Chapter 52
1393words
The ground moves beneath me like I'm on a ship at sea. I sway right, then left, my mind sloshing in my skull all the while. It's a miracle I don't stumble over my feet and land face-first in the grass.
What have I done?
Camila's eyes enter my memory. They're darkened by heat … by the filthy way I tainted her. I let out weeks, maybe years, of pent-up anger back there. I couldn't control myself. Fuck, I didn't want to. I knew I was a sinner, but to force my corrupt desires upon her was too much. If I could waltz into hell right now, I would.
Instead, I storm past Kostya.
He eyes me nervously as I pass. 'Pakhan," he starts, but I keep going, not hearing the rest of his words. Like a zombie, I wander until I'm moving through my office door. The correct thing to do—what a man with some goodness left in his heart would do—would be to go back out and apologize to Camila.
She deserves that basic kindness.
But when I drop into my chair, head thrown back, closing my eyes, I know I'm not going to say I'm sorry. I have experience being a monster. But I don't know how to make amends.
I'm a goddamn disgrace. I need her more than she understands. How do I make her understand? It's like we're speaking different languages lately. I thought we had a natural connection. Just another thing to add to the pile of things I've been wrong about.
Snatching the bottle of vodka from the bar cart beside my desk, I choke it by the neck. It's easy to imagine I'm throttling Yannick himself. Slamming a glass down, I fill it to the brim. I caused this mess. I did this to myself. I did this to her.
It would be wonderful to lay the burden on anyone else, but the wedge between Camila was placed there by me and me alone.
I drain the vodka with a toss of my head, wiping my lips on my forearm with a loud exhalation as I savor the burn of the alcohol. This won't help. Yet I pour more vodka to the rim again. Once that's gone, I decide to forgo the glass entirely.
Why bother when I can drink straight from the bottle?
My attention scrapes over my desk. Idly, I flip open my notebooks. My eyes glaze over the words I've written inside. The letters and numbers are perfectly formed in crisp ink, but my vision can't make sense of any of it. Doesn't matter, I tell myself sourly. Nothing in here can help. Camila believes I'm her enemy ... None of this can change a thing! Curling my upper lip, I slap the paperwork off my desk. It scatters all over the floor.
'Asher?"
Spinning my chair around, I spot Layla at my door.
'What are you doing?" she demands, her voice getting higher pitched as she sees the bottle of vodka. 'It's not even one in the afternoon."
'Out!" I snap. 'Eto moi prikaz!"
She puckers her lips and remains where she is. 'What happened?" Her voice is hard as iron.
'Nothing."
'Liar." Stalking to my side, she reaches for the vodka. I wrench it out of her reach—an easy task, especially when I stand to my full height. But the second I'm on my feet, I begin to stumble. Layla watches with her hands on her hips. 'You're drunk."
'I'm not," I say before lurching sideways into the wall. My shoulder connects hard enough to send the glass horse bookends on a shelf toppling to the floor. They shatter loudly, pieces covering the wooden slats in every direction.
'Asher …"
Balancing my hand on the wall, I tip the vodka to my lips for a swig. 'I'm fine."
She considers the broken horses before lifting her eyebrows at me. 'You can barely stand."
'What do you want?" I scoff, swaying uneasily toward the couch by the window. I sit—or fall, rather—onto the cushions. 'I don't need to fight you too."
'Fight?" she repeats softly. Putting her palm to her forehead, she sighs in exasperation. 'I see. This is about Camila."
'I didn't say that."
'What did you do, Asher?"
Ignoring her, I begin to gulp the vodka again. To my utter shock, Layla rushes me, ripping the bottle from my grasp. I swipe for it, but I'm too far gone and she dodges away easily. 'Give it back!"
'Look at you!" she barks, gesturing broadly. 'I thought you were a man who respected himself! A proud, strong pakhan who never showed weakness! But here you are, wallowing in drunken misery!"
'I am strong!" I roar , launching myself upward from the couch. Layla doesn't shy away from me. She waits there, looking into my eyes without a hint of fear on her placid face. I'm breathing hard. My fingers curl in the air, eager to steal the vodka, to lash out at something.
'Only the weak have to remind others that they are strong," she says.
Shaking my head, I face away from her. 'Don't you dare judge me. You have no damn right."
'Is that what Camila did? Judge you?"
Hearing her name creates a bear trap in my chest. It latches onto my lungs, my heart, until breathing is a struggle. 'Stop it, Layla."
'Tell me what happened."
'Give me back the bottle."
'If you want it," she puts the bottle behind her back, 'then come take it."
Snarling, I march toward my bar cart. Glass crunches underfoot. I dig through the bottles, but all I have is mixers and whiskey, which I can't stand—I keep them around for guests. 'Fuck!"
'If you want to drink yourself into a stupor, fine," she says. Layla offers me the bottle. 'But the problems will still be there when you're sober."
'You think I don't know that?" I seethe.
She pushes the bottle into my chest. I start to take it, but her expression halts me. Layla is staring at me like I'm the saddest thing she's ever seen. Suddenly I see myself from her point of view, like I'm outside of my own body. She's right. Only the weak have to remind others that they are strong.
Sinking onto the couch again, I cover my eyes with my hands. 'How did I get here?" I wonder out loud.
The cushions shift as Layla sits down beside me, and her hand touches my shoulder—the same one that Camila bit. 'Did she do something to you?"
'No. I did something to her."
Layla's hand slips away. She's next to me, but I feel nothing but isolation in the silence. Finally, she speaks again.
'I warned you that you held her heart."
'Your warning was useless!" I retort. Shaking my head in frustration, I glare at her. 'How was I supposed to protect her from me?"
She narrows her eyes. 'You could have surrounded her with soldiers. Put her somewhere far away from all of this, far from you. If it was just about protection, it would have been easy."
I'm shaking my head again, faster and faster, the longer she talks. Frustrated by her advice, I can't control how loud I'm talking. 'I can't do any of that! Don't you get it? Isn't it obvious that she has to be next to me at all times?" I sound insane. 'If she was elsewhere, she wouldn't be here! If she wasn't here, then she …"
She wouldn't be with me.
I jerk backward like someone has punched me. Layla rests her palm on my shoulder again. It's pointless though; nothing can heal the epiphany I've just had.
I thought all along what I felt was simple lust. Something blended with guilt over mixing Camila up in this war of mine. When I went after her, I was sure it was a surface-level frustration at her distrust in me.
No one has gotten under my skin like her.
That's not true. My fingers tug at my prayer beads. One other person in my life has. And that person is gone.
Thanks to alcohol softening my walls and allowing me to ramble until I can't speak anything but the truth … I know what's really causing me to feel like this.
I love her.
