Page 83 of The Bittersweet Bond

It was about reclaiming a part of himself he had thought was gone.

And she was part of that.

“Fuck.” The expletive barely escaped, his grip tightening around the door handle. A decision began to take shape in his mind—if she no longer wanted him, she could tell him to his face. One last time.

His breathing deepened as the shadows of self-doubt began to fade.

If he truly tried, the worst that could happen was another rejection.

But at least he’d have the truth. At least he wouldn’t let pride hold him back.

A faint, almost self-deprecating smile tugged at his lips.

He was sure now.

He was going to fight for her.

And if Sergej was the problem?

He’d handle that too.

One way or another.

Chapter 24

The Illusion of Patience

Evin

Sergej had a way of disguising pressure as patience.

He never outright asked for anything; that wasn’t his style. Instead, he wrapped his expectations in feigned understanding, in carefully chosen words that made it seem as if he was the only one who truly understood her. And for a while, Evin had let herself believe in that illusion. She had convinced herself it was real.

At first, he had seemed different—attentive, genuinely interested. He asked about her ballet, her training, the way movement lived in her muscles like second nature. He would watch her stretch, murmuring how mesmerizing it was to see such quiet strength, making her feel like, for a brief moment, he really saw her.

And maybe, at the start, he had.

But the shift had come sooner than she realized. The thoughtful messages had started centering on him. Their conversations became one-sided. His curiosity faded, replaced by an expectation she couldn’t quite name at first—but she could feel it. In the way he looked at her, in the things he said, in the way his patience wasn’t really patience at all.

It began subtly—a lingering joke, a touch that lasted a second too long. “We both know you want to,” he’d say, that signature smirk curling at his lips. A smirk that had once made her heart race. Now, it made her stomach twist. At first, she had laughed it off, treated it as harmless teasing. But lately, it felt different. Like a weight pressing down on her, like something closing in.

One evening, they sat on his couch, his arm draped loosely around her shoulders.

“Come on, Evin,” Sergej murmured, his voice low, coaxing. “You can’t expect me to believe you don’t think about it.”

She scoffed, shifting slightly, putting space between them. “You sound like a guy from some bad Netflix movie.”

Sergej chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m just saying, we have fun, don’t we?” He ran a slow hand down her arm, fingers brushing her skin lightly, deliberately. It wasn’t a touch that asked—it was a touch that assumed. “It’s not like I’m rushing you. I’m patient.”

“Right,” she muttered, raising an eyebrow. “So patient that we somehow end up having this conversation every single time?”

For the briefest moment, his grip on her arm tightened before he let go, leaning back with a heavy sigh. “I don’t want to fight.”

“Then don’t start one.”

He exhaled loudly, tilting his head as he studied her, eyes sharp with something unreadable. “You know,” he mused, voice light but edged, “sometimes I feel like you like making me wait.”

A strange, uneasy chill crawled up her spine. His tone was playful, but beneath it, there was something sharper. Something that made her skin feel too tight.

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