Thirty-Five
Ara
I’ve never been naive enough to think the reprieve I’ve been offered would last. The peaceful life I’ve had so far was a mirage that would eventually break. The hope that took root in my heart has withered before it could grow. I’ve been prepared for this day. Even as I prayed that it shouldn’t ever come, I prepared for it.
I wished and cried to never see the day when I’ll have to run. Again. This time with a kid. I’ve known the consequences when I’ve adopted Cas. I knew if Vir ever found me, I’d be forced to make a choice. A difficult one. Leave him here so that he wouldn’t have to go through the catastrophic storm that would brew in my life or take him with me.
Leaving him here was the choice I thought I’d make at that time. But looking at his sleeping form, his hands clutching onto mine, I can't do that. I’m taking him with me. I’m running with him. It’s okay. I have multiple plans set in motion already. Div will have the passports and necessary documents required for us to travel to a new country. This time, to a place whose existence is often ignored. I won’t mind the negative temperatures if it gets me to escape the demon.
“Is there no other way?”
I keep my gaze fixed on Cas's sleeping form, refusing to look at Ivy. She already knows everything that unfolded today. It was only a few hours ago, yet it feels like a lifetime has passed since then. Every second counts. Every minute, every hour, pushes us closer to the time when he will get to us. There is a reason he hasn’t pounced yet. I don’t care what it is; I’m just thankful for the little time it gives me to set things into motion.
“I wish there was,” I answer, my voice tight, trying to push back the tears.
"You don't have to do this alone,”
"I’ve never been alone in this, and that’s what terrifies me.”
I hear Ivy’s soft sob before she leaves. I sigh and rub my fingers over Cas’s forehead, pushing back his soft hair. My hands tremble despite my effort to steady them, my chest tightening with every shallow breath. The weight pressing on my ribs feels like it might crush me. He needs to let go of his school, his friends and the city he has known. I’m uprooting his life, like I did Iyra’s. But there isn’t any other way.
Vir must know who Cas is to me. If I leave him behind, there is a very good chance of him harming my kid just to get to me. I cannot let that happen. Even if it means running from place to place, never settling in one, I’m ready to do it. I’m ready to face the hatred in Cas’s eyes for what I’m doing to him. I will die before I let Vir’s tainted hands get to Cas.
Tucking the blanket around him, I turn off the light on his table. The beauty of the glow-in-the-dark stickers and paint does nothing to lift my mood. I check the bolts on the windows and the balcony door, my fingers lingering on the cold metal as I twist and tug to make sure they hold. The curtains swish faintly as I draw them shut, and I pause, straining to listen for any sound out of place. My heart pounds in my ears, drowning out the silence. I keep the door open, wanting to know if there is anything amiss. I won’t want to miss even the littlest of sounds that are out of the ordinary.
I won’t be sleeping today or for a while. It is impossible.
I descend the stairs, spotting Ivy on the floor, leaning back on the couch, her eyes staring at the piece of paper with hatred. Her eyes are red, her skin blotchy, and when she looks at me, I see her torturous expression mirroring mine.
“Are you sure it is him?”
I go to sit by her side, prying the paper from her hands. I nod, my eyes fixed not on the text but on the sigil on the paper. The symbol of that damned cult that has put the fear of the devil inside me. The last time I saw this mark, it wasn’t on paper. It was carved into a woman’s skin, her screams a haunting melody I’ve never forgotten. I can distinctly hear the wails of countless women in the background. The soul-shattering cries while he and his men tortured them, in more than one way, broke them beyond repair.
It stares back at me, mocking and unrelenting—a thin circle enclosing an inverted triangle, its lines sharp enough to cut. At the centre, the hollow circle gapes like an eye, empty yet somehow alive, pulling at my thoughts and dragging me toward a void I don’t want to face.
The jagged cracks radiating outward look as if the world itself is fracturing, and I swear I can almost hear it breaking. The crescents and dots around the edges seem to hum, silent yet deafening, like the echo of whispers that crawl under my skin.
The memories claw at me, bringing with them a rush of fear so intense I can barely breathe. My throat tightens, and my knees feel weak, a cold sweat breaking out along the nape of my neck. My hands clutch the paper, crumpling its edges as if letting go of it might give it power over me. Last time, it was the beginning of everything I’ve tried so hard to forget. Looking at it again feels like stepping back into the nightmare I thought I’d escaped.
“It is him.”
No one knows the existence of his cult. Apart from his followers— who do not step out from the forest that they claimed as theirs. For everyone outside that wretched forest, he is a business mogul. A self-made man who climbed ladders because of his intelligence. The chief advisor for the Throne of Inamai. Not a murderer, a molester and a deranged psycho.
