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I'm weak.
Too fucking weak.
I let her get too close to me.
Until recently, I only ever really loved one woman in my life. My mother, I respected her, loved her.
Anastasia Costello.
I thought she was the only one who really knew me, the only one that can tear down my walls. I thought my ability to love ended with her, and I was fine with that.
I've watched her writhing in pain, struggling to breathe, tears leaking out of her eyes but she couldn't move. My mother fought long and hard with the disease before she lost that battle. I thought that was it. My only weakness, the only woman I ever loved is dead and now I'm fucking invincible.
But then she happened.
The morning Elijah Bolton died, I didn't fucking know what I was getting myself into when I brought his daughter into my home. I hadn't given it a second thought, I didn't even know what I was going to do with her.
The men in my circle had many ideas about what I should do with her, but I didn't fucking agree with them. I thought she could just live here, and do her own thing while I would barely notice her existence. But she was fucking everywhere and it was impossible to ignore her presence in the house. She got under my skin like no other woman had done before.
I fucking avoided having sex with her because I knew if I did that measly little girl would have me wrapped her pinky finger without knowing it. She was addicting, her taste, her smell, her soft fucking skin. Even if we hadn't fucked, she still had me wrapped around her finger, I have no fucking idea how she pulled that off.
I apologized. I fucking apologized to her. I never apologize to anyone. If she had asked me to drop to my fucking knees in front of her I would have and the thought pissed the shit out of me. Nikolai Costello dropped to his knees for a woman—scratch that—for a girl.
A woman's tears never affected me, if anything I always thought of them as a sign of weakness but I couldn't bear the sight of her tears. Watching her so fucking unhappy messed with my sanity. I want her back, I want that innocence, that doe-eyed look back. I want her fucking smiles back, I want her to mess with my shit.
I leaned against the doorframe as I watched her. Her petite figure resting on the bed, she was laying on her stomach, I wanted to fucking run my hand across the curve of her back.
She stirred and rolled on her back. Her eyes slowly opened as she blankly stared at the ceiling. She turned her head and her eyes landed on me. She squinted them, her jaw clenched. She got off the bed and made her way to the bathroom.
Words are a rare gift from her these days. She mostly scowls and turns the other way when she looks at me. She spends most of her time in her room, she uses her cell phone, draws, and writes stupid shit in her journal.
