33. Elena #2
His other hand slides over mine, where it rests against him, lacing our fingers together. The playful warmth drains from his features, replaced by something heavier. “Because when you decide something,” he says low and firmly, “there isn’t a force on this earth that could stop you.”
“It was dangerous.”
His jaw tightens. A breath leaves him, long, controlled, but I feel the tension beneath it. “I know.”
“I never meant to put you in that position.”
“I know that, too.”
I squeeze his hand harder than I mean to. Enough that he looks down at me fully now. He sees it, the fracture in me I keep trying to smooth over.
“Tell me we’re going to win,” I whisper. “Tell me we come out of this unscathed. Tell me…”
His hand slides up, brushing strands of hair from my face. His thumb rests against my cheek, sweeping back and forth in slow arcs.
“We will win,” he echoes, and there is steel in it. “I’ve never lied to you. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure we survive this..”
A ghost of a smile touches his mouth. But it doesn’t reach his eyes. Not since he told me about his visit with Inanna. Not since he told me he was the one who was meant to die, and did.
Sometimes, even when we’re touching like this, I feel the space between us widening. A quiet drift. A current pulling him somewhere I can’t follow.
His thumb brushes my lower lip, snapping me back. “Talk to me,” he implores softly. “What’s in that head of yours?”
I don’t give him the worst of it. I can’t. So, I offer something safer. “I don’t understand why she hates me so much.”
He studies me for a beat. “Oksana was raised by a monster,” he observes. “She was taught that love is weakness. That power and revenge are the only currencies that matter.”
He pulls me closer until my head rests over his heart again. His palm smooths over my hair, slow and steady.
“And she’s jealous,” he adds in a low voice. “Because you’re everything she isn’t.”
“She could be,” I murmur.
His chest shifts with a silent smile. “That’s what makes you remarkable. You see redemption in people who’ve never earned it.”
My head lifts, and I know we’re not talking about my aunt anymore.
I push up on his chest, the sheet slipping to my waist, exposing my cami top. He stills, eyes sharpening, not at my bare skin, but at whatever he sees in my face.
“I won’t let you do this again,” I tell him firmly.
“Do what?—”
“Carry ghosts that don’t belong to you.”
His expression shutters. “Elena?—”
“No.” I lift my hand.
Lightning splits the sky, illuminating him in silver. His shoulders go rigid like a soldier bracing for impact.
“If this is the last quiet moment we get,” I begin, the words scraping on their way out, “then I need you to let this go.” I take his hand and press it to my chest. Let him feel the proof of me.
The rhythm. The pulse. “What happened to my parents wasn’t your fault.
What happened to your mother wasn’t your fault. Ivan shooting me wasn’t your?—”
“You almost died,” he growls.
“But I didn’t.”
“You don’t understand. I was too late. If I’d been faster?—”
“If you’d been faster, you would have taken the bullet,” I cut in. “And I would have had to watch you fall.”
His breath falters.
“You were a child,” I whisper. “They forced your hand before you even knew what choice meant.”
“I still walked it.”
“Yes,” I declare. “And you survived it.”
His fingers hook under my chin, forcing my gaze to his.
“You think I don’t see it?” I ask quietly. “Every time you pull away? Every time you look at me like I’m glass, like I’m your final chance to atone?”
His jaw flexes. “Every night I see you bleeding,” he admits hoarsely. “I hear you screaming my name. And I can’t reach you.”
“And every morning,” my rebuttal comes, voice steady now, “you wake up beside me. Alive.”
I notice the faint bloodshot in his eyes, the shadows pooling beneath them, and the way his shoulders sag like he hasn’t slept in days.
“You weren’t made to be a weapon,” I continue. “You were made to be a man. They shaped you into something else and called it fate.”
“I still feel him in me,” he whispers.
“Then let me love him too.”
That lands. Hard.
“You don’t know what you’re offering.”
“I do.” I cradle his face between my palms. “I’m offering forgiveness. Because I choose you. I would choose you again. And again. And again.”
His eyes search mine like he’s hunting for doubt.
“You didn’t take my parents from me,” I tell him. “Their world did. Their enemies did. And in the ashes…” My voice softens. “I found you.”
He closes his eyes. “If I stop punishing myself,” he challenges slowly, “it feels like betrayal.”
I lean forward and kiss him, soft, lingering, patient. “It’s freedom,” I whisper against his mouth.
“I don’t know how to be free.”
“Then we learn. Together.”
I rest my forehead against his. “Baby, I refuse to let guilt poison what we are. They controlled our past. They don’t get our future.”
His hands tighten on my waist like I’m the only real thing left. “I once wanted your redemption,” he admits. “Now I just want you safe. Happy.”
I wrap my arms around his neck. His bare skin is warm beneath my palms, his heat grounding me. “Then be with me,” I whisper. “Here. Now. Not back there.”
Lightning flashes through the window, bleaching the room white. Thunder rolls a few seconds later, low and heavy. When it fades, the only thing left is the sound of our breathing as the storm begins to soften.
He exhales as if the air hurts on the way out. “You’re asking me to believe I deserve you.”
I lean forward and press a kiss to his temple, lingering there. “I’m not asking,” I murmur. “I’m telling you.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me without breaking our connection. His eyes move over my face slowly, searching, like he expects to catch the lie before it slips out. His gaze drags over my eyes, my mouth, my forehead, again and again.
I don’t look away.
His shoulders loosen a fraction.
“Do you see regret when you look at me?” I ask.
He studies me carefully. “I see scars.”
I smile faintly. “Scars mean I survived. Because of us.”
He inhales sharply.
When he pulls back, something in his eyes has shifted. The grief is quieter. The blue burns brighter. “If I do this…” His voice catches. He swallows. “You have to forgive yourself, too.”
My breath stumbles. My fingers tighten slightly where they rest against his neck. My brows knit before I can stop them. “I will never be sorry for loving you.”
His hands come up, warm and steady, cupping my face before I can say anything else. “For not wishing it had been different,” he says hoarsely.
His thumb brushes beneath my eye, catching the tear that slips free before it can reach my jaw.
I breathe in, shaky, and rest my hands over his wrists. “I can miss them,” I hesitate, my voice softer now. “I can wish things had gone another way.” My thumb traces the inside of his wrist, feeling the quick pulse there. “I can mourn them,” I add. “And still wake up every day and choose you.”
His thumb catches a tear I didn’t know escaped.
“I don’t know how I was ever meant to survive you,” he breathes.
A laugh slips through my tears. “You weren’t. You were meant to live with me.”
Silence stretches between us. Not empty. Not fragile.
Whole.
“Say it,” he murmurs.
“We are not our past.”
“And?”
“We are what we choose now.” I hold his gaze. “We choose each other. Always.”
He kisses me then, slow, reverent, trembling. Not desperate. Not guilty. Only us.
“No more ghosts,” he confirms. “No more separate battles. Together.”
“Only us,” I echo.
He flips us in one effortless motion, pressing me into the mattress beneath him. The storm outside softens into a steady hush.
His mouth curves, warmth returning in full. “What kind of husband would I be,” he murmurs against my lips, “if I didn’t properly appreciate my wife’s mercy?”
I grin up at him. “A sorry one.”
A low sound rumbles from his chest before his mouth finds mine again.
And for the first time in a long time… neither of us looks back.