Page 53 of Eternal

DAMIR

“Lover You Should Come Over” by Jeff Buckley

Present

I might be the worst agent alive right now.

Maybe ever.

All it took was for her to breathe in my direction, and suddenly, I forgot how to do my job. Almost kissed her. Almost touched her. Almost fucked her right there, and for what? Some fleeting high? A rush of something unidentifiable clawing at my ribs?

Pathetic .

Fucking pathetic for her.

I’ve slit throats while looking my targets in the eye.

Dismantled lives without blinking. I don’t hesitate.

I don’t feel . I’m efficient, I’m precise, I don’t make mistakes.

But then there’s her, and I make every fucking mistake in the book, over and over again, just to be around her a little longer.

So, when she said she wanted to cook at home, some rational part of my brain must’ve seen it for what it was, an opening. A way to fix my mistake. Finish what I started.

The rest of me?

The rest of me thought, Yeah, perfect.

Let’s sit down. Let’s pretend. Let’s stretch this out a little longer, because I like the way she talks to me, like I’m someone worth speaking to. Because I like the way she breathes, the way her eyes show that nostalgic aspect I longed for all my life.

And the most idiotic, delusional part of me? That part thought, let’s be with her again, for a little while. Because apparently, we can’t get enough, because we’re obsessed with the one person we’re supposed to erase from existence.

And she lets me in. No hesitation. No suspicion.

Like I belong here. Like I’m not the reason she won’t wake up one day.

And the funniest fucking part?

I step inside with a smile. The door clicks shut behind me.

And I honestly don’t know if I’m here to kill her anymore.

The warmth of her home presses into me, in a way that isn’t unpleasant.

It’s blue, everywhere. I already know she loves that color.

And the most ridiculous part of me, the same part that’s making every fucking mistake imaginable, thinks, maybe she likes your eyes too.

Because they’re blue. Because they’re her favorite color.

Jesus Christ. Who am I right now?

And the scent… her scent, wraps around me. Something sweet, something familiar, something kind. It’s still crawling under my skin when she looks at me, her gaze flicking over my hoodie and sweats, and a smirk tugs at her lips. That smile. Fuck .

“You changed,” she notes, amused.

I shrug, hands in my pockets. “Figured I’d be comfortable if I was staying a while.”

Because I am. As long as I can keep pretending.

She hums, studying me too long, then she nods toward the hallway. “Stay here. I’m gonna put my pajamas on.”

She disappears down the hall, and I exhale slowly, pressing my tongue against my teeth. My fingers twitch. I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the weight crawling up my spine.

This is stupid.

All of this.

Every second I’m here is a second too long. Every glance she throws my way, every easy moment between us is a fucking lie. She doesn’t know what I am. What I was sent here to do. And she won’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

I sit down, but I don’t relax. I can’t. My jaw tightens, my hands curl into loose fists, and I stare at the floor as if I’ll find some kind of clarity in the grain of the wood.

I won’t.

I should leave.

I should finish what I started.

I should do exactly what I was sent here to do.

But then… She walks back in.

And all I can think is I should kiss her.

That’s not normal. I don’t think like that.

I don’t care like that. But there she is, hair braided over her shoulder, messy, loose curly strands framing her face like she didn’t bother to check.

Oversized shirt, bare legs, tattoos stretching over her skin.

She doesn’t look at me when she walks past, heading to the kitchen, but something about the way she moves makes my fingers twitch.

Not with the urge to kill. Not even with the urge to fuck. Something worse.

I don’t want to touch her. I want to… stay . I want to watch her exist, see how she fills a space, what she does when no one’s watching. I want to know why she braids her hair before bed. If it's a habit. If it’s comfortable. If she’d let me do it for her again.

That’s fucking insane.

I’m not built for this. Never have been. Never had the need. Never cared if someone was soft or comfortable or happy. But right now, I don’t want to rip this moment apart. I don’t want to break the easy way she moves around me. I don’t even want to leave.

And that’s a problem. She shouldn’t trust me. She shouldn’t be comfortable around me. But she is.

“Let’s start,” she says, opening the fridge, her back to me. “I’m excited it's been a while.” She's all smiling and gorgeous and fuck she's ruining me.

I don’t answer. I keep watching her.

I shouldn’t.

I shouldn’t be this fucking fascinated.

The way she moves. The way she pulls ingredients from the fridge. The way she stands barefoot on the cool tile, completely unaware of what it does to my system.

It’s only cooking.

It’s nothing .

