Chapter 26
ANASTASIA
I feel pounding in my head, my chest, even my teeth ache in rhythm with it. I groan and roll over, instantly regretting the movement as light slices across my eyelids.
This is not my dorm.
The sheets are smooth, expensive, nothing like the cheap cotton back in my room. The faint smell of smoke and cloves linger in the air, and then it clicks.
Eryx.
I sit up too fast, clutching my head. My mouth feels like sandpaper, my stomach threatening revolt. On the nightstand, a glass of water waits, condensation pooling on the surface. Next to it—two pills.
Of course.
I down them, greedy, before I even think to hesitate.
When I shuffle out into the living room, he’s already there. Shirtless, leaning against the counter with a mug in his hand like he’s been awake for hours. He looks infuriatingly calm, dark eyes lifting to me in a way that makes me want to shrink and stand taller at the same time.
“Morning, birthday girl,” he says, voice low, smooth. Too smooth.
“Don’t,” I mutter, dragging myself toward the couch. “If you’re about to lecture me, I’ll throw myself off your balcony.”
His mouth curves, but not into a smile. “I don’t need to lecture you. You’ll feel it all day.”
I glare at him through my tangled hair. “You make a terrible nurse.”
“I’m not your nurse,” he says simply, taking a slow sip of coffee. “I’m the reason you didn’t wake up in a stranger’s bed.”
The words land heavy. Shame curls in my chest, though part of me wants to bite back, to pretend he’s exaggerating. But I remember the guy’s hands, the blur of lights, the way I just let go—too much, too far.
“I beg to differ. I still woke up in a strangers bed.” I bite back, against my better judgement.
“I’m not a stranger, and you know it. Not when I know what your pussy tastes like, and how you feel when you come undone on my fingers.”
“Why do you care?” I whisper, the same question as last night, but sharper now, more raw. He doesn’t answer right away. Just sets his mug down with precise care, like he’s buying time. Then his gaze pins me, steady and unyielding.
“Because you don’t.”
The silence that follows is suffocating.
My throat tightens, words sticking there.
He’s right. And I hate that he’s right. Bastard.
I look away, blinking hard, wishing I didn’t feel so exposed under his stare.
When he speaks again, his voice is softer, but no less certain. “Drink the water Nastasya.”
I should argue. I should throw something sharp at him just to break the tension. But instead, I sink into the couch, curling my legs beneath me, sipping the water he left out like maybe this is the safest place I’ve been in a long time.
And he just stands there, watching me like he already knows it.
I sip the water slow, eyes darting to him over the rim of the glass. He’s standing there like a storm in human form. Always controlled on the surface, but I can feel the pressure underneath. Always watching. Always waiting.
It makes my skin prickle.
“You’re just going to stand there?” I ask, setting the glass down, trying for casual but my voice comes out rough.
He arches a brow. “What would you prefer I do?”
“Sit. Talk to me. Stop acting like I’m… something you have to manage.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. My chest tightens, a knot of nerves and anger and something else.
For a second, I think he won’t. Then he crosses the room, slow, deliberate, and sits on the edge of the couch, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
My heart stutters.
“You think I want to manage you?” His voice is low, dangerous in a different way now. “You make it impossible.”
I swallow hard, pulse racing. “Then why do you keep showing up?”
His eyes lock on mine, and for once I don’t look away. He leans closer, close enough that I can smell the faint bitterness of coffee on his breath, close enough that the world outside this apartment doesn’t exist.
“Because I can’t not,” he says.
Something in me shatters at that. The walls I build, the numbness I hide behind. It cracks under the weight of his words. My hand moves before I can stop it, brushing against his, tentative, testing.
He doesn’t pull away.
Instead, his fingers curl around mine, slow and firm, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. The contact sends a jolt through me, sharper than the drugs, deeper than the tequila. Real.
“Eryx…” I whisper, not sure if it’s a plea or a warning.
His jaw tightens, eyes flicking to my mouth before dragging back up. “Don’t say my name like that unless you’re ready for what comes after.”
The air between us thickens, charged. My breath catches, my body leaning toward him without permission. And for the first time in years, I feel like I want to fall.
Eryx
She’s right here. Wide-eyed, trembling, her hand in mine like she’s daring me to let go. I should. God knows I should.
But I don’t.
