Chapter 26
ROAN
I pull on a pair of sweats, jaw tight as a vice, still feeling the lingering heat of Katie’s skin on mine as I leave the bedroom and head downstairs. My hair’s dripping, but I don’t bother drying it. I’m too fucking annoyed to care.
Dhimiter is waiting in the living room—slouched on the couch like he owns the damn place, one leg crossed over his knee, arms stretched across the backrest like he’s just relaxing and not about to get his ass handed to him for walking in on something that wasn’t his business.
“Give me my key.” I hold out my hand, palm up, waiting with barely contained anger.
He reaches into his pocket as he sits up, then drops the small metal key into my palm.
I close my fingers around it, the edges biting into my skin, fighting the urge to whip it straight at his skull. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He shifts his weight, like he’s trying to get comfortable, but I can tell he’s already bracing himself for whatever bullshit he’s about to say next.
“I just wanted to check in on you. You’ve been so stoic through all this, but I know you’re taking Afrim’s death hard.
” He meets my eyes directly. “I’m worried about you, Roan. ”
“I’m fine.” The words scrape out between clenched teeth.
He sighs, clearly not believing me. “Look, I get it. Being with her probably helps. She’s a pretty distraction, sure—but you need to get your head clear.
She might still be hiding a lot of shit.
Deal or no deal, she’s still the enemy. Still unpredictable as hell.
You really think fucking her is a good idea? ”
My whole body goes rigid, and I move closer to him, blood roaring in tandem with my heart in my ears. “Get out,” I say quietly, refusing to raise my voice. But I don’t need to. The threat is clear enough.
Dhimiter gets to his feet, his face expressionless as he searches my gaze. “Roan…”
“Out,” I repeat. He starts walking towards the front door without further protest, and right as he pulls it open, I stop him with words that surprise even me. “And don’t ever talk about her that way again.”
He pauses mid-motion, glancing back to give me a double take. His eyes widen slightly before his lips thin into a hard line at whatever he sees on my face—whatever I’m not hiding well enough. But he gives me a slow, reluctant nod, his jaw tight, and walks out without saying another word.
I lock the door behind him, then head back upstairs, my heart still pounding harder than I want to admit. I don’t know when the hell it shifted for me—when this thing with her became more than just sex and deceit and the need to prove something to myself.
But it has shifted.
And I’m not fucking stupid. I know what’s at stake.
I open the bedroom door to find her sitting up against the pillows, the sheet pulled over her chest, her hair still damp and skin beautifully flushed. Her eyes snap to mine right away, and she tilts her head at me in a questioning little gesture.
“The asshole is gone,” I say conversationally as I climb back into bed and tug her close, wrapping my arm around her waist.
She settles into my chest without hesitation, but I can feel the uncertainty in the way her body moves—how she doesn’t quite know where we stand now. Hell, I don’t know either.
What I do know is that I hate every word that came out of Dhimiter’s mouth. Hate that he made her doubt this. Hate that he referred to her like she was nothing but a mistake. Even though I’m still trying to make sense of what is happening between us, it sure as shit isn’t that.
Her right hand lands on my chest, tentative at first, then drifts up to my dog tag. She lifts the worn metal for a closer look, and I glance down at her, watching her lips purse as she reads the words engraved there. Words I remember by heart—I don’t think I’ll ever forget them.
To my sonshine,
Never forget that I love you.
I hope you believe in yourself
As much as I believe in you.
Ate and I will always have your back.
I’m proud to be your mother.
Love, mama.
I got it on my sixth birthday, right after Elira was born.
I had thought it was the coolest thing in the world back then and never took it off.
But as I grew older, it became less cool, less acceptable to wear jewelry with your mother’s love letter engraved on it.
So I took it off, shoved it in a drawer, forgot about it.
Until she died.
My throat tightens uncomfortably. I hope Katie doesn’t try to ask me any questions about it. I’m not ready to open that wound tonight.
She glances up at me, her eyes darkening as a complex play of emotions crosses her face. Wordlessly, she leans down and presses a gentle, reverent kiss on the pendant, and my breath catches hard in my throat. Fuck. Why does she have to be so… so… fucking perceptive and understanding?
Her fingers slip from the dog tag and trail down my abdomen, turning to explore my arm. She traces the sensitive skin on the inside of my wrist, grazing the ink there, and the tension that’s been coiled tight in my chest loosens a little under that soft, curious touch.
The lines hold her attention for a long moment as she follows each one with the tip of her finger. Then she looks up at me. “What’s this?”
I glance down at my arm to see which tattoo she’s referring to.
Her touch returns, slower this time, her thumb brushing over the intricate design of my nightshade tattoo—the black and white foxglove with its bright green stem that wraps from the inside of my elbow down to the middle of my forearm.
The monochrome flower is bound in thin but gnarly thorns, and just below it, like leaves falling from a shaken branch, three blue bell-shaped petals drop towards the words inked above my wrist in looping Albanian script—Nuk qaj, luftoj per te.
