Page 10 of These Shattered Memories

I n this light, Rowan’s hair is almost black. It sticks up in different directions, his eyes glinting like stars landed in the sea. I move to straddle him, a soft summer breeze coming in from the open window that looks out at the sprawling affluence of Queen’s Peak.

I rest my arms over his shoulders, goosebumps creeping up on my skin, but it’s not because of the cold.

There’s a strange weight on my chest, an anticipation of something, like we’re close to a precipice and with every second that ticks by, we inch closer to some sort of end.

I can feel its looming presence all around, stifling and choking me.

I don’t want this to end.

I don’t want to let him go.

I lean into him, my mouth lingering against his, and smile weakly, the euphoria of Rowan Vasilyev rushing through my blood. I know I shouldn’t be enjoying this. I know I should hate it every time he touches me, but I don’t and terrifyingly, I realise I want more of it.

It’s been eight months, and I know I’ve fallen in love with him. It’s the worst possible thing I could have done, but how could I not fall for someone like him? How can anyone not want him? It has been so easy—too easy for him and I’m quickly losing myself in this case.

“What’s wrong?” Rowan asks when I pull away, his hand coming up to grip my chin.

“Nothing,” I lie, moving to kiss him again. He kisses me back, deep and wanting, nipping at my bottom lip until I’m moaning and grinding against him. He’s entered my bloodstream, and eventually, I’ll have to bleed him out. I don’t know if there’ll be much of me left when I’m done.

But maybe I won’t have to, I think as I pull away.

Maybe I should tell him the truth and when I do, I can choose not to go back.

I didn’t choose to work for the OCU through some strong sense of morality or justice.

A friend was trying out, and I went with him.

He didn’t make it, but I did and before I knew it, I was here, with Rowan.

I don’t have to go back.

I can choose to stay here with him.

“Rowan,” I say quietly against his mouth. The truth sits on my tongue, threatening to escape in its entirety. “I—I love you.”

That’s not what I wanted to say, and I watch his eyes darken, his lips settling into a line.

I open my mouth to take it back, to tell him I’m being silly, but before I can, I feel the sharp sting of metal ripping through me, cutting me open until it rests in my gut.

When I look down, crimson blooms on my white shirt, spilling out between us and onto the sheets.

He grips my chin and smiles. “Do you?”

***

I shoot up from my mattress, my entire body soaked with sweat.

My hands reach for my stomach, searching for blood and a knife, but there’s nothing, only the thin material of an old college t-shirt.

My brow is sweaty, and my hair is damp, curling behind my ears and matted to the back of my neck.

I rake a hand through it, trying to calm my breathing.

That wasn’t just a nightmare—it was a memory, twisted into something else completely. The moment is burned into my brain like a branding iron was taken to it. It was a week before Rowan’s arrest. A week before it all fell apart.

I’d stupidly fallen for him, but he hadn’t fallen for me. When I whispered those quiet words in the dark, he’d only looked at me before kissing me senseless, never giving me a response.

He never said it back.

But I didn’t hand whatever evidence I’d collected to the OCU because I was angry at him for not loving me back. I hadn’t expected him to, but I also knew it meant I had to choose myself. Rowan was not some gallant prince in a fairytale; he was the heir to an empire built on blood and ruthlessness.

There was no room for me in that.

When he was done with me, he would throw me away and everything I’d been working for would mean nothing. I’d survived this long out of sheer stubbornness, and I wasn’t stupid enough to go back to the desperation I’d felt once.

I loved him and he would never love me.

So, it was an easy choice.

The right choice.

Sighing loudly, I move out of my bed. It’s still early, seven in the morning, and the sky is a hazy cerulean blue.

I walk into the bathroom, turning on the shower and slipping off my shirt.

For a moment, I stare at myself through the mirror, the room filling up with steam.

I’m losing some of my muscle, and dark circles have made a home under my eyes.

My fingers reach for my chest, right where the delicate piece of ink sits just under my pecs. It’s a clumsy keepsake, a reminder of what passed between Rowan and I.

XIX VI.

19 June.

The night I met him.

After last night, I feel a little pathetic looking at it.

Who gets a tattoo to remind themselves of someone who never loved them back?

But I was drunk and sad when I got it. I wanted something to remember the one person who somehow made me feel invincible for the first time, like I owned the world, and I belonged in it.