Ivy turns, her eyes gathered with tears that are about to spill. I don’t allow myself to cry. I cannot be anything but strong.
“Have you told Iyra?”
There goes my attempt not to cry. I lean my head back on the couch, trying to reign in the tears.
“Not yet. Once Div is done setting up our identities, I’ll tell her.”
I need to tell her now. So that she can start preparing from her side, unlike me, she cannot simply hand in the resignation letter. She has a business; she has a staff she is accountable for. She needs to transfer the deed to someone else’s name. But I cannot bring myself to pick up the phone. I cannot bring myself to dial her and tell her that, yet again, I’m uprooting her life.
She is happy there. She is blooming into a woman I’ve given up on ever finding after we lost everything. She dreams, she laughs, and she has formed connections over the years. She has made a home for herself. And I’m taking it all away. Again.
Ivy just nods, even though I know she disagrees. That is what I love about her. She understands me more than I deserve to be understood. Tears prick at my eyes, hating myself more than I ever did. All my life, what am I if not for serving as an obstacle in the lives of people I love?
I separated Iyra from her childhood love. I’ve brought trouble onto Ivy’s doorstep. I can run all I want, but she cannot. She has a life here, and she doesn’t have a psycho chasing her to death. But because she was associated with me, there is a heavy chance of him coming to her. She will be pulled into his web, and I can only hope worse doesn’t happen.
Right now, I hate myself more than anyone else. If I could, I would end it all by putting a bullet into my head, but that’s the easy way out. I need to be held responsible for my actions. I have made promises to Ma, to Iyra and even to Cas. As tough as it might get, I need to see through them.
“So this is it?” Ivy leans on my shoulder.
I don’t bother wiping my tears as I hug her back tightly. Her arms wrap around my waist, her grip almost desperate. I feel her body trembling against mine, and the weight of our shared fear settles heavily in the room like a storm cloud pressing us down.
“Seems like it.”
* * *
The most painful thing about leaving Walius isn’t the university, the friends I made or the home I’ve built. It is the knowledge that I’m leaving this. The place where I immersed Ma and Papa. This is the place I’ve always come to whenever I feel lost. This is where they lay to rest, becoming one with the sea I love so much.
I will never feel the breeze caressing my cheeks like Ma’s touch. I will never feel the waves crashing on the rocks like Papa’s voice. I’ll never see the sea animals which appear now and then when I’m in a particularly depressing mood as if Grandpa senses I need to see something cute. I’ve never felt truly alone until now. Until I sit here, grappling with the knowledge that I have to leave and I won’t ever be able to come again.
I try to say goodbye, but my throat tightens, the words trapped behind an ocean of unshed tears. The sea has always been my anchor, my refuge—but leaving it now feels like cutting away the last thread of who I was
I turn when I hear heavy footsteps and watch Zagan walking down the pier, his large feet eating the distance between us quickly. His eyes, like always, are fixed on me, trying to see past the defences I’ve built with a lot of difficulty.
“Two more days,”
I surprise myself by chuckling at his way of opening a conversation. It’s by a demanding reminder that somehow cracks me up slightly.
“I remember,” I nod.
I tap the space beside me on the bench, wanting to talk to him. For some asinine reason, this man here, who looks at me with emotions I don’t think he recognises, feels like a haven. But that is all an illusion.
Zagan sits on the bench, looking out at the sea with me, his rich scent enveloping me in its arms. The weather is perfect. Streams of sunlight break from the clouds, painting the surface of the water like glittering gold. I see a few fishermen take their boats; I hear the distant shouts from the dock market. There is no chill in the air nor an impending forecast of rain.
In a way, it feels like the city is giving me a perfect farewell in its own language.
“I’ve scattered my parents' ashes here. Into the sea.” I say.
Zagan looks at me for a moment and then turns back.
“Papa couldn't bear to leave Ma alone—not even in death.”
At a distance, I see a flock of birds flying into the sky.
“You miss them,” Zagan surprises me with his words.
I didn’t expect him to talk or listen. I just wanted to sit here and, for a moment, feel the sunlight warming my cheeks. For a single moment, I want to pretend that my life isn’t a mess.
“More than anything else.” I smile at him despite the tears gathering in my eyes.
His eyes rove across my face, the impassiveness in his face breaking slightly to give way to something soft. His eyes are softer, too, maybe that is what which transforms his face. They speak, those eyes, in a language all their own, saying more than he allows himself to. And I wish I had the time to learn it and become fluent in their silent dialogue.
“Tell me about them.”
