Page 65 of The Darkness is Calling

days seems to be turning into a dream my mind created, because he now keeps a cold attitude toward me. We barely cross paths around the house, without exchanging many words.

That is all.

I cannot say my overall mood is pleasant because of it.

Quite the opposite.

I grow sadder with every passing day, and at night, when I lie in my bed, I think about the pleasant feeling I had when he was beside me.

Or when he was holding me in his arms.

A painful revelation becomes clearer one night, while heavy rain strikes my window and sleep refuses to come. It is a little past two a.m. when the emptiness created by all these feelings turns into the image of the forbidden man, and I realize that something in my heart beats hard and warm whenever I think of the moments spent with him.

Few, but pure.

Raw.

As if you cut into flesh and saw exactly what was there, because that is what it felt like with Artem: no pretense, nothing false, only truth and a transparency I have never encountered in anyone, never experienced with anyone.

And not only attraction.

Feelings.

I don’t even have the chance to panic, because the acceptance of these forbidden emotions has happened gradually, enough for me to say with certainty that I have fallen in love with a man I cannot have. That I crave the touch of someone who is not my alright. That I have only a few weeks left until the wedding, and I feel as if I am making the greatest mistake of my life by binding myself to a man I don’t love, just because I feel too much for another.

These thoughts manage to stir an agitation impossible to ignore, and I decide to go downstairs, to the kitchen, to make myself some tea.

The first floor seems quiet, but the closer I get to the ground floor, the more I realize voices coming from Artem’s office.

This is nothing new, because almost every night, lately, he has had many men making noise in there until late.

There is no one in the kitchen, and after I put water in the heater, barely a minute passes before Sasha makes his presence known. His eyebrows lift, surprised to see me.

“You’re not sleeping?”

“I’m not tired,” I tell him, gesturing toward the water waiting to boil.

“Why? Did you eat chocolate?” he asks, visibly interested.

I smile.

“No. I think it’s because of the rain hitting my window.”

He shakes his head hard, making a blond strand fall over his forehead. “Those are the ghosts.”

I’m staring at him, a little frozen by the strange answer.

“Ghosts?”

“The ghosts of everyone who had ever crossed Artem under his own roof.”

Why does this possibility not surprise me?

Especially since he says it as if he were talking about pizza delivery on a Friday night.

He whistles through his lips and looks around.

“You sure you don’t have chocolate?”