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She’s back to normal if she’s mouthing off at me like it’s her full-time occupation.

I know I said I adored this version of her, but fucking hell, she’s cruel.

“Listen to me Sergei.” She adds. “Leave. Me. Alone.” Every word spoken with a jab at my chest.

“I don’t need some fucking Prince Charming. I don’t want your pity, your presence, or anything else that comes with you.” She steps closer until she’s practically in my face. “So, get the fuck out of my life and let me have some peace.”

“Fine.” I grumble but don’t make a move to step away from her, and surprisingly neither does she.

“Good, don’t come back. Don’t barge into my space and don’t decide for me.” Still not moving. “Don’t fucking come near me again.”

My breath halts, I don’t think I’ve been breathing ever since she called my name with so much hate, it makes my entire body tremble with rage and desperation.

“Go back to your world and leave me in mine.” She finally takes a step back. Creating distance between us.

The need to touch her—to hold her—is so alive, so relentless, it thrums through my veins until it makes me fucking livid.

I take what I want. My empathy has always been in short supply—perhaps non-existent at times. But something stops me from reaching for her.

The look in her eyes.

Begging. Pleading with me to stay away.

It fucks me up far more than I care to admit.

Ever since I told her I don’t love her, the tinge in my heart has only grown until I find myself taking a step away.

Because Elara does not want me. Turning my back, I walk out.

She does not want me.

“Sergei.” Her voice is so quiet it almost sounds fragile.

Hope blooms instantly in my chest, forcing me to stop in my tracks, but I don’t dare turn around.

Terrified that one look at her will destroy what little restraint I have left, and I’ll throw her over my shoulders, perhaps give her another spanking or worse, tie her to my bed.

“Don’t break my door again.”

Elara finally shows up to the university—not that I care. Looking just as ethereal as she was in my dreams.

She is wearing a black spaghetti top and little grey shorts, her smooth, pale legs on full display.

Her hair is twisted into a messy bun, a pencil stabbed through it, clinging desperately to the thick, heavy strands. A few slightly wavy pieces falling out, some framing her adorable, kissable, lickable face.

Get a fucking grip arsehole.

Half my night was spent in the boxing ring, bleeding the fury out into a punching bag. The other half I drowned in alcohol, chasing a high to numb all my senses.

The pills didn’t help; I couldn’t sleep last night.

Tormented by my own thoughts, regret hitting me like a blade turning slowly between my ribs.

My knuckles were red and throbbing, my eyes dazed and my senses dull.

I shouldn’t have left her.

I stood up three time, paused short at opening the door. Because it was too late. I was out of my senses, my heart rate was skyrocketing and I didn’t want her to see me like this.