Page 98 of Eternal

AZRA

“Cherry” by Lana Del Rey

Present

H e had to be here.

To remind me.

He came back to me, stupid me will think it means he missed me, that it wasn't all a lie. But the other me knows men are not people you can trust, but she’s still stupid enough to want him to touch her again, kiss her again, talk to her again, like she’s his, like in his arms she can be whatever she wants and that he’ll accept it.

Stupid fucking me.

And I don’t even want to turn around and look at him. He’s sitting at that bar, looking at me. He doesn’t even care to be here. He’s a traitor, he shouldn’t even be alive. He should be dead . I should’ve told Vik or kill him myself.

But I didn’t, I didn’t and I don’t even regret it.

So I drink, and drink, and drink again, until I smell a vanilla and sweet scent next to me.

“Azra, you okay?” Zanae asks, smiling softly, and I smile back because I’m not okay, I never was, I’ll never be.

“Yeah, sorry I’m drinking my ass off at your party.”

She shakes her head before grabbing my hand, “Don’t apologize, I just want you to know that whatever is going on in your head, don’t let the voice win.”

I look at her hand on mine, a cedar tree engraved there, soft, perfect.

“What if they already won?” I ask stupidly like she got the answer.

Her hand tightens around mine and she replies, “Then fight it again and again, never stop.”

And I laugh, half drunk, half confused, because she felt like the warmth I always chase. Compassionate, like someone who really wants you to never feel alone, and it's confusing.

I never knew people could be gentle with me, gentle in a way a stranger takes care of a stray dog, like a mother is gentle with a baby.

Tender .

“Thank you, Zanae. Has anyone ever told you that your eyes are comforting?”

She smiles again, confused, blushing almost shyly and she asks, “Why?”

“Because you have a warm soul.”

Her smile turns sad, maybe I should've not said that? Is it okay? Is it not?

“Oh I’m sorry–”

She stops me and closes her eyes. “Thank you, Azra. Have fun tonight, don’t overthink. And if you need a place to sleep, just call me. I won’t be far.”

And just like that, she’s gone, and I’m left in the middle of a crowd I don't want to be seen by, except for the one man who always sees too much.

But I don’t want him to.

Because if he sees me right now, he’ll see everything, the mess, the cracks. He’ll feel the weight of scars, hear the voice of every demon I’ve made my bed with.

He’ll look at me and see what Christian saw and abused. The cuts I carved to stay sane, to stay alive. The ones my mother left behind when she stopped being a mother and started being something else.

And Damir… Damir would hate them too, wouldn’t he?

I need air.

I step outside, cool night, soft darkness. I still hear the music from inside, but it’s distant, like a dream I woke up from, drunk and confused.

Could be the champagne, could be the memories.

Could be him .

I take out my cigarettes, hand trembling just enough to annoy me, just as I flick the lighter, someone else beats me to it.

“May I?”

I glance sideways, Alexander, too polished, too clean.

“Are you following me?” I ask.

He chuckles, lighting the cigarette and holding it out to me. “Saw you slip out. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

I laugh, a hollow thing. “That’s a lie.”

I take a drag, and it tastes weirdly better when I know it’s killing me.

He shifts beside me. “I like your eyes.”

I turn, facing him full. My fingers slide up his tie and I tug, pulling him into my space like it’s a trap.

“You’re not him .”

He blinks, confused.

“Such a pretty face,” I continue, tilting my head like I’m inspecting a toy I’m not sure I want. “Too bad you’re a man. And I don’t like men, not really, not anymore. Only him . That’s the tragedy.”

He grins, stupid, oblivious. “You think I have a pretty face?”

“You’re still a man.”

“And you’re not interested,” he says quietly, leaning against the stone rail like this is some tragic romance.

I exhale smoke slowly, bat my lashes, bored. Disappointed . “Yeah,” I whisper, half a laugh. “You’re not him .”

His brows pull, confused, offended maybe.

“I really don’t like men who aren’t a threat,” I murmur. “You’re too clean.” I turn away. “That’s your problem.”

Before he can react, a hand clamps on his shoulder.

I don’t even need to look.

Tattoos that caressed me. Heat. Possessiveness in physical form. Damir .

“Excuse my partner,” he says smoothly, coldly. “She’s had a little too much. I’ll take it from here.”

Alexander straightens. “She’s fine with me.”

Wrong move.

Damir doesn’t say anything, just moves. One solid push, calculated and calm, sends Alexander a step back.

