Chapter 39
YELENA
Life without Achilles is…cold.
Dark.
Numb.
Awful.
I hate that he’s gone. I hate that I miss him. I hate that he’s constantly on my mind, in every flicker of movement in my peripheral vision.
I hate that I look for him in every shadow, eagerly waiting for him to jump from behind every corner to make me his again.
I hate that every footstep behind me makes me hope I’m about to be grabbed. That every lick of a fall breeze at the nape of my neck makes my body anticipate his touch.
But most of all, I hate that I just can’t fucking hate him.
I have damning evidence that Achilles has been full-blown stalking me for months—from even before the night of the Para Bellum party where I first crashed into him. Which makes me question, well, everything.
Was it accidental that I ran into him—and from him—that night? Or did he plan it? It’s thoughts like that have my head and my heart splitting in two.
On the one hand, it would be supremely fucked up if he had engineered the entire events of that night.
On the other, the sick part of me can’t help but think it would be outrageously hot if he had.
That broken, fucked-up piece of me can’t stop thinking about him combing through my darkest fantasies, filing them away, and then acting them out with me.
Because I know if that night hadn’t ever happened, there’s no way I would have ever started down the shadowy path of self-discovery I’ve been on ever since.
Maybe—maybe—I’d have eventually found someone with whom I could have let my guard down enough to have some semblance of a normal sex life. But I can't think of any scenario where I’d come close to exploring the part of me that I've discovered with him.
I think that’s the hardest part of trying to tell myself I hate him: hating him means hating the dark, fucked-up parts of me that he’s awoken.
Hating Achilles for hunting me means hating myself for wanting to be hunted in the first place. And that brings up a whole other slew of mindfuck and borderline icky questions.
Did I ask for it?
Did having these dark desires welcome in the beautiful monster who would tear them from me and lay them bare before my eyes? Or is that a nauseating self-and-victim-blaming coping mechanism?
Am I even a victim?
I’m not so sure.
I’ve always hated the “can’t rape the willing” line that you sometimes see in thirsty comment sections. Even as a joke, it’s always rubbed me the wrong way.
But now, I can’t look in the mirror without it flashing in front of my eyes.
Is it wrong that Achilles stalked me when I’ve been fantasizing about being stalked?
Is it wrong that he utilized the methods he did to introduce me to a world of kinks—primal, consensual non-consent, somno, knife play—if those are exactly the dark fantasies I’ve always secretly harbored?
A week after seeing that thumb drive, I still don’t know the answer. In fact, the more time I spend inside my head analyzing the whole thing, the more complicated it feels. There's no black and white when it comes to this.
It’s all just a smeared gray. Which sucks, because it means however I decide to move on from this, there are no “this is right and that is wrong” directions.
Do I stay, knowing this all started with a lie?
Or leave, knowing I’ll never again touch the darkness I know I need?
If I stayed, would it be because of what I feel for him, or the fear of never again feeling that thrill he gives me? That almost makes me sound like an addict. If I left, would it be for the sake of my pride, or because I truly do feel wronged?
“Here, drink this.”
I blink, pulling my gaze away from the rocky shore and the ocean behind Laz’s house to the mug that Wren sets down in front of me.
“What’s this?”
“Anji bai cha.”
My brows lift as I look up at her. “Excuse me?”
She grins. “Fancy tea. I kinda feel you need a little razzle-dazzle right now, and it was this or champagne.” She rolls her eyes. “But since in this house, the latter is under lock and key…” She clears her throat and raises her mug. “Uh, kompai?”
I laugh as I tap my own steaming mug to hers. “Cheers.”
Shit.
That tea really is good.
Wren shrugs. “Dude, it’s been a week. I would love to gab, or just plain trash talk that motherfucker…” She makes a face. “Literally any direction you want to go. But I still don’t even know what the hell happened.”
I glower into my tea.
“Still trying to get her to talk?”
I glance up. Galina, Ari, and Lucia are back from the walk down the shore they set off on barely twenty minutes ago. I don’t think Laz is even home, but Wren assured us it would be cool if we all came to hang at his frankly gorgeous house fronting the water.
I knew Laz was wealthy, but…shit. It’s like something straight out of Architectural Digest, with views of the sound from his back patio that are unreal, especially toward sundown.
“I was so close!” Wren groans, shooting Galina a look.
I snort. “Believe me, you weren’t.”
Arianna giggles as she takes a seat next to me and leans over to sniff the tea. “Oh, that smells delightful.”
“Want some?” I smirk. “Our barista Wren is taking orders.”
“I am not!” my friend huffs. “You just want me to stop questioning you.”
Galina laughs, then sighs. “Okay, since it’s clear we’re not going to get the full story out of you, can we at least establish some basics?”
I frown. “Like?”
“Like, did he hurt you?” Arianna frowns. “I mean, yes, you’re hurting. But—”
“No,” I quickly shake my head. “No, he didn’t hurt me.”