I never should have crossed those imaginary lines with her. I should have kept my distance. Now I’m in too deep. She’s a gravitational pull I can’t stay away from. I don’t want to stay away from.
The pulse in her wrist flutters against my palm, her body leaning closer like she’s caught in my gravity. Everything in me screams to take her, to claim what’s already mine in ways neither of us are ready to admit.
She doesn’t know what she’s asking for. But I do.
“I’m not good for you,” I tell her, though my grip on her hand only tightens. “You think last night was reckless? You don’t know what reckless looks like with me.”
Her lips part, her breath brushing my cheek. “Maybe I want to know.”
Fuck.
I lean in, so close our mouths almost touch, so close I can taste the heat of her words. My self-control frays, every second threatening to snap. I want all of her, raw and unfiltered.
But instead of kissing her, I press my forehead to hers, eyes closing. “Not like this. Not while you’re still feeling it.” I won’t take advantage of her.
Her soft exhale shudders through me, and I know I’ve just tethered myself to a fire that will burn me alive.
I pull back, but only slightly, my hand still wrapped around hers like I’ll never let go.
And for once, she doesn’t argue. She just leans into me, her head against my shoulder, and I know I’m already too far gone.
I let her rest a little while longer while I get everything ready for her birthday surprise. I pulled the recipe for her favorite food, but I get started on her birthday cake, since it will take the longest, and will need time to set.
The kitchen smells like sugar and fruit, peaches and strawberries laid out on the counter like jewels.
The sponge cakes have cooled enough to touch, golden and soft.
I take a brush and soak the first tier with Moscato until the sponge drinks it up, heady and sweet.
It already smells like her, bright, intoxicating, too much for me and not enough at the same time.
The whipped cream is my battle. No mixer, no shortcuts. Just me, a whisk, and patience. Putting my bicep through the ultimate test of endurance. My arm aches, but I keep going until the cream peaks sharp and stiff. When I finally drag the whisk free, I smirk. Perfect.
I spread a thick layer across the bottom sponge, then scatter slices of peaches and strawberries.
A handful of meringue crumbles crunch under my fingers as I break them and let the pieces fall into the cream.
That part is what makes this cake special, the lightness and crunch, soft and sharp together.
The second tier goes on top, steady in my hands. More Moscato drizzles down into the sponge, then I cover the whole cake in whipped cream. It’s messy, not precise, but it looks alive. I press more fruit on top, tuck in whole meringue kisses, and lean back.
I slide the platter into the fridge, careful, when I hear her voice.
“Eryx?”
The footsteps sound behind me. I glance back, caught with one hand still on the fridge door, whipped cream smeared across my knuckles. She’s standing there, eyes narrowing, suspicious but amused.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say, too fast, too casual. My mouth twitches anyway.
She leans a little, trying to peek. “That didn’t look like nothing.”
“It’s not ready yet.” My tone sharpens just enough to stop her from pressing further. “You’ll see later.”
Her lips curve, a smile threatening. “You’re hiding something.”
She turns away, sparing me, but my chest tightens as I watch her leave. The fridge hums softly behind me, cake safe inside. I made it for her, with my own hands, and when she finally sees it maybe she’ll taste what I still can’t bring myself to say.
I’m sure the linger scent of sugar is present in the air, but my first surprise will mask it. And since my mother always taught me to clean as I go, there’s no evidence of my cake making in here for her to see.
“Close your eyes,” I tell her, as I lead her out to the small balcony where I have a table set out for us.
I seat her down and take the chair in front of her.
“Here’s your first birthday surprise, open your eyes.”
Slowly she opens then and takes in what’s on the table. Tears appear in her eyes.
“How..how did you know?”
“Actions speak louder than words right?”
In front of her sits a box from La Mesa de Abuela. Her favorite place.
“I believe you call this a merinda?”
“Merienda,” she muffles a laugh. “It’s like an afternoon snack.” She explains.
“Now this, however, I need you to teach me.” I point towards the mate.
“Here let me show you how to load it.”
She takes the mate and fills it half way with the Yerba, then flips it over onto her palms and shakes it before flipping it back over.
“This gets the powder out,” she says. Then she takes the hot water I have in the kettle in front of her and pours a little bit of it inside before taking a sip.
She then fills it all the way and hands it my way.
“You get the first drink. You can put a little bit of sugar on top or drink it like that.”