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“I did get hurt, Elara.” He interrupts. “And it was worse than any bullet wound could’ve been. Worse than going back to Russia to live a life I never wanted.”
He breathes harshly. His hand rests beside mine, but when I try to touch it, he pulls away and places it back in his lap.
“When I found you covered in blood—” he pauses. “It was worse than anything I could’ve ever imagined. Those six hours were worse than every beating and punishment my father put me through for two damn years.”
“I’m so—” I don’t dare complete it.
“You have to understand, baby. I cannot fucking live without you.” His jaw tightens, eyes dark and unsteady. “This isn’t some movie shit where I accept it and try to move on, Elara. I’d follow you straight into the grave.”
He cups my cheek, and I burn from where our skin touches. “If you die, I die.”
He presses his forehead against mine, forcing me to feel the weight of those words.
My hands slide around his neck, and I nod.
“Stop crying now. Your eyes are all red.” He gently wipes away the stray tears with his thumb before pressing it against his mouth. “No more hiding, Elara.”
“No more hiding.” I promise, all the tension leaving my body as his frame entirely engulfs mine.
We stay like that for a while before he pulls away and heads for the wardrobe. I hear him rummaging around for a moment and when he returns back, and I’m too stunned to speak.
“W-what’s this?” I mumble.
He’s holding a huge white box wrapped with a pink ribbon, along with an enormous bouquet of pink roses.
They’re slightly wilted. No.
That’s me being generous.
They’re one day away from dying but they’re still hauntingly beautiful.
“Open it.” He says, placing the box on my lap.
I lift the lid, a pink dress lies neatly folded inside and my hands tremble, unable to find the courage to touch it.
As if I might dirty it.
“Pink?” I whisper.
“Mm-hm.” He nods, kneeling in front of me.
“I can’t wear pink.” I mean to scoff, but my breath catches instead.
“You can. It’s your favourite colour.”
“It was hers.” My voice breaks. “I’m not her, Sergei. Not anymore.”
“No, you’re not.” He kisses my forehead. “You’re stronger.” Another kiss lands against my cheek. “You’re a survivor, baby.”
My eyes squeeze shut.
“For her, it was just a colour.” His thumb brushes away a tear. “For you, it’s hope.” He rests his forehead against mine. “And she would’ve wanted you to wear it.”
“A-and the flowers?”
He chuckles. “Just touch them, they’ve been waiting for you.”
FORTY-EIGHT
