Destined

Chapter Twenty-Three

Oisín

They took my wife from me for four days, and those four days felt like four hundred fucking years. I was in a perpetual hell for four days. I'd never known such darkness and cruelty until she was snatched up from me.

I didn't know what was happening to her if she was safe if she was hurt, and I hated myself for letting her leave the house angry that day. I put her in that position. It was my fault she even got taken in the first place.

I never knew such pain and agony existed until she was taken out from under my nose. The pain resembled someone reaching inside my chest and ripping my heart right out with their bare hands. It was a constant ache of pain, suffering, and too many what-ifs.

What if we never fought? What if I never let her leave? What if I never got to tell her I love her?

What worsened the situation was that we fought right before she left. I didn't know what would happen to her because Enzo was twisted in the fucking head, and I didn't want that to be the last conversation we shared. I was a mess, a chaotic menacing mess that only wanted blood, revenge, and Enzo's fucking head on a stick.

So I gathered my men, called my reinforcements, and decided war wouldn't—couldn't wait. They'd die and burn and regret the day they took her from me. If her grandma hadn't called me and told me about their security protocol and turned off the security cameras, I don't know if we would have been successful.

Speaking of her grandma, she never left her side, either, staying close to Elena and holding her hand since the second we got her back. She didn't leave her for a second, and I admired her strength, loyalty, and love for my wife.

I didn't know what happened to her in the days she went missing, but if it was any indication of how I found her, I didn't want to know. I still remember how she killed the man trying to rape her, and despite being proud of her, I knew it was her trauma response kicking in. The doctor that tended to my wife and her wounds was speechless when he saw her.

He's been the family doctor for years. He's dealt with bullet wounds, decapitations, and other gruesome tasks. Yet when he saw her, I could see the pain in his eyes as he tended to her. It didn't help that Elena was jittery the entire time he was there, and when I tried to reach out for her, she jumped out of the way.

It hurt. Swear to God; it broke my heart. I knew she was still in shock, so I tried not to take it to heart, but it pained me, knowing I couldn't comfort her. It's been a week since Elena's been back home.

She hasn't spoken a single word to me. She hadn't gotten out of bed, and it wasn't even because of her injuries; she simply refused. She wouldn't eat, wouldn't drink, and wouldn't speak to me. I wasn't even sleeping in the same room as her, instead sleeping in her room because she wouldn't stop crying when I tried to get into our bed with her.

I just wanted to hold her, but she was shaking and sobbing so hard that I gave up and left the room without a word. If it wasn't for her grandma being right by her side, I think I would have lost my fucking mind.

As if it wasn't already fucking lost.

I didn't ask her grandma or the doctor questions because I wanted Elena to be the one to sit and talk with me. I wanted to hear everything that's happened to her from her and her only. I wanted to be there for her, to comfort and hold her in my arms, but maybe all she needed now was space. I could give her that. Even though it was killing me, I could give it to her.

I wasn't going to force anything out of her, but not knowing allowed me to conjure up a billion different scenarios. Each scenario was worse and far more horrendous than the last. The Morelli house was on lockdown.