by RC Boldt
It’s why I had to let her have the bastard who ordered my family’s death. To let her handle him and get vengeance for her own family.
I didn’t do it because I expect her to thank me or even forgive me. I didn’t do it for fuck-all in return. I did it because…shit. Because I realize now, after all these damn years, that it’s not the petty shit that matters.
It’s who’s by your side—the person you want more than anything in the world. The person who makes life seem almost like a goddamn storybook romance and makes the sun shine a little brighter and the dark days a lot less bleak.
I did that because she needed it more than me. She deserved it more than me. I wanted her to get her vengeance so that maybe she could get closure and move on with her life and be happy.
Even if it feels like someone’s gutting me with a Bowie knife to imagine her happy with someone else. To think of some other guy who gets the privilege of kissing her, making love to her some nights, and fucking her dirty on others. To think of her curling up at night beside some motherfucker who isn’t me.
Once I approach my house, I slow my pace, my heart thudding so hard I half expect it to beat straight out of my chest. Climbing the stairs to the deck, I’m thankful for the waves loudly pounding the shoreline, muffling the sound of my heaving, labored breaths.
Throat parched from the run and scratchy and swollen with anguish that I’ve barely kept at bay, I reach for the top step where I left my water thermos. A split second before my fingers encircle it, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
Thunk!
Sunk into the wooden step my thermos rests on is the blade of a knife. My eyes track the handle as it sways the slightest bit from the force of the impact, and every ounce of blood in my veins slows its pulsing flow.
Instead of reaching for my thermos, I grip the blade and give a strong tug, withdrawing it from the wood. Flipping it carefully in my hold, I turn slowly and extend it, offering the handle end.
Nothing could’ve prepared me for the sight of her standing here. Christ, she’s a fucking vision. Still tanned and lean, she wears a yellow sundress with thin straps crossing over her shoulders. The scar peeking from beneath one strap is still slightly reddened, but I know it’ll fade with time.
Her expression gives away nothing, and it’s ironic that I’ve always been the one to do that—to keep my emotions under wraps. But I can’t anymore.
With a dip of my chin, I gesture to the knife I still hold. “I believe this is yours.”
She doesn’t make a move to accept it from me, those blue eyes boring into mine.
“It’s yours to do with as you wish.” Her words are delivered calmly in a placid tone. A split second’s worth of emotion flickers in her gaze before I can decipher it. “You wanted to kill me badly enough to make a deal with the Bratva. I’m giving you the chance to finally follow through.”
I’ve been shot, stabbed, and beaten. Yet not even the worst of those injuries comes close to being as painful as this. As her still thinking I want that chance.
That I want anything except to be with her for the rest of my fucking life.
Eyes growing hot, stinging with regret and pain, I avert my gaze to the knife I gently cradle. It takes considerable effort to force out the words, each dragging along the inside of my throat like razors. “I’d rather use this to gut myself than hurt you, Alex.”
“You already hurt me.”
An invisible fist clenches the center of my chest tightly in its grip. Forcing myself to meet her gaze, I swallow hard. “I regret that more than you’ll ever know.”
She doesn’t respond for a long beat but continues her scrutinizing study of me. Finally, when she speaks, her voice drops lower, betraying her lack of expression with its thick emotion. “Did you mean what you said? Do you really love me?”
It’s as if she’s taken this very knife and carved out my gut, letting my entrails spill out. And it’s my fault because I’m the one who’s caused her to doubt my feelings for her.
I can’t bother to filter my words; they pour out in a rush of breath, my voice raspy with hope. Hope that she’ll let me show her that she owns my damn heart. “Fuckyeswoman.”
I take a single step toward her. “I love you more than life itself.” My voice cracks on the last syllable.
I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get her to believe me, so I advance another step closer. “You’re so much more than I’ll ever deserve, and if you give me a chance, I promise to prove it to you every day of our lives.”
Her features crumble to reveal hurt—all the damn hurt I’ve planted there—and she exhales a shaky breath. She wets her lips, leading me to believe she’s preparing to cut me at the knees and tell me to fuck off once and for all.
Desperation drives me forward, and I close the distance between us to take her hand, enfolding her fingers around the knife’s handle.
I guide her to settle the blade’s point at the center of my bare chest, still slick with a sheen of sweat. My words are ragged. “If there’s no chance for us, I’d rather have this as my fate. I’d rather be sliced and gutted than live another day without you.”
Her eyes search mine, and the anguish mingling with uncertainty in the depths has my stomach twisting itself into a knot.
There should be no doubt. I ease into the blade, ignoring the bite of the steel edging its way into my skin. She sucks in a sharp breath, eyes wide, darting between the knife’s position and my face.
“I love you, Alex.” I let the words settle between us. “Forever and always.”
A whimper escapes her, and she yanks the knife back before tossing it away. I barely register it plunking into the wood before she reaches for me.
Banding an arm around her waist, I yank her to me. My other hand dives into her hair, and I tip her face up before fitting my mouth to hers.
She tightens her arms around my neck when I deepen the kiss, and I revel in her taste. I’m a starved man who’s gone without for so damn long.
