Page 33 of Eternal

AZRA

“Forget Her” by Jeff Buckley

Present

A lcohol?

Why is it so cold?

What the fuck?

My eyes shot open, the low light blinding me for a second, the room where I was, came into focus, bare walls, a table cluttered with supplies, some furniture around but mostly empty.

A sharp sting radiated from my side. My head throbbed faintly, but the pain dragged me back to the present.

I was slumped in a rigid chair, my body heavy, and stiff. When I tried to straighten, the pain flared around my ribs, sharp enough to pull a hiss from my lips, that’s when I saw him. Damir, his back to me, sleeves rolled up, meticulously cleaning a knife on the table.

“What the hell are you doing? And where are we?” I finally let out.

He didn’t turn, didn’t even pause what he was doing, his focus stayed on the blade.

“You fainted in the car,” he said flatly, like it was normal. “I called Viktor and had him set up this garage for us. It’s close to the city, isolated enough, from now on, this will be our HQ.”

“Our HQ?” I echoed, the words foreign in my mouth.

Mine is my apartment.

He finally glanced at me, deep blue eyes, unreadable, cold, then turned back to his work. “After every mission, we come here, debrief, restock, clean up, if something goes wrong, we call Viktor with this.” He tapped a phone on the table. “We’ll leave weapons here, too. Locked in that safe.”

I stared at him, my mind still piecing together fragments of what happened, his voice was too calm, too measured like he’d rehearsed this while I was unconscious.

Before I could respond, he turned and walked toward me, the knife he was cleaning, discarded on the table, he knelt in front of me, and without a word, his fingers pushed up the hem of my top.

“Wait,” I couldn't even finish my sentence before the cold air hit my skin, then the faint sting of his touch near the bandage wrapped around my ribs.

I tensed instinctively, but he didn’t flinch, as if my resistance amused him.

“Since you don’t make it easy for me,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp that sent heat prickling over my skin.

“I have to be ready when you inevitably get yourself hurt.” His touch lingered maddeningly careful, as he adjusted the bandage back.

“We’ll keep medical supplies here,” he added, “For when you decide to bleed for your stubborn pride instead of ending it quickly.”

Then his hand slid up, gripping my chin firmly, tilting my face toward his, his gaze pinned me in place, angry, cold, and entirely too close. “Understood, partner?”

I blinked, caught between the pulse of pain in my side and the sudden heat of his proximity, the way his hand lingered on my skin almost made me smile.

“You talk too much, Damir,” I said finally.

Something flickered across his face. Relief? Amusement? It was gone too quickly to tell, he exhaled a quiet laugh before releasing my chin and standing.

The loss of contact felt sudden and jarring.

“Could’ve been nothing more than a scratch if you’d told me earlier,” he said, his back already turned as he returned to the table. “But no, you had to wait until you bled all over my car and lap.”

He moved to the bag on the table, rummaging through it, pulling out guns and arranging them with care.

“Isn’t that what good partners do?”

He smiled before replying, “No, good partners don’t let their partner bleed at all.”

I shifted in the chair, testing my strength, then slowly pushed myself up, pain flared briefly, but I ignored it. Walking toward him, I leaned against the table’s edge, watching him work, my arms crossed over my chest.

“It was a small cut,” I muttered, shifting my weight despite the ache. “I’ve fought with worse.”

His hands came down on the table on either side of me, caging me in as he leaned close, the scent of gun oil mixed with something undeniably his.

Warmth. His breath brushed my cheek, and for a fleeting moment, his nose nearly grazed mine, his gaze locked on mine, dark and searching, his frustration bleeding into something else entirely, something that made my pulse pound in my throat.

“You’re going to stop hiding things from me,” he said coldly, his voice like steel. “If you’re bleeding out, you tell me. If you’re hurt, you tell me. No more of this bullshit. Understood?”

I swallowed hard, refusing to back down even as the heat of his body pressed against mine, his gaze flicked downward, lingering on my lips, and my chest tightened.

The faintest twitch of a smirk tugged at his mouth.

“Okay, soldier,” I whispered.

He leaned in closer, the barest whisper of distance between us, and I swore I felt him inhale sharply, as if committing the moment to memory.

“Don’t call me that,” he said, it felt tender, almost a rasp, the words brushing against my skin, his head tilted slightly, and for a moment, I thought he might close the space between us.

Instead, his mouth twitched again, then he abruptly pushed off the table, he turned away, grabbing the rag and gun with a sharp exhale. “I was never a soldier,” he muttered, his tone laced with quiet disdain.

