharp in the stillness.
I wait for him to open my door, and he does, his hand outstretched to help me. His touch lingers for a fraction of a second too long, and I cling to that small moment of connection, unwilling to let it slip away so easily.
“Inside,” he says softly, his voice carrying none of the sharpness I expect. “I’ll be there soon.”
I hesitate, my eyes searching his face for something—an explanation, a reassurance—but all I see is the quiet storm brewing beneath his calm exterior. I nod, stepping out and making my way toward the cabin, the snow crunching softly beneath my boots.
Inside, the warmth wraps around me like a blanket, but it feels hollow. I set my bag down on the table and glance over my shoulder, watching through the window as Aslanov speaks to his men. His posture is commanding, his movements deliberate, but there’s something about the way he glances toward the cabin—just once, quickly—that sends a flicker of warmth through me.
I hear the crunch of gravel outside again, and then the sound of the front door opening. Aslanov steps inside but doesn’t close it behind him. The cold air hits me before the door shuts with a soft thud. I don’t look at him as he moves toward the hallway, his movements purposeful.
He’s silent for a long moment. Then I hear him sigh, the deep, frustrated sound that echoes in the empty room. I can almost feel his frustration radiating from him, and I don’t need to look up to know he’s rubbing his tattooed hand over his stubbled chin, trying to collect his thoughts. When he speaks again, his voice is rough, softer, but still laced with something I can’t quite place.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low, the words barely audible but heavy with meaning.
I blink up at him, caught off guard. “For what?”
“For this.” He gestures vaguely, his hand sweeping toward the door, the darkness outside, the weight that hangs between us.
I shake my head, my chest tightening. I don’t know what to say, and I don’t know what we are doing together.
His gaze softens, the edges of his expression smoothing into something almost tender. He crouches down in front of me, his knees creaking against the floorboards, and takes my hands in his. His touch is warm, and grounding.
“I’m keeping you safe,” he says, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.
My eyes drift, tracing the intricate roses that climb up the side of his neck, their petals blurred by the ink that stains his skin. The patterns dance beneath the faint light from the fire, twisting in ways that almost seem to breathe, just like him. The roses are beautiful—dangerous, even. They remind me of something forbidden, a truth hidden in plain sight. They’re a part of him, just as the darkness is.
I swallow hard, my breath catching in my throat as his eyes flicker to mine, sharp, intense, like he’s searching for something I’m not ready to give. His lips part slightly, but the words seem to die on his tongue, swallowed by the space between us.
The room feels smaller now, the air thicker. I’m not sure if it’s the fire, or the way his presence stretches into the corners of the room, pulling me in, or the pull of something else, something I can’t name but feel in every inch of me.
His hand tightens around mine, a slight tremor in his grip, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s afraid—of what we are, of what this might become. And that thought alone sends a ripple of something dark and electric skittering down my spine.
I blink, caught between the ache of needing something I can’t have and the fear of losing it all.
The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy, as if the very air is holding its breath, waiting for something neither of us wants to say. My chest tightens with the weight of unspoken thoughts, and for the first time, I realize I don’t know how to ask for what I need.
His grip remains steady, but there’s a subtle tension in his fingers, as though he’s battling something inside himself, something he’s not ready to reveal. I feel the warmth of his skin against mine, and yet, the chill in the room presses in, pulling the world just a little bit farther away.
I break the silence, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “Aslanov…” I pause, unsure how to put this delicate thing into words. “Promise me that you’ll protect yourself, no matter what.” My voice trembles slightly, betraying the vulnerability I’m trying so hard to keep hidden. “I don’t want you to give yourself up in the process of protecting me.”
I can feel his gaze on me, sharp and unyielding, but he doesn’t say anything at first. The fire crackles in the background, the only sound in the room, the soft hiss of the flames almost mocking the stillness between us.
“I don’t need protection, Aslanov,” I add, almost in a whisper. “I want to protect you. Please.” My heart beats loudly in my chest, each pulse a reminder of how much I’m asking him to hear, to understand.
He stays silent, his eyes fixed on mine, and the seconds stretch into eternity. It feels like an age before I repeat myself, my voice firmer this time, though my breath catches at the last word. “Promise me.”
Finally, he shifts, a subtle movement, but the weight of it is enough to send a shiver down my spine. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t break contact. But he doesn’t answer right away, either. Instead, there’s something unreadable in his eyes, a storm of emotion that I can’t quite decipher.
His hand loosens around mine, not in rejection, but in a way that feels almost resigned.
I’m waiting for him to say what I need to hear, to promise me that he won’t sacrifice himself, that he’ll stay alive .
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t say any of those things.
He just stares at me, his jaw tight, the muscles in his neck tensing, like he’s holding back a storm. The air between us feels like it’s thick with something unsaid, something that could break us, if I pushed too hard.
Finally, he exhales slowly, his gaze never wavering from mine. And in a voice so quiet, so final, that it cuts deeper than anything I expected, he says:
“I can’t do that, love .”