Page 16 of Deadly Knight (The Bratva’s Elite #2)

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 to him , 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 feels right .

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 downstairs slams 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 was them .

The way they stared 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?”

Diana told them they’d likely get the asking price and nothing more.

Papa shrugs. “Buyer was eager and flexible. Told Diana we can set the official close date. That they’re not in a rush to move in.” His gaze travels to me. “So it’s up to you, Katya. We can move as soon as we’re able to and get settled quicker, or wait until later in the summer.”

I glance out at the window across from the stairs, towards the spot where a certain black car was parked post–hospital stay. Where a driver camped out there for days, waiting for me to welcome him inside.

Where the same driver went after I shattered everything good in my life.

Where I chose me over us and made the most selfish decision I ever would.

“I think we’ve gotten all Russia has to offer.”

Two weeks later, the movers load up the remaining boxes for the shipping company to send internationally while I watch from my seated position on the front lawn.

It’s a lot of stuff—expected when we’ve packed up our entire lives.

Mama sold most of the furniture, deciding it’d be easier to buy new in Canada.

She comes up beside me, resting a hand on my shoulder. “Still ready to do this?”

Before replying, I suck in a large lungful of air, taking in what will be the final day of breathing in my home country. “I’m excited for Toronto. It’ll be an experience.”

“It will.” She squeezes my shoulder. “I’m going to go find your papa.”

With her gone and the truck loaded, the moving company begins locking it up to go. I watch as it rolls down the driveway and onto the skinny road, bumping along as it hits the curb before picking up speed and taking off.

For the millionth time this week, I stare at the spot directly across the street where Dimitri last parked, and my chest pangs with the shadowed ache.

My hand, by instinct, strokes where my green ribbon had been tied for so long, feeling nothing more than the ghostly sensation of it.

I’ve been doing that often since he took it.

Before feelings burrow deeper in my chest and I argue with myself over reaching out to him—just one final time—I go inside to say a final goodbye to the only home I’ve ever known.

As I step inside the house, a shiver tickles my spine. When glancing over my shoulder, I find the street as empty as it was minutes ago.

Nevertheless, I enter the house, feeling his eyes on me.

Feeling protected.