Page 32 of Deadly Knight

“I overheard the end of your conversation with her, and I’m here pleading as an old man that you respect her wishes.”

“Of course,” I reply immediately. Anything to ensure she’s happy.

He holds up a hand. “I wasn’t finished. You’ll tell yourself you will leave her be, but we both know you won’t. Your family’s reach is far and your abilities plentiful, so tracking her down in one country would be all too easy. I’m not asking you to resist doing that. I’m requesting you do not reach out to her. Don’t ever contact her. Wait for her to reach out first. She deserves the space to get better. I hope you agree.”

His tone implies there’s little hope and more of a demand that I do.

“Yes.” The word grates at my throat.

“Also consider what I’ve said. While I might not be asking you to resist searching for her, I’msuggestingyou don’t. Katya was right when she said you need to heal as well. Right now, don’t you think it’s better for you both to figure out what’s next? To move past the other night without you both being one another’s triggers.”

Sheheals me. Nothing else.

When I don’t reply after a moment, he sighs. “I’m sorry it came to this. Truly, I am. But also consider what happens if you search for her. Who’ll follow you. If possible, I’d prefer not to give your father a reason to track us, and he will if you do. You understand, Dimitri? That’s what scares me the most—they’ll use her to bring you down.”

Again.

“I understand.”

And, really, I do. Nothing he’s saying is false. Iwilldo everything in my power to protect her—even from me. Even if that means not contacting her, ensuring Papa or any other Bratva ilk who seeks to collar me won’t use her to do it. Papa already did it once, and I won’t have history repeating itself.

Her father stands with a parting nod, and while it feels like there’s still so much to be said, nothing comes. I watch him walk to his house and open the door slightly. He turns back towards me with a small wave before stepping inside. The door’s distinct locking noise reaches me, its message obvious.

Go away.

I don’t know how long I stare at the door before my eyes begin burning. I get to my feet and pass theFor Salesign that I’d love nothing more than to burn. Quick paces take me to my car, and I throw myself into the driver’s seat, revving the car to a start.

Before driving away, my gaze returns to the sign one last time. To the large printed digits of the realtor’s phone number. I memorize each one, and before I realize what I’m doing, I dial the number.

Dear Diary,

Time heals all wounds—apparently.

What a stupid, cliché saying. It should fuck off, because telling someone to wait the pain out is like asking someone to stop eating. It won’t happen. It’s impossible.

But damn, whoever first said those words had something going for them.

It’s been a week since I said goodbye tohim, and things do feel slightly better. Writing in you each day has been helping. And maybe the prospect of what’s coming next helps. Something in all this feelsright.

I continue to cry every night with the nightmares, both of my goodbye and from the afterparty.Each morning, my cheeks are red and my face is marred with new breakouts from the salt. And each afternoon, I stare outside, a part of me longing to see him once more.

It’s so tempting to text him before deleting his number for good.

I don’t want to delete it, but I think I have to. If he’s only a click away, nothing will stop me from messaging him. It wouldn’t be fair, especially after what I’ve asked of him. We both need to heal away from one another, and texting won’t help that.

The door downstairsslams open with commotion, and I toss my journal aside without finishing the entry to go check it out. Mama reaches the base of the stairs at the same time I do, her soapy, wet hands streaking on her apron.

Papa holds up his phone, his expression brighter than it’s been in weeks. “Diana called me on my drive home from work.”

Diana is the real estate agent who’s kicked us out of this place for potential buyers to do walk-throughs. Those were especially difficult, because they involved leaving the safety of home—something I hadn’t realized I wasn’t ready for yet.

The first trip out, Mama insisted on using the time beneficially and getting shopping done. I made it to the store’s entrance before an older man looked my way and my flight response kicked in, because all I saw in his dark eyes wasthem. The waytheystared down at me. Hungry. Wanting. Evil. One near panic attack later, and Papa had me safe in the vehicle.

Every showing after that one, my parents opted to park down the road and wait out the house tour.

“House sold over asking!”

“Over?” Mama exclaims. “In this market?”