1. The Weight of a Name #3
The words hit like a slap. I feel my face heat, my hands clench in my lap.
"That's not fair."
"No. It's not." He reaches for my hand. His fingers are cold, trembling. "But I'm trying. I'm trying so hard to save you, Monika. And you won't let me."
"Because I don't want to be saved."
"You don't want to be saved by me."
I don't answer. I can't. Because he's right.
He's right, and it breaks my heart.
He kisses me.
It's different from Nathan's kiss. Where Nathan was demanding, Gabriel is gentle. Where Nathan took, Gabriel offers. His lips are soft against mine, his hands cupping my face like I'm something precious, something that might break if he's not careful.
I let him. I let him hold me and kiss me and pretend that we're something other than what we are—two broken people caught in a family that's slowly destroying us.
"I love you," he says against my lips. "I know you don't want to hear it. I know you can't say it back. But I love you, Monika. I'm never going to stop."
"Gabriel..."
"Don't." He presses his forehead to mine. "Don't tell me to stop. Don't tell me to move on. I can't. I've tried. I've been trying for a year. And I can't."
I close my eyes. I let him hold me. I pretend that's enough.
The rest of the day passes in a blur.
Lunch is a silent affair. Aleksander is in his study, taking calls. Nathan is in the city, "handling business" he won't elaborate on. Gabriel is still in the greenhouse, with his orchids and his books and his desperate hope that he can save me.
I spend the afternoon in my room, staring at the walls.
I think about leaving. I think about it every day. I think about packing a bag and walking out the front door and never looking back. I think about the farm, about my father, about the life I used to have before Aleksander Mire walked into my diner with a bullet in his side.
But I don't leave.
I can't.
Because leaving would mean admitting that this is wrong. That I'm not just surviving. That I'm trapped.
And I don't want to be trapped. I want to be loved.
I want to be loved by three men who don't know how to love anything but themselves.
Tonight, the house is quiet.
I'm standing in the hallway outside my room. The portrait of Aleksander's wife is watching me from the wall—Elena, with her dark hair and her sad smile and her eyes that look so much like mine.
I don't know why I come here. I don't know why I stand in front of her portrait every night and wonder what she would think of me.
Would she hate me? Would she pity me? Would she understand?
I'll never know. She's dead. They killed her. And I'm sleeping in her bed.
I press my hand to my chest, feeling my heartbeat beneath my palm.
It's still there. Still steady.
Still mine.
For now.
The door to my room is unlocked.
It's always unlocked. They don't lock doors in this house. There's no need. The only way out is through the gate, and the gate is always guarded.
I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. The fire has burned low, leaving only the faint glow of embers and the cold light of the moon through the windows.
I think about Aleksander. About the way he looks at me when he thinks I'm not watching. About the weight of his hands on my body, the way he says my name like it's something sacred.
I think about Gabriel. About his desperate kisses and his desperate hope and his desperate need to save me from myself.
I think about Nathan. About the bruises on my hips and the teeth marks on my shoulders and the way he looks at me like I'm something to be consumed.
I think about the girl I used to be. The girl who pulled a bullet from a stranger's side without asking questions. The girl who leaned in when everyone else ran away.
That girl is still here, somewhere.
Buried. But not gone.
The footsteps in the hallway are soft.
But I hear them. I always hear them. I've learned to listen for the sounds of this house, the small betrayals of wood and stone that tell me who's coming and why.
The door opens.
Nathan steps inside, his silhouette sharp against the light from the hallway. He doesn't speak. He doesn't have to.
I watch him cross the room. I watch him sit on the edge of my bed. I watch him reach out and touch my face, his fingers cold against my cheek.
"I couldn't sleep," he says.
"Neither could I."
He looks at me for a long moment. His eyes are dark, unreadable, the same whiskey color they've always been. But there's something else there tonight. Something that looks almost like fear.
"I'm going to do something," he says. "Something you won't like."
"When have I ever liked anything you've done?"
He laughs. It's a soft sound, almost affectionate. "Fair point."
"Are you going to tell me what it is?"
"Not yet." He leans down, his lips brushing my forehead. "But when I do... I need you to trust me."
"I don't trust anyone."
"I know." He pulls back. His eyes meet mine. "That's why I'm telling you now."
He leaves. The door closes behind him with a soft click, and I'm alone in the dark.
I lie there for a long time, staring at the ceiling.
The glass is cracking.
And I don't know how to stop it.