Page 231 of Eternal
The wine bottles were still on the floor, all empty. My boots were still on, and my head…hurts, like someone had cracked it open and poured in every bad memory I ever tried to forget.
No one did this to me but me.Classic.
I sat up slowly, my mouth was dry, my throat burned, my eyes were crusted with smudged mascara, and there was a vague red stain blooming near my collarbone that I really didn’t want to investigate too hard.
It had been years since I lost control like that, since I let the bottle win.
I used to be this girl, drinking until the blackout, until the guilt turned quiet. Crying alone in bathrooms. Sleeping in my own vomit when I wasn’t even old enough to drive.
Then I got better, or so I told everyone.Told myself.
But last night I let it slip a little. Enough to remind me that she’s still in there, the girl with the shaking hands and the broken heart. The one who drinks to shut it all down. The one I promised to leave behind.
And now here I am, hungover, angry, wearing yesterday’s clothes and my life’s regrets.
I found my phone eventually, face down on the table. One message.
11AM Meeting.
From the Don, with an address for a small coffee shop in the middle of the city.
What a cute little brunch lineup.
The Venom Reapers, the Huntress turned Emira, and me, the psychotic killer, wine-stained, tired, and still smelling faintly of shame.
I dragged myself into the bathroom, took a quick shower and splashed water on my face until I couldn’t feel it, and avoided the mirror, I already knew who I’d see.
That tired, mean-eyed version of me who always shows up when life gets too heavy, the one who whispers,‘See? You never really got better.’
The one who mistook numbness for control, the one who drinks and gets high alone and still thinks she’s fine. God, I hate her.
But she always finds her way back when I’m hurting.
I threw on some black jeans, my leather jacket, tied my hair back, and hoped I looked less like heartbreak and more like the woman they all are waiting for. I put the file in my bag, grabbed my keys and went out.
The ride helped, the wind sobered me up just enough to feel more like a person and less like trash.
I pulled up to the coffee shop and immediately hated how sweet it looked. Warm light, soft chatter and wooden chairs, probably served lattes with tiny foam hearts and the world’s best pancakes.
I took off my helmet and walked in like I fit there, like I hadn’t slept drunk on a couch and cried over a man who lied to me while holding a wine bottle like a lifeline.
A bell chimed as the door opened. Of course it did.
Cute place for a casual meeting between four potential murderers.
And then I saw them, a kid ran past me, giggling, slipping between tables smiling brightly. He darted between two women, one with a soft bob, the other with long raven hair. She caught him mid-run, scooped him up with love and kissed his cheek as he laughed harder.
And there they were, sitting and watching the two women and the kid with a smile.
Nikolai Moretti and Elijah Volkov.
I should've looked more put together for a meeting like this, but I didn’t have it in me to care. I was here. That had to be enough.
Then she turned around.
The woman with the long black hair.
And I froze for half a second just enough to feel stupid about it.