This woman has managed what I’d deemed impossible. She showed me how to trust, but more importantly, she’s shown me how to love.
My heart and soul have been restored—and their ragged edges smoothed out—by her.
By Alexandra Chidozie Yurchenko, the woman I once vowed to kill.
Chapter 78
LIAM
Off-Grid
Tunisia
We’ve visited a few times already, fitting time between work to travel here.
Alex works with me now, and she’s amazing to have by my side. She’d recently been up for more than seventeen hours with a new patient who was in labor, keeping the new mother calm and hydrated until the little one decided it was time to make his grand entrance into the world.
Now, though, she’s inside the cabin, finally resting soundly. I function more easily on little to no sleep, but not my woman. And when she crashes, she crashes.
I knew she was torn over whether to still make the trip, but I insisted. It’s important to her. And that means it’s important to me.
Striding over to where an array of stones lie in the shape of a cross, I draw to a stop. I can’t say what it is that has me glancing at the overcast sky, but I do, noting that the moon’s brightness is still being held captive by clouds.
I shove my hands into my pockets and drag in a breath before speaking, my tone muted. “I haven’t been able to get a moment with you alone until now.” A wry smile tugs at my lips. “I hope it counts for something that I waited to ask you.
“The thing is…I love your daughter. I love her more than anything in this world. And I’m pretty certain you already know how badly I fucked up—excuse my language—but I promised her I’d make it up to her. And I am.”
I exhale slowly, my nerves getting the best of me, and drag a hand down my face, my scruff rasping beneath my palm. Emotion has my throat nearly closing up on me. “I wanted to get your blessing to ask Alex to marry me. I promise to treat her right and never betray he
r. To show her every day how much I love her.”
I stare down at the stones, and a derisive sound rumbles free from my throat. “To tell you the truth, I plan to ask her to marry me regardless, and I’ll beg if I have to, because”—I can’t suppress my self-deprecating chuckle—“I can’t bear to spend another day without her as my wife.
“As hard as it is to believe that someone like you could change so drastically, I know it’s true. You succeeded. I know that because you raised one hell of an amazing woman.”
Releasing a breath, I rake my hand through my hair and grip the back of my neck where much of my nervous tension lies. “I can’t say that I’ve been much of a believer in a god like a lot of religions do, but after everything… I believe that something out there, some higher power, pulled some strings.”
My mouth quirks up a fraction. “Getting out of that line of work coincided with my cancer diagnosis. Maybe the universe was telling me something. And even though I was hell-bent on getting revenge for my family, it pushed me to survive—to try to heal myself. And if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here right now.”
I glance back at the cabin where my woman sleeps soundly before turning my attention back to the grave. Just that simple, quick glance, knowing she’s safe inside, that she’s mine and I’m hers, sends a rush of contentment through me. Something I never had before her.
“A bunch of dominos went crashing down in my life, making others fall with them, but it all led me to her—your daughter—and I’m grateful for it. Grateful for her.”
My throat clogs with emotion, and I clear it before continuing. “Anyway…thank you for raising the woman I love. I promise you I’ll do right by her.”
A faint breeze rustling the leaves on the nearby trees is all that greets my words. I take a step back, my eyes trained on the gravesite. Something makes me reluctant to look away, but when I turn to head back to the house, movement in my periphery has me freezing in place.
An owl flies soundlessly—its massive wings outstretched—and lands in the center of the stone-marked grave. Moonlight breaks through the thick layer of clouds, eerily illuminating the barn owl.
Those unnerving eyes watch me while a short gust of wind blows past. A part of me thinks I’m fucking crazy, but another part inherently understands what this is.
Voice hushed, I speak my truth. My vow. “I’m doing what you did. Putting the past behind me to be a better man. Not only for myself but also for her. Because she deserves it. I’ll do everything in my power to keep her safe and happy. And I’ll love her…forever and always.”
The owl blinks once before setting off in its slow, soundless flying back into the thick forest while the moonlight ducks behind the clouds once again.
An odd sense of peace washes over me, and hell if I can explain it, but I just know that was him.
Grigory Yurchenko gave me his blessing.
Sincere gratitude colors my words. “Thank you.” I offer a final nod at his grave before turning to head back to my woman.
To my future.
Epilogue
ALEXANDRA
YEARS LATER
“Mama! I picked pretty flowers for Grandpa!”
My daughter charges at me with a fistful of wildflowers and a happy smile. Her dark, expressive eyes are filled with joy as she draws to a comically abrupt stop at my feet.
I frame Amahle’s face, smoothing back her hair to press a kiss on her forehead. “They’re beautiful. I know he’ll love them.”
Her expression eager, she whispers, “Nika chose a really cool rock because he said Grandpa’s a boy and he’d probably like it. That’s okay, right?”
Amahle may be eight years old, but she takes her job of being a big sister very seriously.
I bend my knees so I’m eye to eye with her. I kiss the tip of her nose, and she giggles. “Of course. It sounds perfect.”