Then that hand, the one I know too well, finds my waist. It’s familiar and pathetic and… safe .

“I said I’ll take care of my partner,” he repeats, voice like ice. “You can go.”

Before I can speak, move, or tell him to fuck off, he bends down and lifts me like I weigh nothing. Shoulder over his back like some barbarian, the cigarette dangling from my fingers.

“Put me down?—”

A low chuckle. “You shouldn’t let other men near you when you’re like this.”

“Like what?”

“Drunk. Sad. Tempting .” His voice drops. “Mine.”

But his hand slides under my dress, warm against my bare thigh. And then… he spanks me.

Once, then a second smack, hard, unapologetic. Echoing into my bones.

I gasp, and I hate that it stirs something in me.

“That’s for leaving me bleeding,” he mutters, low like a threat. “For pretending you don’t miss me.”

I freeze.

Another spank, slower this time. “And that—” his hand lingers, “is for letting that boy even look at you.” A breath. “For walking out here like that,” he mutters under his breath. Another smack, “And for making me watch him touch you.”

I squirm. A little hum breaks out of my throat. But I don’t fight. Because I like this. And he knows it.

He walks us deeper into the private grounds of the estate. Quiet now. Isolated.

And let me down on my feet. But I just exhale slowly. Not saying much.

I reach for my cigarette, but my hands are a little shaky. Before I can light it, he takes it straight from my fingers, flicks it to the ground, and crushes it beneath his boot.

“What are you fucking doing, Damir?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just pulls out his own lighter, and lights a fresh one. Then he places it between my lips himself.

“I don’t like seeing other people try to take care of you,” he says, like it’s not the first time he’s said it in his head.

I stare at him, a small, sharp laugh slipping out. The cigarette is not even finished, when I crush it under my heel, shaking my head. “That’s dramatic.”

He exhales, eyes locked to mine. “I don’t like when they see you. When they talk to you. When they imagine you naked.”

“How would you know that?”

He tilts his head slightly. Jaw tight. “Because I’m a man. And men are stupid.”

“So... you imagine me naked too?”

He doesn’t answer. He just steps in closer, hand coming to rest on the stone railing beside my head.

“You don’t want to know what I imagine you in.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Something lacy and red?”

His fingers graze my inner thigh, unapologetic under my dress. “Something ruined. Torn. Wrinkled from the floor of my bedroom.”

My mouth parts, heartbeat ticking like it’s counting down.

He looks down at me, cold, unreadable, but everything burning behind his eyes. “You cut me open and I still came back and I still imagine you naked. That counts for something.”

“Stupidity,” I mutter.

“ Devotion ,” he says. Soft. Certain. “Why are you drinking so much tonight? You’re okay?”

I glance away. “I’m fine.”

“You’ve had at least five drinks. Your heels are unsteady. Your skin’s goose-bumping like you’re about to fall over.”

“I’m still capable of walking away from you.”

His mouth lifts, but not in amusement. Just danger. He slides a hand to my waist. “Try.”

I don’t.

He lights another cigarette, smokes without looking at me like the whole night’s beneath him, then silently offers it. Like I didn’t just have one a few moments ago.

I squint. “Peace offering?”

He nods once.

I take it, drag deep, let the smoke cut through the fuzz in my head.

Then I catch him watching me again.

“What?”

“Indirect kiss,” he says, deadpan.

I cough. “Are you twelve?”

“You’re the one who put your mouth where mine was,” he says with a tilt of his head.

I narrow my eyes. “ Ex -partners shouldn’t be so possessive.”

“Good thing I’m still your partner.”

“Still possessive.”

“Loyal.”

“Jealous much?”

“Definitely.”

“Dramatic too?”

“ Everything .”

I laugh. It’s stupid and warm and slurred, but it’s real. “At least you’re honest,” I whisper.

“You’re drunk.”

“Thanks for the update.”

“You need to stop for tonight.”

“Too bad I’m halfway down the hole again.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches me. “Don’t,” he says eventually. Quiet. Like a hand on a wound.

“I wish I could stop.”

He takes the cigarette from me again, finishes it, flicks the butt into the gravel, then leans in, just a breath away, his voice right against my ear.

“I’ll help.”

I blink slowly. Then, without looking at him, murmur, “Aren’t you supposed to take me out or something?”

“I am.”

There’s a pause. Long enough to ache.

“Guess I’m really bad at my job.”

“Guess you are,” I say, softer now.

But I don’t move.

And neither does he.