⇰ Seventeen-year-old Alora has spent her life in the shadows of pain and betrayal. When she's torn from the only world she's ever known and thrust into the arms of a family she never knew existed, healing feels impossible. But as she fights to rebui...
♫"BUT EVEN THO YOUR KILLING ME, I NEED YOU LIKE THE AIR I BREATHE."♫ ⇢ The Cut That Always Bleeds, Conan gray
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The kitchen is quiet, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional drip from the faucet. I sit at the table, my shirt lifted just enough to reveal the deep bruise stretching across my side. It's sore, the kind of pain that lingers and burns beneath the surface, but I've learned to deal with it. Pain has been my constant companion for as long as I can remember. I squeeze some of the cream onto my fingertips, determined to do this myself.
I don't ask for help. I never do.
The door creaks open, and I hear footsteps—familiar ones. Leone. I don't react, don't acknowledge him. He doesn't say anything either, just walks closer, his presence heavy in the air between us. I feel the moment he stops beside me, and before I can tell him to leave, he reaches down and takes the tube of cream from my hand. His fingers brush mine for just a second, warm and steady, before he kneels down in front of me.
I glance down at him, but he doesn't meet my gaze. Instead, he squeezes a bit of the cream onto his fingers, rubbing them together before looking up. His expression is careful, unreadable.
"This might hurt," he says, his voice quiet.
I don't respond. There's no need to. Pain is expected. Pain is normal.
When he presses his fingers against the bruise, I tense automatically, a sharp sting running through me before it dulls into something more bearable. His touch is lighter than I anticipated, deliberate, like he's afraid of hurting me more than I already am. His eyes flicker to my skin—my scars. I know what he's thinking. I know the questions running through his head, but he doesn't ask them.
For a long moment, there's silence. Then, finally, he speaks.
"Alora," he starts, his voice heavier now, filled with something I can't quite place. "I know I've messed up. I had no excuse for any of it. And I'm not expecting you to forgive me—not now, maybe not ever." His jaw tightens, and he swallows hard before continuing. "But I need you to know that I'm sorry. I mean it. And I'm going to make it up to you, no matter how long it takes."
He doesn't look at me as he says it, like he's ashamed of himself. Like he's been carrying this guilt for longer than I realize.
I look at him, and for a moment, all I see is Xander. That day. That look in his eyes. All the anger, the resentment, the hatred. And me—numb, shut down, exhausted from fighting battles I never asked for.
I push the memory aside before it swallows me whole.
"I forgive you," I say simply.
Leone's head snaps up, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. For a second, he just stares at me, like he wasn't expecting to hear those words. Then, slowly, a smile spreads across his face—small at first, hesitant, before growing into something real.