“What does it mean?” she asks, her voice quiet.
“The flowers I got last year, a few months after Elira’s marriage to Maximo.” After accepting that my sister had become a Nightshade, Rafael and the others called a meeting and asked me to choose a nightshade tattoo—not to prove my allegiance to them, but to demonstrate my acceptance of the group.
Over time, that choice shifted something in me. I’ve come to think of them as family, whether official or not. And deep down, I know if I ever needed them, they’d be there for me, just as I’d be there for them. That’s what family is about, isn’t it?
Katie nods slowly, understanding washing over her face without me having to explain further. I’m sure she knows all about the Nightshades and the symbolism behind their tattoos.
“And this?” She runs her index finger over the Albanian words.
“‘I don’t cry, I fight for her,’” I quote, eyes fixed on the slightly faded letters. “I got it after my mother’s death.” After I started wearing the dog tag again. But I needed something more permanent as a tribute to her. Something that would last as long as I did.
“You were close with her?” she asks softly, carefully, like she’s afraid one wrong syllable will set something off inside me.
“Yeah.” I pause, remembering how fiercely she always looked out for me. I was barely a teenager when she was killed, but we were tight. “We didn’t always agree on everything. She and Ate fought constantly because she didn’t want me following in his footsteps.”
A small, involuntary smile tugs at my mouth.
It was a silly wish. I couldn’t have been anything else but what I am now.
“But she was the one person I knew would never turn her back on me, no matter what.” And she forgave me that first time I got blood on my hands, after I went with Ate to my first business meeting that went sideways.
She didn’t yell. Didn’t look at me like I was ruined.
She just… accepted it. Accept me. Even when it broke her heart.
Katie doesn’t say anything at first, just keeps her thoughtful gaze on my arm and the ink there. When she finally speaks, her voice is low and hesitant, like she’s unsure whether she should bring up the next subject. “I read about how she got killed. It was so tragic. Elira was lucky to survive.”
My jaw tightens, and I look away because I can’t—just can’t go there tonight. Not after everything. Not with Ate’s death still so fresh I can’t breathe when I think about it for too long. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, words tight and clipped, and I mean it with every fiber of my being.
She nods, not pushing. Instead, she leans down, the short strands of her golden hair brushing my wrist as she presses a soft, lingering kiss over the tattoo. Right over those words. I swallow hard, my chest constricting as my eyes find hers again.
“It’s a powerful quote,” she murmurs as she lifts her head back up, her fingers sliding from my wrist up to my elbow, caressing the full length of the tattoo.
Then she moves her attention to my chest, running her hand up my body until it’s resting directly over my heart.
“And it’s still relevant for Afrim’s death.
You haven’t cried, but you’ve fought for him.
You’re still fighting for him by making sure his legacy lives on. ”
Her words punch straight through my walls, lodging somewhere deep in my chest. I don’t let it show, but goddamn, it lands.
“Maybe I’ll get something similar too,” she adds, her voice even softer now. “For my parents. My sister.”
I look down at her properly, really taking in the way she fits against me—like she belongs there, like this is the only place in the world that makes sense for either of us—and I press a kiss to the top of her head, lips against her damp hair, breathing her in deeply because somehow it calms the chaos inside me in a way I don’t know how to explain.
We don’t speak after that.
She settles against me like she’s been doing it for years, one hand still resting on my chest, and I wrap my arm tighter around her waist, feeling her breathing slow until it matches mine.
The calm tugs at me, easing my eyes shut, and for the first time in weeks, the silence doesn’t feel like a weight trying to crush me. And when sleep comes, I don’t fight it.
The sun rises bright and indifferent like it’s done every single day this past week since Ate’s death.
Life keeps moving even when a beloved one is gone.
Today is the funeral, and my lungs feel too big for my chest, my limbs too heavy as I force myself out of bed.
I make my way to the bathroom, dragging my feet, trying to delay the moment where I’ll have to bury my last parent. But regardless of what I do or don’t do, time will continue forward without mercy or pause. It always does.
I don’t even feel the water on my body as I step into the shower. The temperature could be scalding or freezing and I wouldn’t notice. I lean my back against the tiled wall, numb down to my bones, and just stand there as water pounds against my chest.
The only time I feel anything these days is when Katie’s in my arms.
As if my thoughts summoned her, the bathroom door opens and she peeks in, the morning sun streaming in behind her and bathing her face in golden light, making her hair appear almost ethereal with how brightly it shines.
“Hope I didn’t wake you.” My voice comes out thick, so I clear my throat as I push away from the wall.
“No, you didn’t.” She watches me cautiously as she walks into the bathroom and approaches the shower. “You good?”
“You’ll get your clothes wet,” I warn, dodging her question when she opens the shower door and steps inside.
“I don’t care,” she mutters, wrapping her arms tightly around my waist. “It’s going to be okay, Roan. You’re going to get through this.”
My arms circle her automatically, drawing her in against my chest as I press my lips to the crown of her disheveled hair. And for a second—just one small, stolen second—I let myself believe her.