I raise my brows at him, shaking my head.
“You don’t have to do that for me.”
“Do what?” He asks with a barely decipherable frown.
“Pretend to care. You hate it when people talk too much. Or when they are too close.”
I turn back to face the water, breathing in the gentle evening air. I feel his proximity before I even see him shift, a shadow that leans too close, and then his hand brushes against mine. My breath catches, an involuntary reaction, my skin tingling where he touches. It’s more than just his presence—it’s the weight of him, the pull I can’t escape.
I suck in a deep breath, still not used to being close to this powerful, hauntingly beautiful man. He then turns to face his body on me, giving me his entire focus and speaks the words that are fatal to my heart.
“Not when it’s you.”
Stay still, my heart.
I look at him, blinking, unable to form a coherent response. I didn’t know my mouth was gaping open until his rough fingers touched under my chin to close it. I look away, my cheeks warming with a blush and clear my throat.
He lets me stew in my thoughts until I decide to talk again. Talking about them is easy. I’m glad that I have someone other than Iyra to discuss them. Ivy lost her parents too young, and as it’s a touchy for us both, we don’t talk about parents a lot.
An automatic smile comes on my face as I think of the things to share with Zagan.
“When I was about eight, my dad decided it was time I learned to ride a bike without training wheels. It wasn’t my idea, by the way—he had this grand vision of me speeding down the street, the wind in my hair, looking like one of those kids in a cereal commercial. Mom thought it was cute, but she was less... intense about the whole thing.
So, there I was, in the middle of our street, decked out in what can only be described as a fortress of safety gear. Dad had insisted on a helmet, knee pads, elbow pads, and gloves. Oh, and he duct-taped a small pillow to my back ‘just in case.’ I looked like I was ready to survive a meteor strike, not a bike ride.
When it was finally time to start, I could barely balance with all the gear weighing me down. But Dad was right there, clutching the back of my bike seat like his life depended on it. Every time I pedalled, he ran alongside me, muttering instructions: ‘Keep your balance. Don’t look down. Don’t pedal too fast. Or too slow. Just... medium!’
After what felt like an eternity of wobbling, I yelled, ‘Dad, let go!’ But he wouldn’t. He was convinced the second he let go, I’d go flying into a ditch, or worse, into the Ma’s prized hydrangeas.
Mom was watching from the porch, and I could see her rolling her eyes. Finally, she marched over, arms crossed, and said, ‘Jay, she’s not going to learn if you don’t let her try.’
‘She’s not ready!’ he said, his voice cracking a little. ‘What if she falls?’
Mom sighed, walked up behind him, and yanked him away from the bike so fast he stumbled.
‘She’s supposed to fall! That’s how kids learn!’ she said, practically shoving him toward the curb.
And just like that, I was on my own. For about three glorious seconds, I felt unstoppable. I was doing it! I was actually riding a bike! Then, of course, I turned too sharply and landed in the Ma’s hydrangeas.
But you know what? It didn’t hurt. Well, except for my pride. Dad was by my side in seconds, inspecting me like I’d just been through a car crash, while Mom stood back, smirking, and said, ‘See? She’s fine.’
That was the day I learned two things: one, how to ride a bike, and two, that my dad was the world’s biggest worrier when it came to me. And honestly, I loved that about him.”
I let out a small laugh, shaking my head.
“Papa might have been a scary man to others, but for us, he was always a goofy, overprotective teddy bear. The first and probably the only man who would ever love me for who I am.”
My voice broke at the end. I realised that I would never see him again. It didn’t matter that it had been many years since I lost him, the gaping hole he left hurts so much that I sometimes just wallow in the grief until I know nothing but it.
“He sounds like a good man,”
Zagan’s voice is the softest I’ve ever heard since I met him. I must look how I feel if the grumpiest man I ever know feels the need to speak this softly. Speaking of grumpy, he and Grandpa would have been friends. Or not. Grandpa didn’t take it lightly towards any boy who came near me or Iyra.
Even as a kid, he kept a sharp eye on all our friends who were boys, and I think it aged him a decade when Iyra one day came running to him and announced that she was in love. She wasn’t even six yet. She declared that she was going to marry that boy and not Grandpa.
“One summer, my family and I visited my grandfather’s farm. He was this larger-than-life farmer—complete with the hat, boots, and a gruff voice that could command a herd of cattle or send us kids running if we stepped out of line. But he had one soft spot: his prized black goats. Those goats were practically royalty on the farm. Grandpa treated them better than some people treat their children.
So naturally, when my dad announced he was going to take over grilling duties for the family barbecue, Grandpa looked like someone had just suggested we feed the mutton to the neighbour’s dog.