So why the fuck am I still watching?

I push to my feet, dragging a hand through my hair. Reset. Refocus . “I’ll help.”

She scoffs, barely sparing me a glance. “You cook?”

“I can manage.” Truth is, I don’t cook much. Never needed to. No one ever cooked for me, except the team.

She gives me a look like she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t argue when I step behind her.

Too close. Close enough to catch the faint trace of her shampoo.

To watch the way she tucks her bottom lip between her teeth when she concentrates.

And how dare she look that fucking good doing something as simple as biting her lip?

Has it really been this long since I’ve laid a hand on a beautiful woman? Or is it just her?

I should step back.

I don’t.

“You don’t have to stand there, you know.” Her voice is softer this time.

If only she fucking knew. I exhale through my nose, steadying myself. “I’m good here.”

She laughs, light, careless.

It does something to me. It shouldn’t sound good. It shouldn’t make my hands itch to touch her. It shouldn’t make my pulse stutter.

But it does.

I clench my jaw, forcing myself to focus. This is a mission. A target. A job.

She’s nothing.

She can’t be anything .

I repeat it over and over as I lean against the counter, watching her work. She moves with so much ease. “What are you making?”

She glances at me over her shoulder, her braid swaying with the motion. “Mansaf.”

I’m already half-focused on the way her hands move effortlessly, gracefully. But then she says the word, and I catch it.

I raise a brow. “That supposed to mean something to me?”

She huffs a small laugh, shaking her head. “Figures. It’s Jordanian.”

Jordanian . She’s Jordanian? What the hell’s she doing with the bratva if she’s not Russian? But then she adds, almost under her breath, “It’s my mom’s favorite dish.”

And for some goddamn reason, the way she says it hits me. Something raw. A tenderness I wasn’t expecting. Something so fragile , I can't stop myself from leaning in a little.

She’s cooking her mom's favorite dish... and she’s going to share it with me…

“Used to make it for every celebration, every big moment when she was still cooking.”

I open my mouth to say something, anything, to tell her I get it. But I stop myself. What do I know about losing someone? What the fuck could I offer?

Instead, I ask the question I already know the answer to, even though I shouldn’t. “You close with her?”

Her hands slow as she stirs the pot, and for a moment, I wonder if she’ll even answer. Then she does, softly, with a smile. “She’s gone.”

Fuck me.

It’s too much. Not because I didn’t know it, but because hearing it is different. Hearing it makes it real. It makes me want to… hug her?

And maybe that’s why I take a step closer.

I don’t think about it. I just do it. Like I need to be sure she’s still here, still whole.

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away, she keeps stirring.

“Partner, you wanna talk about it?”

She huffs a laugh, shaking her head. “You make it sound like I’m sad about it.”

That smile… It's light, easy. A little too easy. I know what it means. In Voron’s alphabet, this is her way of saying drop it. That she hates talking about shit like this. That she thinks I’m gonna judge her for whatever the hell is running through her head.

Which I won’t.

I smile, exhaling through my nose. “What? You don’t think I’m capable of sympathy? You wound me.”

Her grin tugs wider. “No, I don’t. I think you’re too busy making sure everyone isn’t human enough for your sympathy.”

I roll my shoulders, shaking off the way her words hit me. “Maybe I don’t like people at all.”

She glances at me and shakes her head. “Well, you’re about to like me.” She nods toward the pot with a proud smirk. “If you’re lucky, maybe I’ll let you eat at my place more often.”

“You’re gonna make me beg for it, aren’t you?”

Her laugh is low, warm. I feel it more than I hear it. “Maybe,” she hums. “If you’re a good boy.”

Christ.

“Cocky,” I mutter, shaking my head.

She shrugs, smug as hell. “ Confident , I prefer.”

And fuck if I don’t catch myself smiling.

I don’t smile a lot. Not really. Not in a way that means something. But here? With her?

I don’t have to think about it, it simply happens.

I slide my hands into my pockets, leaning back against the counter. “So, this… mansaf . It’s your mom’s thing?”

She nods, but she doesn’t look at me. “Yeah. I haven’t made it in a while. I used to help her when I was younger. If we can call little me running around her legs, helping.”

“Sounds like she was a damn good cook,” I say, because I want to keep her talking.

She looks up at me then, and for a second, she holds my gaze.

And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe I’m making shit up, but I swear I see it, that warmth that always scares me, like she’s looking at me differently, like I’m more than the guy she’s supposed to work with.

“Yeah.” Her voice is softer now. “She was.”