Yet, judging from the past few days, I don’t think I ever made him feel much.

I groan as I enter the shower, letting the steam and the scalding water engulf me. I have the day off from work and I’m determined to make some progress on Halle’s case, but there is still this incessant prickle at the back of my head.

I can’t help but think going to Canning was a mistake. I shouldn’t have been seen anywhere near Rowan, especially by Avni.

I could lie to myself and pretend she didn’t recognise me, but the way she kept watching me tells me she knew. That could be a problem. If she told Trist who I really am, who knows what sort of trouble that could bring?

I spent all of last night poring over Trist’s and Avni’s records, looking for anything that might point me in the right direction, but there wasn’t much to use. Nothing in Avni’s file either, except for a few run-ins with the police and a very active social media presence.

But maybe she can point me in the right direction.

Maybe she couldn’t speak because of Trist and Rowan.

Seeing her again would be a risk, but it could be the only way I can make some headway in this.

Kane always tells me to be relentless. And I’m in already enough shit as it is. What’s a little more?

Time to be a detective, Kimura ,

I get dressed quickly and drive down to a Pilates studio in the heart of Flower District.

It’s still early and most people are still driving to work, but the avid gym goers are already bright eyed and sweaty, looking like they’ve snorted party drugs and not spent the last fifty minutes on uncomfortable spin bikes instead.

Sculpt Haus’ s lobby is brightly lit and decorated with what I guess is some sort of sustainable wood and green shrubbery. Spandex-clad gym-goers clutch alternative milk lattes and neon yoga mats in their hands and walk past me, probably disdainful of the jeans and college sweater I threw on.

The clock reads eight o’clock on the dot, which is when Avni’s favourite reformer class ends according to her social media posts.

‘Never miss 7a.m. Pilates with Kirsti!’ She posts on her feed every other day.

I checked on the studio’s website and Kristi had a class at 7 a.m. this morning. I pray to God Avni didn’t decide to flake this one time.

A few people walk out of a room, peaceful music emanating from the speakers inside, a far cry from the spin class I heard earlier.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand when I spot her.

She’s tall and striking, the kind of woman who commands a room. And like she feels me looking at me, her eyes land on me, narrowing, before a sly appears on her lips.

“I knew you’d come to find me,” she says, coming to stand before me. “Alexander Kimura, The Snake’s pet. Last time I saw you, you were fighting drunk men in dingy bars.”

I stop myself from spiralling into memories I keep locked away. “Avni.”

Her skin glows with a sheen of sweat, pupils dilated like she’s just done a line. “It’s been a long time. Looks like you’ve made it up the ladder. Hanging around the future Head of The Snake? Impressive.”

“I could say the same for you,” I shrug.

“Who? Trist?” She laughs once, like she truly finds that funny. “I think Rowan Vasilyev has him beat, don’t you?”

My cheeks heat at the memory of Rowan grabbing the nape of my neck and calling me Lexie in front of everyone. My body shouldn’t react to him like that anymore.

“So, what do I owe this pleasure?” She crosses her arms, her long black ponytail swishing behind her.

“Haze,” I say, figuring there’s no point in beating around the bush.

She pouts. “Aw and here I thought you just wanted to catch up.”

My mouth snaps shut. I kind of feel like a dick for not at least asking how she’s been since I last saw her.

“Relax.” She grins before a taking a sip from her water bottle. “Did Rowan send you?”

“No, we aren’t working together anymore.”

She narrows her eyes again, cocking her head to the right. “Trouble in paradise? You seemed quite cozy together.”

Cozy .

Yeah, that’s the last word I’d use to describe us.

“We aren’t—” I sigh, biting my tongue. I don’t think she’ll believe anything I say about my relationship with Rowan, so I focus on Haze instead. “Please Avni, this is really important. Who is supplying Trist with Haze?”

She shrugs. “I have no idea. All I know is what Trist told you. He doesn’t tell me anything.”

“And you haven’t seen anything? Overhead anything?” I push.

She smiles, something sly and practiced. “What’s in it for me?”

I swallow. Of course, we both know nothing comes for free in Senna, especially for people like us.

“What would you like?” I ask.

“Can you give me his head on a stick?”

My eyes widen and a careless laugh leaves her. “I’m joking,” she says.

But I don’t think she is.

“There’s nothing you can give me. Nothing I need anyway.”