Page 1 of Owned By Shadows

CHAPTER ONE

“TOO SAD TO CRY” BY SASHA ALEX SLOAN

IRIS

I’m drowning in a sea of red, the sharp sound of a gunshot digging into my very soul and ricocheting around until I’m bleeding, which adds to the blood that is surrounding me…

“Iris! Peaches, wake up. Please, baby.”

My eyes snap open, the soft light in the room—our room—doing nothing to ease the pain that fills my body as I gasp for breath.

“That’s it, Peaches, just breathe for us.” Hunter’s soft yet slightly panicked voice filters through my ears, and blinking, I find him and Rowan leaning over me in our bed, their brows deeply furrowed, purple smudges underneath their eyes.

“He’s gone,” I whisper, my voice broken and cracked, like broken glass. Pain lances through my insides, sharp and cutting, my heart fracturing once again at this new, terrible reality.

“I know, baby,” Hunt rasps out, his eyes filling as hot tears scald my cheeks as I relive that night two weeks ago when Sergi called and Nikolai shot Roman.

Rowan’s jaw clenches, the skin bunching around his eyes as he says nothing. He’s not spoken in all that time, and a part of me feels like I lost both twins that night, not just Roman.

“Why won’t they give us his body, Hunt?” I ask quietly for what feels like the hundredth time. He sighs before swallowing.

“I don’t know, Peaches. I don’t fucking know,” he grits out.

We were expecting them to dump his body at the gates of the estate, just like Rowan did with all of their members that he killed when I was with Sergi. Instead, they haven’t, not even allowing us the closure that burying him would give.

The worst part is, a small kernel of hope flares inside me, hidden but making itself known. Maybe they haven’t given us a body because there is no body to give. Maybe Nik, my childhood crush and one of my soulmates, somehow didn’t kill Roman and is keeping him safe somewhere.

I fucking hate that hope, wish I could crush it and just accept that he’s gone and is never coming back, but it’s a stubborn bastard and refuses to shift. This almost limbo is just too much, stealing my breath because the pain of not knowing feels like it’s killing me slowly.

“Come on, baby. I’ll make you some mint tea and toast,” Hunt offers, climbing out of the bed and holding his hand out for me.

It’s the middle of the night, but this, me waking up after having a nightmare, has been a nightly occurrence, so he knows I won’t be able to settle back down to sleep for a bit. I take his hand and let him help me out of bed, Rowan following us like a silent shadow as we leave the room and head to the kitchen.

The brush of fingers against mine has me pausing, and I glance back to find Rowan close, his chest bare in the low lightswe keep on around the flat. I can’t stand the darkness, not anymore. My breath hitches as I look into his face, another stab of agony hitting me in the heart. It’s a special kind of torture, seeing the face of the man who I loved and lost every day for the last couple weeks. I can’t imagine how hard it must be for Rowan to look in a mirror.

Letting go of Hunt’s hand, I turn to face Rowan fully, stepping into him until our bodies touch and the heat of him seeps into me, helping to chase the horrific dream away. I hope the small measure of healing goes into him too, but he just won’t talk, so I can only pray. Raising my arms, I slide them around his neck, closing the distance between us, my pregnant belly getting in the way slightly.

He’s trembling, his body taut with tension as his own arms lift, wrapping them around my waist, his face sinking into the crook of my neck. He gives a shuddering exhale, his fists clenching the back of the T-shirt that I’m sleeping in—one of Roman’s that still smells like him a little. That I’ll run out of that scent one day has a lump forming in my throat that is impossible to swallow past.

Rowan gives another shudder, his arms clenching tighter, then a deep sound rumbles from his throat. It’s the sound of a wounded animal, of the desolation of being lost and now believing there is no way out of the darkness. His shoulders heave and my neck grows damp as he sobs against me, and I cannot hold back my anguish, as much as I want to comfort him. The pain is too great, too fresh.

Fresh tears sting my eyes, falling onto his neck as my breaths become short and choppy and I let the grief overwhelm me like a wave, drowning me just like the blood in my dream. Warmth at my back has me fully letting go, knowing that Hunter has us, that he’ll hold us up in this moment when Rowan and I just can’t.

We spend a long time just holding each other and letting our pain out until I feel myself sagging in their arms, exhausted.

“Come on,” Hunt says, his voice gruff and thick with emotion. “Let’s just go back to bed.”

He’s right, I don’t want tea or toast. After all, it won’t bring Roman back to me. Rowan takes a deep breath and untangles himself from me. When he straightens up, his face is wet, his eyes swollen with the sadness that he must feel like I do, like we all do.

He licks his lips, taking my hand and gently rubbing his other over my face, swiping the tears away. He doesn’t say a word as he leads us back to the bedroom, helping me into bed after I quickly pop to the bathroom. I’m still growing this baby, our baby, and regular bathroom breaks are a must at the moment.

Once we’re all back in bed, both guys snuggle close to me, Hunt being the big spoon to my little spoon and Rowan sharing my pillow while looking into my eyes. The pain and anguish in his hurts to look at, like knives stabbing into my soul, but I can’t look away, even if a part of me wants to. We are connected by our agony, mirror images of each other’s broken souls, and this connection is the only thing I’m able to give him right now.

My stomach gives a heave, and his lips quirk ever so slightly as he glances between us, his warm palm coming to rest over the swell of it, joining Hunt’s hand, which is already there and rarely leaves. I’m hit anew with another loss, the thought stealing my breath for a moment and threatening to start me off again.

My child, our child, will never know two of its dads.

Because we didn’t just lose Roman that night. Nikolai was the one who pulled the trigger, who stole him from our world. He’s just as dead to me, to us, as Roman. Which is another lance on my heart, another wound that I have no hope of healing, because despite the fact that he pulled the trigger, that he shot Roman, I still love him. And I hate myself for it.

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