‘Don’t screw it up, Jay,’ he said, pointing a warning finger at my dad. My dad, of course, puffed up his chest and said, ‘Relax, old man. I know what I’m doing.’
Spoiler alert: He did not.”
I turned my body to face Zagan, completely involved in the story. I didn’t mind or, more likely, didn’t notice when his finger came to touch a rouge strand of hair from my messy updo and push it behind my ear.
“While the steaks sizzled on the grill, Dad wandered off to try his hand at something he thought was real farming . He’d overheard Grandpa explaining the art of rice threshing earlier that day—a process where you separate the grain from the stalk—and decided he’d give it a go. Except he didn’t know what he was doing. At all. He grabbed a bundle of harvested rice stalks, stood in the middle of the yard, and started flailing around, trying to whack the grains loose by smacking them against a wooden platform.
Mom, my sister, and I were sitting on the porch, sipping lemonade and trying not to laugh as Dad kept missing the mark—literally. He was whacking his own shin more than the stalks, and every time he did, he’d let out a yelp.
‘It looks easier when they do it in the movies!’ he grumbled, completely oblivious to the smoke now billowing from the grill.
By the time he remembered the meat, it was too late. The mutton was burnt to a crisp—blackened slabs of charcoal that wouldn’t even qualify as jerky. Grandpa came storming out when he smelled the smoke, took one look at the grill, and froze. His eyes narrowed, and he growled, ‘You... burned... the mutton?’
‘I, uh, got distracted,’ Dad stammered, holding up a pair of tongs like a shield. ‘It’s... still edible!’
Grandpa grabbed his trusty cane—not because he needed it, but because it made a very effective pointer—and started chasing Dad around the yard.
‘Edible? EDIBLE?! You ruined perfection! Those were worth more than your life!’
Dad tried to dodge, but his rice-threshing attempt earlier had left him limping, so Grandpa was hot on his heels. The two of them circled the house while my mom, my sister, and I were doubled over, tears streaming down our faces. Grandpa shouted things like, ‘This is why I didn’t trust you with the goats!’ and, ‘Your ancestors would be ashamed!’
By the time they finally called a truce, the meat was beyond saving, and Grandpa refused to let Dad anywhere near the grill ever again. We ended up eating plain rice with some sides and laughing until our stomachs hurt.
Grandpa didn’t speak to Dad for the rest of the night, but he did sneak me a piece of chocolate and whispered, ‘Don’t grow up to be an idiot like your father.’
It’s one of my favourite memories—watching three generations of chaos unfold on that farm. And to this day, I can’t look at a grill without hearing Grandpa’s voice in my head, saying, ‘Don’t screw it up.’”
I didn’t notice that I was crying until Zagan thumbed my tears, his expression thundering again. I leaned into his touch, not pulling myself away from anything I craved from him. I didn’t think about logic or reason; it just followed my heart.
“It kills me that I’m still not over their deaths. People say that over time, you tend to forget. But how do I forget the people who meant everything to me?”
I sniff, looking down at my hands clasped on my thigh.
“My hands still sometimes go to dial Papa’s number when I cannot do my taxes. I still crave Ma’s chicken broth when I’m sick. I miss Grandpa not for a particular reason, but just because.”
I bury my face in my hands, not able to keep it up anymore. The grief, the fear and the guilt, it’s too much. And I’m growing tired. So tired that if not for the knowledge that there was no guarantee that Vir would come after everything that I loved, I would have gone and offered myself up to him.
“They would have loved Cas. Ma would’ve spoiled him rotten. Papa and Grandpa would open up paths to him that I didn’t even know existed. They would groom him to be the person he is supposed to be. I wouldn’t have to be scared all the time. I wouldn’t-“
I stop my rant mid-way, catching myself before I say too much.
The hands covering my face are gently pried away for my eyes to see Zagan and his face that has returned to the usual broody anger. A muscle inside his cheek ticks madly, and I’ve come to know that it happens when he is very angry, which is all the time.
“You don’t have to be scared now, Ara,” he says, which comes out more like a demand.
“Why?” I ask, despite myself.
The part, the stupid part that only wants a sliver of hope, is desperate for it.
“Because you’re mine. And I protect what’s mine.” He vows.
For a moment, I consider him and his words.
For a moment, I believe them.
I believe that this all-encompassing kind of man is the answer to all my prayers. That he can shield me from my nightmares, save me from my boogeyman and give me the peace I crave. Just for a moment, I let myself imagine being carried off to a life filled with nothing but laughter and joy in his arms that feel as safe as Papa’s.