Her brows knit. “How do I say this…Lena, you’ve had a lot of bruising the last couple of months…” She’s looking at me with concern, but then Wren starts to crack up.
“Wait for it.” Wren grins lecherously at me. “Lena, hon, would you like to explain to the class how when a boy and a girl like each other very much, they might want to express those feelings by the girl getting spanked and choked—”
“Oh my God,” Lucia howls, cracking up. Galina goes red.
“Could we talk about literally anything else?” I grumble.
Wren's eyebrows shoot up. “What else could we possibly have to talk about right now that’s more important than whatever is happening with you?”
Movement draws my attention, and I glance past Wren to where Laz, in a very short bathing suit that fits him entirely too well, is climbing out of the ocean and shoving water out of his face as he rakes his hair back.
Still dripping, and presumably fucking freezing cold, he hikes up the rocky beach toward where we're all sitting on his back patio.
Galina waves. “Hi, Laz.”
Wren turns a little pink and whirls before whipping her face back to us.
“Ladies,” Laz grunts as he comes to a stop on the patio.
I cock a brow at him. “Aren’t you freezing?”
He shrugs, grinning at me. “Russian blood. Besides, cold plunges are good for the heart.” His rolls his neck. “You guys need anything?”
“Nope,” Wren says quickly, not looking at him. “All set here.”
He lifts his massive shoulders. “Well, help yourself to whatever inside. I’ll be in my office.” He frowns and nods his chin at me. “But if your boyfriend is coming over, no fucking hanky-panky in—”
“Oh no.” Galina clears her throat. “He will not be coming over.”
I glare at her. As angry as I am, the last thing I need is Laz—or, God forbid, Dad—finding out that we’re fighting or broken up or I don’t even know right now and going full medieval on Achilles.
Laz frowns. “Why wouldn’t he be coming over?” He turns to level a stern look at me. “Lena, did that motherfucker—”
“He’s just at practice,” I say quickly, forcing a smile. “That’s why.”
Laz looks doubtful, but mercifully he lets it slide.
“Well, holler if you need anything.”
After he steps into the house and closes the sliding glass door behind him, a huge, shit-eating grin spreads across Galina’s face as she turns to Wren.
“Well,” she giggles. “We could certainly talk about that instead.”
Wren looks innocent. “Talk about what?”
“Dude,” Lucia snickers. “Really?”
Wren’s face heats. “Really what?”
Galina rolls her eyes. “The fact that you’re living here alone with all of that,” she snickers. “That’s what.”
Wren wrinkles her nose. “You guys need help. He’s my ex-boyfriend’s dad.”
I snort. “He’s your shitty ex-boyfriend's stepfather, and he won’t even be that after his and Veronica’s divorce paperwork goes through.”
Wren looks pained. “And that makes it…better?”
“Well…yeah,” Arianna giggles.
The rest of us laugh as Wren flips us all off. “You guys are fucking gross. Ew.”
“Yeah, ew.” Lucia rolls her eyes sarcastically. “He’s soooo unattractive…”
Wren’s lips purse. “Hi, yes, I thought we were here to make sure Lena is okay?”
I make an angry buzzer sound. “Nope. We’re done with me. New category.”
Lucia’s phone dings. She picks it up off the table, and her brows shoot up before she puts the phone back down.
“What’s up?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Oh, nothing.”
This time it’s Galina who eyes Lucia. “Um, that doesn’t sound like nothing.”
Lucia sighs. “Just this band I like. They've announced a surprise show at this dive bar tonight in Standish.”
Galina’s brows arch. “How is that nothing? Standish is like a fifteen-minute drive away. What kind of music?”
Lucia shakes her head. “Forget it. Seriously.” She turns to smile warmly at me. “We’re here for Lena tonight.”
I clear my throat. “Um, I would like to know about this band too.”
Lucia grins. “They’re called Explosions. Loud dance-rock with a bit of metal?”
Galina shrugs. “Not really my thing, but you said dance?”
“For sure,” Lucia nods. “They’re super fun. I used to sneak into their shows in Brooklyn all the time when I was in high school.”
“What bar in Standish are they playing at?” Galina prods.
“The Garage,” Lucia says.
Galina taps away on her own phone for a moment and then looks up with a sly grin. “Mr. Google says that place is notorious for not checking IDs…”
Shit. I should be here, drinking tea with friends, trying to figure out my life, i.e., Achilles, and how I feel after everything I know now.
But on the other hand…a dive bar that doesn’t check IDs playing loud, head-banging dance rock sounds like fucking therapy right now.
“I have a ton of studying to do tonight,” Arianna sighs. “Sorry, I’m out.”
“I’m out too,” Wren mutters. When I frown at her, she shakes her head. “That wasn’t a pity party. You guys should totally go. Really!”
Galina grins as she looks at Lucia, then me. “Well?” She lifts a shoulder. “Got a better way to get your mind off Mr. Golden and his choking, chasing tendencies?”
I groan, blushing.
But you know what?
“Fuck it,” I mutter. “Let’s roll.”