Potere | Book II ✓

xxxiv | blessings and honor

xxxiv | blessings and honor

(nobody panic), just a slight disclaimer: mention of suicide and suicide attempt.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

There's something peaceful between the state of unconsciousness and reality. Where the world blurs as you dance between the lines. You feel like your floating, yet you're also grounded by the weight of the person you sleep beside. Their hand across your stomach, across your chest. A leg tossed over yours as you unconsciously intertwined throughout the night, paired with the blanket, trapping you between it and the mattress.

It's a place where problems no longer exist. Where arguments and stress are forgotten. Where feelings of anxiety and depression are foreign. If someone asked me to describe peace, I would choose this. And if someone asked me to describe perfection, I would choose him.

Liam stirs beside me. His hand slides down to my waist, where he provides a gentle squeeze. I've learned to translate it as his nonverbal good morning, where we both acknowledge that each other is awake, yet manage to preserve the quiet. He's always the first one up, the first one out of bed, and this morning is no different.

He stretches when he gets out of bed, the muscles in his back rippling with every faint move. He checks his phone for any notification of significance, then pulls it from the plug. He leaves it bedside before heading to the bathroom, shutting the door. That's usually when I close my eyes, hoping to will my body back between those blurred lines, where peacefulness is within reach.

I hear water running. He washes his face, droplets of water rushing past his wrists, soaking his beard. He brushes his teeth. The toilet flushes soon after. He skips a shower this morning, having shared one with me last night. The razor never cuts on, underutilized, and abandoned now that he maintains a full beard.

I greet him when he steps out the bathroom. A smile playing on my lips as our eyes meet for the first time this morning. He looks refreshed, ready to take on the day, while I drag a hand down the side of my face and groan. He smiles back, laughter on his lips as he heads into the walk-in closet.

He re-emerges with a white dress shirt hanging off his broad shoulders. One by one, button by button, he secures them, leaving the last two untouched. He situates himself before the mirror, locks eyes with me, and smiles again. Liam pulls a pair of black dress pants over his hips, loops the belt, tucks his shirt in, and secures them. The black suit jacket follows, the application as easy as the shrug of his shoulders.

His question finally breaks the silence. "How did you sleep?"

I fight a yawn and sit up, the comforter once clutched to my chest, falling to a puddle at my waist. "Good. You?"

Liam's nod in the mirror indicates the same. He slowly works a thin chain around his neck when he asks, "What was the longest you ever stayed awake?"

It takes longer to think than usual. "Just over twenty-four hours, I think. Why?"

He turns around, now securing a silver watch on his wrist. "The flight to Russia is eleven hours. Plus jetlag. I've told everyone to pack a small duffel bag, but truth is, they won't need it. We hit the tarmac, go to the Rostov estate, handle business, and make the eleven-hour flight back. I just want you to know what you're getting yourself into. The people we're going with have been trained to stay awake for three to four times that long."

"I can do it," I say confidently. "Isn't this how the military teaches people how to swim? By tossing them in the deep end?"

Liam crosses the room with a smile, nearing the edge of the bed. The kiss to my lips is quick. The one to my cheek lingering a little longer. "I'm not worried about you. Not for a second." He pulls away enough to look me in the eyes, a hand finding my leg through the thick comforter. "The plane leaves at nine. Two hours. I have some things to take care of before we go, and I'll be riding from the estate to the airport. But I'll be there, waiting for you."