Inked Adonis: Chapter 36

The day I left my father’s house, I had a duffel bag over my shoulder and seven words in my head.

One foot in front of the other.

If I kept saying that and kept doing that—one foot in front of the other, over and over and over and over—then eventually, there’d be a distance between me and him that couldn’t be crossed. Maybe I’d even forget about him, if I kept it up for long enough.

Joke’s on me.

I ran from the jaws of one monster into the arms of another.

Even now, as I stare out at the Chicago skyline through pristinely polished floor-to-ceiling windows, that same old terror is thudding away in that same old spot beneath my ribs.

I’ve tried One foot in front of the other, and it’s only gotten me back and forth between the four walls of this room. The doors remain locked tight, the windows sealed. My only company is a pair of dogs who have love in their eyes but not an ounce of understanding in their heads.

Breakup? they seem to be saying as they look at me. What’s that? Love is forever, stupid. Didn’t you know?

I know the world isn’t all bad, because there are creatures like Ruby and Rufus in it. Creatures who know love in a way humans never can.

Not complicated.

Not messy.

Not dark or dangerous.

Just pure.

It’s looking more and more like I’ll never get a taste of that myself.

I turn and eye the door. If I want to put one foot in front of the other, there’s only one way left for me to go: out.

Away from here, from Sam and the dogs and all the memories branded into every piece of furniture that’s ever felt our shared warmth.

Out.

Away from this prison that became something else when neither one of us quite knew what was happening.

Out.

For the first time since I left, I miss my apartment. I miss my teetering stacks of books and the thundering footsteps of the small army of children who live in the unit above me. I miss the water stain in the bathroom and the feeble plants on the windowsill.

Most of all, I miss the version of myself that lived there: a Nova who didn’t bother hoping for a happy future. That Nova could live with one foot in front of the other, always. That Nova didn’t think she’d ever have the chance to walk with someone beside her.

“Knock-knock.”

I twist to see who’s here. But it’s only Myles.

“Oh. Hi.” I turn back around.

“You doing okay?” I hear him shuffling closer, but I refuse to look. The pity radiating off him makes me want to scream.

I laugh miserably. “Would you be?”

“It was just a fight,” he suggests as he slinks into the room. “His dad is in town. And he had to deal with Ilya today. That always puts him in a dark place.”

I wring my hands in my lap like I can rinse away the memory of ever taking that phone from Katerina. “Did he send you in here to make his case? Because you and I both know Samuil is more than capable of fighting his own battles.”

Myles runs a hand through his hair and exhales. He makes kissing noises at Ruby, but she stays planted firmly at my feet. Neither she nor Rufus have wandered more than a few steps away from me for hours.

“Fine,” he concedes at last. “I won’t defend him. But I can listen.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.” I snort. “I’m not interested in spilling my guts to Sam’s closest friend.”

“You and I are friends, too,” he says softly. “At least, I thought so.”

Guilt churns in my stomach, but isn’t this exactly what Sam was mad at me about? Trusting the wrong person, being naive about the way his world works?

“I thought so, too. But I was wrong.”

Myles winces. “Ouch.”

“You should probably count yourself lucky. I mean, do you wanna know how I treat my real friends?” A bitter laugh tears out of me. “Hope is my best friend in the world, and she doesn’t even know half of what has gone on in the last few weeks. I didn’t tell her at first because I was trying to protect her. But later, I didn’t tell her what was happening because I was trying to protect him. How’s that for loyalty?”

“Sam’s a good man, Nova.”

“Depends on who you ask.”

“If you’re talking about Katerina⁠—”

“I want to go home,” I interrupt before he can start unloading that brain dump on me. The last thing I need is a fucking lecture from the second-most biased source in the world.

Myles looks around the bedroom. “Aren’t you⁠—”

“My home,” I clarify. “Just for a few days. I need a breather.”

“Okay. Fair. Have you asked Sam?”

I once again let loose a miserable laugh. “He and I aren’t exactly on ‘travel plan discussion’ terms right now, Myles. To be frank, I don’t think he gives a fuck where I am.”

Myles shifts uncomfortably. “I mean…”

“Unless you’re trying to tell me I’m stuck here again?”

“No! No.” He passes a hand over the back of his neck, and I think I hear a muttered curse under his breath. “Pack a bag, and I’ll drive you when you’re ready.”

“Good.” I point to the duffel I packed a few hours ago—fresh out of the fight, with tears still in my eyes. “I’m ready now.”

I was right about forgetting to take out the trash before I left. My apartment smells like rotten milk and decay.

It takes two trips out to the dumpster and half a can of air freshener to right my wrongs. Even then, my apartment still smells musty.

But the progress feels good. One foot in front of the other.

When I get back upstairs, I pry open all the windows and take in the night noises. The muffled shouting from across the street, a distant car alarm, two yowling cats in the alleyway.

I didn’t get to hear any of that at Samuil’s penthouse. It was too high in the sky. Too removed from the world. Like a dream I stayed in until it went sour.

I turn back to my apartment, trying to remember those days when just walking through the door felt like a sigh of relief.

Nothing significant has changed. The clean but unfolded clothes are where I left them. The books, too, and the TV remote, and the plants, and the hair ties marooned on every flat surface.

It’s a snapshot of my life, perfectly preserved. I keep waiting to feel like it’s mine again. I’m back. I should be able to press “play” and pick up where I left off.

But I don’t know how.

Sam took that from me, too.

I clean for hours, and even when there’s nothing left to do, I keep walking. Sitting still feels like death.

So I pace. I pace like a caged animal, touching everything as if to mark it as mine again.

That’s my hairbrush. That’s my couch.

The alien feeling doesn’t go away. Each item I brush past only reminds me of what I left behind.

Seven steps from window to door. Nine from kitchen to bedroom. I count them over and over, but they don’t ground me like they used to. These walls that once felt like shelter now feel like they’re closing in.

I return to my bedroom and sink onto my bed, gripping the edges of the mattress for dear life. It hits me slow, the truth. Not a lightning strike. Not an epiphany. More like blood bubbling up out of a fatal wound: slow, inevitable, and impossible to stop.

I love him.

I love the way his eyes soften when he looks at me. The gentle way he handles the dogs. How his touch can be both devastating and tender.

But I also see the darkness in him. The rage that turns his eyes to steel. The casual way he wields power, like it’s his birthright. The violence that lurks beneath every careful movement.

My father taught me that love shouldn’t hurt. But he taught me that through pain, so I learned the opposite lesson instead: that love and pain are two sides of the same coin. You can’t have one without the other.

I curl into myself, pressing my face into my pillow. It doesn’t smell like Sam’s cologne. Nothing here smells like him anymore.

One foot in front of the other.

But this time, those words mean something different. They mean walking away from the man I love because loving him might destroy me. Because sometimes love isn’t enough to overcome the darkness.

Because I refuse to become another casualty of a Litvinov man’s war with the world.

I let the tears come, grieving for what could have been. For the version of Sam that exists in my dreams—the one who could choose love over power, peace over violence. The one who doesn’t exist in reality.

Tomorrow, I’ll start rebuilding my life. One foot in front of the other, until the distance between us can’t be crossed.

But tonight, I let myself remember his touch, his smile, his warmth. I let myself love him, knowing it’s the last time I’ll allow such weakness.

Because yes, I love Samuil Litvinov.

But I’ve spent too many years putting myself back together to let another man tear me apart.