Page 83 of Eternal
I wanted to roll my eyes, to give him some sarcastic retort, but the sound of his heartbeat was too steady, too grounding, for once, I didn’t fight him, but I did let myself go for a moment.
He weirdly felt safe enough for me to let the pain be real.
25
AZRA
“Forget Her” by Jeff Buckley
Present
Alcohol?
Why is it so cold?
What the fuck?
My eyes shot open, the low light blinding me for a second, the room where I was, came into focus, bare walls, a table cluttered with supplies, some furniture around but mostly empty.
A sharp sting radiated from my side. My head throbbed faintly, but the pain dragged me back to the present.
I was slumped in a rigid chair, my body heavy, and stiff. When I tried to straighten, the pain flared around my ribs, sharp enough to pull a hiss from my lips, that’s when I saw him. Damir, his back to me, sleeves rolled up, meticulously cleaning a knife on the table.
“What the hell are you doing? And where are we?” I finally let out.
He didn’t turn, didn’t even pause what he was doing, his focus stayed on the blade.
“You fainted in the car,” he said flatly, like it was normal. “I called Viktor and had him set up this garage for us. It’s close to the city, isolated enough, from now on, this will be our HQ.”
“Our HQ?” I echoed, the words foreign in my mouth.
Mine is my apartment.
He finally glanced at me, deep blue eyes, unreadable, cold, then turned back to his work. “After every mission, we come here, debrief, restock, clean up, if something goes wrong, we call Viktor with this.” He tapped a phone on the table. “We’ll leave weapons here, too. Locked in that safe.”
I stared at him, my mind still piecing together fragments of what happened, his voice was too calm, too measured like he’d rehearsed this while I was unconscious.
Before I could respond, he turned and walked toward me, the knife he was cleaning, discarded on the table, he knelt in front of me, and without a word, his fingers pushed up the hem of my top.
“Wait,” I couldn't even finish my sentence before the cold air hit my skin, then the faint sting of his touch near the bandage wrapped around my ribs.
I tensed instinctively, but he didn’t flinch, as if my resistance amused him.
“Since you don’t make it easy for me,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp that sent heat prickling over my skin. “I have to be ready when you inevitably get yourself hurt.” His touch lingered maddeningly careful, as he adjusted the bandage back. “We’ll keep medical supplies here,” he added, “For when you decide to bleed for your stubborn pride instead of ending it quickly.”
Then his hand slid up, gripping my chin firmly, tilting my face toward his, his gaze pinned me in place, angry, cold, and entirely too close. “Understood, partner?”
I blinked, caught between the pulse of pain in my side and the sudden heat of his proximity, the way his hand lingered on my skin almost made me smile.
“You talk too much, Damir,” I said finally.
Something flickered across his face. Relief? Amusement? It was gone too quickly to tell, he exhaled a quiet laugh before releasing my chin and standing.
The loss of contact felt sudden and jarring.
“Could’ve been nothing more than a scratch if you’d told me earlier,” he said, his back already turned as he returned to the table. “But no, you had to wait until you bled all over my car and lap.”
He moved to the bag on the table, rummaging through it, pulling out guns and arranging them with care.