I straightened, watching him retreat.

I caught the bag of stolen experimental weapons and the prototype box; whatever the hell was in it.

It was over.

It was done, the chaos, the blood, the screaming rush of adrenaline, it was all over now.

What came after was always the same, the crash, the dull ache creeping into my limbs, the way my mind couldn’t quite let go yet, still searching for threats in the corners of the room.

Damir was already at the table again, cleaning his gun like nothing had happened.

I eased into the seat beside him, biting back the wince when my side flared up, I pulled my gun from its holster, it needed cleaning, and I needed the distraction.

The motions were automatic, pulling it apart, wiping it down, checking for damage.

“I kept the finger, and the phone locked there, didn’t touch them.”

I quickly nodded, not replying much.

“Does it hurt?” His voice was low, worried almost.

I glanced at him, but his focus stayed on his gun, the question felt strange, coming from him. Not unwelcome… strange .

“When I move too quickly,” I said, keeping my voice steady, my fingers hesitated for a fraction of a second before continuing to wipe the barrel. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

He made this sound in his throat, a little grunt that could’ve meant anything.

“You should’ve stayed down longer,” he said after a beat, his tone flat but not exactly harsh.

I snorted softly. “And miss another thrilling team-bonding moment like this?”

His lips twitched, barely, but I saw it, that almost-smirk that disappeared as quickly as it came. “I knew you liked our team-bonding activities,” he said, his voice dry. “Besides, it’s been a whole five minutes, and you still haven’t glared at me like I was your enemy. I was starting to worry.”

“That’s funny because I was just starting to hate you again,” I muttered, my gaze dropping back to my gun.

He let out this quiet laugh, not even a real laugh, more of a soft exhale, like he couldn’t believe I’d said that, like I’d amused him despite himself.

He was a machine, and I hated it, hated how easy he made it look, he was too calm, too sure of himself, too… Damir for my liking.

He’d taken care of me, even when I made it hard, even when I pushed.

Was I mean? I don’t know, maybe, but what else was I supposed to be? Nice? Grateful? That’s not me.

No, I wasn’t mean. I was myself.

And maybe that’s the real problem.

I don’t know how to let someone in, I don’t think I ever learned, people always leave eventually, they stop trying to understand you, they get tired of your demons and pain, and I don’t blame them. It’s easier to walk away than to stay and unravel the mess of me.

But he… he didn’t, at least not yet, because he barely started working with me. Apart from training and random occasions, he never saw me fight; he never witnessed me losing it.

He certainly noticed after seeing the corpses and the finger, but he was still worried about me.

Fool.

I should’ve said something, thank him maybe, tell him I noticed the way he came back, even when I pushed for days and weeks now. But it’s hard to like someone, harder to trust them with your life, when you’ve spent so long learning not to.

So instead, I cleaned my knife, sat on a chair and kept my eyes down, because if I looked at him too long, I might start believing he’d stay, like Vik and Kat. And that would hurt worse than any wound, because I always wonder… What if I let someone in, and they leave?

I need to stop thinking.

Fuck, this injury is really annoying, every breath made my ribs throb, but I kept my mouth shut.

“You’re stiff,” he said, rummaging through the med kit on the metal shelf.

“Don’t worry, it’ll disappear,” I said.

He pulled out a small blister pack of painkillers, popped two into his hand, and grabbed a water bottle from a bag on the table. Then he walked over, close enough that I had to tilt my head up to meet his eyes.

“Open your mouth.”

I hesitated. It was subtle, a beat too long, but I felt it, the resistance, the memory, the dull ache of wanting too much of something that once ruined me.

“I don’t need it,” I said quietly.

He didn’t argue. He crouched down in front of me and reached up to take my face in his hand. His fingers curled against my cheek, tilting my head back slightly.

“Yes, you do,” he said. “It’s just a painkiller.”

I held his gaze, jaw clenched between his tattooed fingers and then let the breath out. “Okay,” I whispered. I open my hand so he can give them to me. But he shook his head and smiled. “ Open .”

He didn’t move, didn’t gloat, he waited.

“Are you serious?” I asked, raising a brow.

“Deadly.”

Fuck . I let my lips part, slowly.

My eyes flicked up to his, skeptical but I did it anyway, barely parting my mouth.

He didn’t rush. His hand still hovered near my chin, and with a slow, deliberate touch, he tilted my head back.

“Tongue out,” he said.

I let my tongue slide out past my lips.