And that moment of indulging in hopeful and happy but delusional thoughts makes me do something I’d usually not have the guts to do. I surprise myself and him by circling his waist with my arms and burying my face in his chest. I take in a large inhale, memorising the smell that is him so that I’d always remember.
I know that I could never forget him. He has that imposing aura about him that makes it impossible for anyone to forget him. And I know for a fact that it is also impossible for someone to evoke feelings in me like he does.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
It takes him a minute to wrap his hands around me, but when he does, he pulls me deep into him, his chin resting on my head. We stay like that for a short moment, basking in the reprieve I stole from him. It all comes crashing down when his phone rings inside his pocket.
I hear him growl, causing me to smile, before I let him go. He doesn’t let me go far as one of his hands still circles my waist, and the other fishes his phone from his pant pocket.
“What?” He barks into the phone, startling me slightly.
His thumb rubs the base of my spine while he listens to whatever is being told on the other end. I don’t even think he notices himself comforting me, but it does help me relax for a few seconds until his face morphs into a frown. It takes a lot for something to make him knit his brows completely, and I just know whatever it is, it can’t be good.
The reality of the situation sinks in. The perfect weather that we have been having is gone now. The evening has broken into dusk, slowly giving way to the night. The darkness beckons the monsters to come to play and hunt.
I stand at the same time he hangs up, rubbing the remainder of the tears.
“You should go,” I tell him and take a step back.
He only encircles my waist again and pulls me closer until I brace my fall with my hands on his chest. His magnetic eyes pin me to the spot as he looks down at me, the scar on the side of his lip twitching along with the grit of his teeth.
“Two days,” he reminds again.
“I remember, big guy. Why are you behaving as if I’d run away?” I frown, putting on my best acting face.
“There’s no place far enough, no depth deep enough, to keep me from you.” He vows.
He lets me go when his phone rings again, looking behind me and nodding at Yuri, I suppose. All the while, I stand here, reeling from his words.
He didn’t mean them, did he?
Of course not.
I don’t mean anything to him to invest any of his resources to find me. At most, he would search the city before he realises his time is better invested in something useful. Not on a woman who doesn’t want to be found. A woman who is inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.
But the look he gives before he prowls away says something else entirely.
* * *
I stand at the gate, watching Yuri help my neighbour with her groceries. He insists I stay outside, as he always does until he checks inside. Every time, even with my own damn house. I’ve told him it’s ridiculous, that no one would attack me here, but my words slide off him like water off a duck’s back.
I dial Harley’s number, knowing I won’t get another chance without him knowing. Tomorrow, I’m gone. I haven’t told Ellie yet, but the plan’s set: I’ll be leaving with Cas. Lightly packed—nothing to weigh us down. I won’t look back.
Slovenia. It’s decided. Div found a village, Pohlin, tucked in the mountains with just 4000 people. Iyra will meet us at the Portmoor airport. From there, we’ll take a cruise. A ship’s the safest way to keep off the radar. No cameras, no eyes on us. Weeks on the water, but it's worth it to stay hidden.
When Harley’s voicemail picks up, I take a deep breath and begin.
“Hey, Harley. I haven’t told Ellie yet, but I called to let you know that I’m leaving. I can’t tell you where or why, but I wanted to thank you for being a good friend. You’re doing amazing with your healing, and I’m always going to root for you. Take care, Har.”
I hang up, releasing a shaky breath. Now, I just have to write my resignation, but I can’t send it yet. I have no idea who’s watching who. I’d rather have Div send it from somewhere untraceable than risk anything too soon. My biggest fear?
Zagan finding out and intercepting me before I even leave.
Cas is with Ivy, spending what little time he has left with her before we leave. We’re even sleeping over there tonight. But I need to pull myself together before I see him. He’s been asking what's wrong ever since he woke up. He doesn’t care that I told him we’re moving. He just wants to know why I look so sad.
I don’t deserve him. I don’t deserve his love. But I take it anyway. The least I can do is wear my best face for him. I can’t burden him with the truth, not now. He doesn’t need to know.
When Yuri finishes, he walks toward me, opens the gate, and steps inside.
I follow, but something’s off. The air is too still. A prickling sensation crawls down my spine. I can’t place it, can’t name it, but something is wrong. A weight in the air, a shift I can feel in my bones.
I don’t know what it is. I can’t explain it. But it’s wrong.
Danger.
Before I can warn Yuri, he pushes the door open. That’s when I hear it—a whoosh of air, the quick, sharp sound of something slicing through the space between us. Then— thwack. A sickening noise, followed by the quietest gasp, a breath caught in the air.