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Oskar clears his throat subtly, reminding us of his presence. "Boss's orders," he simply says, confirming my growing suspicion.
Damien.
The realization hits me, filling every corner of my being. He orchestrated this. Despite all the complexities between us, despite the danger and the politics of the Bratva, he managed to bring the most important person in my life right to me.
I feel unsteady all of a sudden, overwhelmed by a rush of emotions. Oskar places a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Take all the time you need.”
Helena and I move inside, the restaurant's ambiance wrapping us in warmth. We order drinks, but neither of us touches them when they arrive. Instead, we find ourselves lost in a world of shared memories and stories, some joyous, some painful, catching up on the lost time.
But underneath it all, a single thought keeps circling back in my mind—just how monumental Damien’s gesture is, showcasing a depth of affection I can hardly fathom. For all his unpredictability and rough edges, this act alone shatters any lingering doubts I had about his feelings.
My heart flutters, and the lines between gratitude and burgeoning affection blur. The complexity of our situation and the stark reality of our worlds all fade in the face of a kind gesture.
Damien. What have you done to me?
Chapter 8
Mariya
The days roll by, and what started as a tentative exchange of letters about flowers and their meanings has turned into an all-out floral conversation. The simplicity of it, the beauty, the hidden messages… they’ve all become an addiction.
His blue salvias arrive first, unapologetically declaring, "I’m thinking of you." I can't help the smile that spreads across my face as I picture the man behind the gesture. The man who was, until recently, a complex mystery I wasn’t sure I wanted to unravel. Now, I find myself eagerly awaiting each new revelation.
In response, I send red camellias silently stating, "You're a flame in my heart." This is a bold statement, but one that I find accurate. There's freedom in this language, a way to say things without truly saying them.
His flowers are always delivered with a note. Not long letters but short, intense messages that leave me breathless. Do you feel it too? he writes in a note tucked within a bouquet of daisies. I find myself touching my chest, wondering if he can feel the rapid rhythm of my heart.
Our exchanges become more passionate, the messages clearer and more direct. I begin to fantasize about him and us. What would it be like, I wonder, to be held by him? To hear him speak? To experience the man behind the written words?
One evening, I sit down with my writing materials, my thoughts pressing down on me. The ink flows easily as I pen my confession.
Damien,
With every flower you send, with every note you write, I find myself drawn deeper into this dance of ours. This connection, this pull… it’s unlike anything I've ever experienced. I think about you, about the man behind the words. How do you kiss? Are your lips soft or demanding? Is your embrace gentle or possessive? I find myself daydreaming, lost in fantasies of stolen moments, of whispered promises in the dark. I wonder about the tone of your voice and the strength of your arms.
You've invaded my thoughts, a persistent presence I can't, and don't want to, shake off.
What are we doing? What is this game that we’re playing, and where is it leading us?
I seal the letter, feeling vulnerable yet exhilarated. The next day, a bouquet of orchids arrives, symbolizing passion, love, and desire. The accompanying note is simple: Soon.
The word thrills me yet stirs unanswered questions. Soon, what? Soon, we'll meet? Soon, I'll have answers? The anticipation is maddening and intoxicating.
The stakes are getting higher, and the connection is deeper. We're both on the precipice of something profound, something life changing.
In the quiet of my room, I clutch the orchids close to my chest, allowing their fragrance to envelop me. If this is a dream, I never want to wake up.
Days become weeks, and just as the anticipation is about to become unbearable, a letter arrives. His familiar handwriting fills the page, and I hold my breath as I begin to read:
Mariya,
As each day passes, I find myself consumed with thoughts of you. The flowers, our letters, they've become a lifeline, a beacon in the sea of my world. But it's this very world that gives me pause.
I've pondered the possibility of us meeting countless times, yearning for it even. Yet, I find myself remaining hesitant. You deserve a life free from the shadows of mine. I worry that in knowing me, truly knowing me, you may inadvertently find yourself in danger. It's a risk I'm not willing to take.
For your safety, it's better if we maintain this distance. It's not that I doubt my ability to protect you; I'd go to the ends of the earth to ensure your safety. But the less you know of me—my face, my world—the safer you remain. You can't be a pawn in a game you don't even know you're a part of.
I cherish our connection and our conversations. But Mariya, please understand that my decision comes from a place of deep care and concern. I want nothing more than to be the man you dream of, but reality is a different beast altogether.
