84

EZRA

They say time is a construct.

But pain?

Pain makes time real.

Thick.

Slow.

Cruel.

It clings to my skin as I step through the veil of space, away from my office where her scent still lingers on my skin—that familiar vanilla scent dulled with hospital smell. I breathe it in and let it choke me.

Thea.

Her name alone is a hymn and a curse. A taste I can’t scrape off my tongue no matter how many times I bite it.

I didn’t want to leave her at that hospital.

Didn’t want to peel my hand away from hers or watch her lashes flutter in sleep like she was safe, when she wasn’t. Not really. Not with me.

But I did it.

Because I had to.

Because love or fixation, when you’re me, is not protection—it’s a promise of destruction dressed in silk and longing.

If I need to be the villain to keep her alive, then let the world carve that word into my skin. Let her do it with her own hands if it helps her sleep at night. I’ll hand her the blade.

I’ll be the monster who bled her dry.

The coward who left her alone.

The bastard who held her in the dark and pushed her away in the light.

I’ll wear the shame.

I’ll cradle it like a child.

Because she lives.

And as long as she lives, I can take the rest.

But gods—how I want her.

I want her like craving sun when all I’ve ever known is shade.

I want her like forgiveness, and I don’t deserve either.

Yet every time I think of her—eyes swollen, body fragile, voice raw from crying my name—I nearly give in.

Nearly.

Because ever since they handed me that relic—small, dark, humming with old magic—I’ve felt them.

Watching.

Waiting.

Whispers curl in the back of my mind at night. Warnings. Promises. Sometimes I wake to the sound of her name not from my lips, but from somewhere older. Somewhere darker. The underworld.

That's the disaster that comes when one of the princes breaks the law.

I don’t even know how to break the bond.

They said I’d know.

That when the time comes, the answer will come naturally, like a hand meeting another in the dark.

But nothing about this feels natural.

Only cruel.

And still—I want her.

I want to hold her in my lap again, feel her fists pounding weakly against my chest because she’s angry and safe all at once. I want to kiss her until she forgets I’m something to be afraid of or someone who hurts her. I want to feed her, protect her, make her mine in all the ways I shouldn’t.

But pain is my oldest friend. And she?

She does not deserve to meet him.

So I let her cry.

I let her fall apart.

I let her scream my name into the air like a curse, and I listened through space and silence, holding back the urge to break everything between us and start again.

Let her hate me.

Let her spit my name like venom.

Because hate is louder than grief, and if she hates me long enough, maybe she’ll forget to mourn me.

Maybe one day she’ll look at someone else and feel whole.

Not hunted.

Not possessed.

Not ruined.

Just whole.

So, because villains and monsters don’t get happy endings and I was never written to be anything else, I step through the rift after what feels like hours, the edge of my power humming as the office pulls into focus. Cold. Sharp. Familiar. Sterile, even though her ghost still sits in the chair across from my desk and her scent still lingers in the air or in my nose.

I exhale.

And I don’t realize until then—I’ve been holding my breath since I left her, holding her in.

She’s everywhere.

In my dark soulless heart. My mind, my brain, my thoughts, under my skin.

Imagine mourning someone that's not dead.

Then, I inhale again, eyes closed.

And freeze. Because there's another scent in the air.

My eyes narrow, scanning the space. Slowly and carefully. 

Then I see him.

Malik.

Seated like he owns the place—sprawled casually in the leather chair tucked into the corner of my office lounge, one leg crossed over the other, golden hair slicked back with only a strand resting on his forehead, a glass of something clear resting between his fingers.

I used to reel from heartbreak for months. A breakup would knock me off my feet and keep me crawling for air for weeks.

Then weeks turned into days.

And now?

Now it barely takes a few hours and a long bath to shove the grief into the closet and close the door behind it.

But this?

This one’s different.

Because it hits differently when the person who healed you is the same person who’s breaking you.

When the one who kissed your scars is now the one leaving new ones.

I haven’t been to work in five days.

Maybe six. I’ve stopped counting.

Not because I’m falling apart.

But because… I don’t need it the way I used to.

HMA is doing better than I ever expected. Orders rolling in, designs selling out, my name climbing charts I didn’t even set out to be on.

The connections I built from Harrington & Vale?

I’ve used every last one of them. Milked every relationship.

And now?

I’ve bought a few plots of land.

I’m building something permanent. HMA’s first headquarters.

It should feel fulfilling.

And it does.

Almost.

It’s like healing your inner child while your current self is still bleeding out on the floor.

But I guess that’s the reality of success when your heart is half a war zone and half a mausoleum.

Malik, somehow, keeps me sane.

Ironic, right?

The same man who Ezra warned me against.

The same man I once wanted nothing to do with.

The last time I went to the office, I ran into him in the elevator.

And this time, I didn’t avoid eye contact or throw snark.

This time, I gave him my card.

We chatted. Exchanged a few harmless jabs.

Now we talk almost every day.

Call each other when we can.

Send memes. Dumb quotes. Random thoughts.

Nothing deep.

Nothing dangerous.

I feel nothing for him.

No sparks. No stomach flips. Not even a tug in my chest.

But still—

It feels like being near him gives me a piece of Ezra.

A diluted, safe, untouchable version of the man I used to crave.

And maybe that’s why I haven’t pulled away.

Not because I want Malik.

But because I miss Ezra.

And being around Malik is the closest I can get without falling apart.

Without begging.

Without crawling back.

I sip from the coffee I’ve barely touched and stare out the living room window. The town is silent. Finn has gone to school, and I'm counting the hours in my head until Lyra finally comes.

She should be in the states tomorrow morning. And I've waited so long for this day when I'll finally have my best friend in my arms, when I'll finally pick her up from the airport.

My phone lights up with a message.

Malik: Want to grab lunch later? You can wear that yellow dress I got for you.

I don't even like yellow but he likes it and sometimes, I wear it for him.

I sigh and don't answer. 

Not because I don’t want to.

But because I don’t know who I’d be going for.

Me?

I don't think so.

Maybe Ezra.