Page 163 of Requiem
Rafe told me more than once that he could always kidnap Vlad and Henrik, drag them back to his cabin in Russia, and let me finish the job myself.
I was tempted.
Fuck, I was tempted.
But for the first time in my life, I don’t want to keep looking backward. I want to lookahead. Rafe is a crazy bastard who kills as casually as most people drink coffee. That’s his life. Not mine.
At least, not anymore.
So them going away for life is good enough for me. The truth is, there are still moments when I feel that old hunger stirring beneath my skin. Sometimes I catch myself craving violence, and I hate how familiar it feels. I don’t know why it’s still there, and I know exactly how fucked up that sounds. Dr. Mercer would probably have a fucking field day with it if I ever admitted it out loud.
But some things are easier to tell Emma.
She knows the parts of me that I hide from the rest of the world. The ugly, damaged, and dark parts. The pieces I’m still trying to make peace with. I’ve shown her every shadow I carry, and somehow she never flinches.
She just takes my hand and loves me anyway.
***
The windows above the sink are cracked open just enough to let the ocean air drift through the cottage. Somewhere outside, gulls cry over the shoreline while the last traces of daylight melt slowly into deep blue acrossthe horizon. Spring has finally reached the Oregon coast again, carrying the smell of rain-soaked cedar and salt through the house.
I sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch with my guitar resting against my thigh, absently picking at the strings while sheets of paper lay scattered around me. Some are crumpled. Others have words scratched out so aggressively that the pen nearly tore through them. It feels good to pour my emotions into something good again.
Emma walks barefoot into the living room wearing one of my hoodies and soft sleep shorts, her hair still slightly damp from her shower. My gaze lifts instinctively toward her the second she appears. It always does now. Like, some part of my brain still can’t fully process that we’re together again and that there’s no looming threat waiting outside.
Her eyes flick toward the papers spread across the floor before settling back on me with adorable curiosity. “You’ve been staring at that same page for ten minutes.”
I huff softly through my nose. “It’s pissing me off.”
That earns a small laugh from her as she moves toward the kitchen counter. I lower my gaze back toward the notebook balanced against my knee, fingers brushing absently across the strings again while warm light spills softly across the cottage around us. The place feels different lately. Less haunted than it did before whenever I was here.
Nova stretches beside me, her paw pressing into my side hard enough that I need to shift. For the first week we were home, Nova slept between us in bed. They missed each other so much. And Mrs. Kent pops in periodically to check on us.
I pause what I’m doing and scratch Nova behind her fluffy ear, her black fur soft and clean. A small sigh leaves me at the normalcy of it.
Some nights are still bad.
There are nights I wake up choking on panic with sweat on my skin while Moscow crawls back up my throat in flashes of blood and smoke and Alexei’s fucking voice. Nights where Emma has to hold my face between her hands while I struggle to remember where I am.
And once, a few weeks ago, I woke up crying so hard I couldn’t breathe. I still remember Emma pulling me against her chest without hesitation,fingers sliding through my hair while she whispered softly against my temple until my body stopped shaking.
You’re home. You’re safe. I’ve got you.
Nobody has ever loved me so gently. And I hate to admit that I started believing there was no such thing as a love like that. But she’s reminded me of what it’s like to find the person you were destined to be with.
“What’s the song about?” she asks softly from the kitchen.
I glance over my shoulder toward her.
She’s leaning against the counter now, watching me while steam curls upward from her favorite tea mug beside her.
I shrug. “Still figuring that out.”
“That’s a lie.”
A smile pulls briefly at the corner of my mouth. Emma knows me too well now. I look back down at the guitar resting against me, fingers finding another chord. “I’ve been talking to the band a lot.”
Her expression softens instantly. “Yeah?”