Nika runs up to us, his pale blond hair that borders on white in color bouncing slightly with each step.
“Mama! I got a rock for Grandpa, too!” With great enthusiasm, he shows us, and Amahle and I ooh and ahh over it before Nika shows it to his father. Then we walk together to where their grandpa is buried.
Where I buried Papa many years ago.
Liam slides his palm to the base of my spine and presses his lips to my temple. His silent but steadfast comfort soothes me as we each wish my beloved father a happy birthday in heaven.
As my children set their items at Papa’s grave with such reverent care, tears burn my eyes. It’s not only grief that he’s not here to experience the joy of having grandchildren or of seeing me happily married. It’s pride that the two of them, though young, recognize how important this man was to me and act with such respect and love for someone they’ve never met.
The sun has been attempting to break through the thick clouds but remains unsuccessful thus far. It’s fitting how it’s only offered peeks of the bright sun since my emotions are bittersweet on this special occasion.
I still own this property, and we come here periodically for visits. There are times when I just need to be here because it makes me feel closer to Papa and recall the fond memories I have of him. I enjoy sharing those with our children and, in turn, keeping Papa’s memory alive.
Our lives grew more hectic this year, between the children’s schooling and their extra-curricular activities, as well as mine and Liam’s work, and we haven’t visited here quite as often as we would normally prefer.
I help Liam with his practice back in Panama, and that’s where we spend most of our time. While the children attend school, Liam and I do house calls and tend to the locals’ medical needs.
Liam’s never broken his promise to me. He never lets a day go by without showing me how much he loves me. That I can trust and rely on him.
Not a day goes by that he fails to show our children how much he loves them. He continuously reminds them that they are perfectly unique in their own special ways. That they can rely on him to always be there for them.
Though Amahle and Nika were born in different parts of the world and may not resemble each other, it doesn’t matter in the least—not to them or us. Orphaned as infants in Angola and Armenia, we adopted them just shy of their first and second birthdays and never once looked back.
Amahle steps closer to Papa’s grave, and Liam and I watch her curiously. Her soft voice is barely audible. “Grandpa, I’m gonna sing you a pretty song for your birthday, okay?”
At the first few words of the song, “Hallelujah,” my lungs constrict in my chest because my daughter’s song choice has lyrics that touch on love, mourning, and finally finding peace. It’s more fitting than she likely realizes.
Liam backs away and offers an outstretched hand, his words hushed. “May I have this dance?”
His eyes shine with an abundance of love that continues to take my breath away. No longer possessing the unreadable, stone-faced expression, my husband grants us a plain view of his emotions.
I take his hand, and he tugs me close. We slowly sway as our daughter’s voice blankets us.
Glittering brown eyes crinkle at the edges affectionately, and Liam murmurs in a husky voice, “Woman…I love you, you know that?”
“And I love you.”
He dips his head, dusting a kiss over my lips. Nika instantly mutters, “They’re at it again,” and Liam and I share a smile.
Amahle finishes the song, and Liam scoops up Nika in a hug and plasters kisses all over his cheeks, eliciting giggles from our sweet boy.
Once he releases him, quiet descends over us. I step closer to Papa’s resting place, bending down to brush my fingers over the small rocks placed in the shape of a cross.
“Happy birthday, Papa. I love you. Forever and always.” Tears threaten to fall, and I blink rapidly, my voice cracking. “I hope you’re watching over us and that you’re proud.”
Straightening, I draw in a deep breath, exhaling slowly before turning to Liam.
Both love and concern etch his hand
some features. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
We don’t make it but a few steps when the sun moves from behind the clouds, shining down brightly. It happens so suddenly that I draw to a stop, and that’s when a strong gust of wind blows past us.
Instead of a usual cooler breeze to accompany the mild temperatures this time of year, this wind is unusually warm. It dances over my skin in an oddly soothing manner. As if Papa truly heard what I said a moment ago.
Liam slinks an arm around my waist, anchoring me to his side. “He’s proud of you, and he loves you,” he murmurs softly. “Forever and always.”
I peer up at him in surprise, but he merely offers me a soft, thoughtful smile. A split second later, we both tense at the sound of a vehicle rapidly approaching.
Recognizing the familiar sound of the engine, we relax and watch the SUV roll to an abrupt stop on the side of the dirt road a few yards away from us.
“Uncle Saint!” our children squeal in unison and sprint toward his vehicle. He emerges from the SUV and drops to his haunches, arms wide. They launch themselves at him, and he wraps his arms around them, hefting them up on each side.
I lean against Liam, his arm secure at my waist, and warmth and contentment spread through me. I can’t help but smile as Saint ventures toward us with Amahle and Nika in tow. It makes me think of the many things I learned from Papa and what I do my best to continuously remind our children.
Familial love is not dictated by blood relation.
Hugs are a staple.
They are both Yurchenkos and Kings—and that is something to be proud of.
They are wonderful and worthy.
And, most of all, they are loved beyond measure.
Forever and always.
The End
Dedication
To the man who was the recipient of my emphatic reminder that I refuse to live my life without him: