No one spoke after that. The truth settled over me. Rodion was not mine. We weren’t meant to be. And if I didn’t let go now, it would cut too deep.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Rodion
There were things in lifeI never bothered with. Things that men like me didn’t have the luxury to practice. Comforting someone? That word didn’t belong in my vocabulary. Reassurance? Just lies dressed up pretty. Action was the only language I spoke, and mostly, it was carved in blood.
Alessia sat quietly beside me, her head tipped against the window. I watched her walk out of their house earlier, hunched over. What was so shattering about learning you had a brother? As long as nothing had changed, why did it matter?
The car slowed at a red light. Normally, I would use the stop to run numbers in my head, play angles, and decide on the next move. Instead, all I heard was her silence louder than my thoughts.
“Your father. Is he healing?” My eyes stayed on her.
She shifted, glanced my way, then nodded. “Yeah.”
“What did he tell you?”
Her gaze slid off. “Everything I needed to know.”
“And?”
Her exhale carried exhaustion. “Nothing else. I don’t want to talk about it.”
My jaw tightened. She sank herself into me deeper than I liked, deeper than I could ignore.
She didn’t want to talk, so I let the silence take its seat again. Perhaps she needed space to think or to immerse herself in her own thoughts. Men like me didn’t brood. We bled the weight out by killing or hunting.
The rest of the drive dragged until we pulled into the territory. I had files waiting, work stacked from Florida to New York. Taking those cities meant more work, but also more power.
Alessia unbuckled her seatbelt. “I’ll be in the ladies’ quarters.”
“Go to the east wing.”
“No. I want to do something with Clara. It helps clear my mind.”
Her eyes always betrayed her. Her warm hazel eyes dimmed whenever she lied. The light in them shut off. I couldn’t tell if she was lying about Clara or the part where she would clear her mind.
“Alright.” The word left me flat. She was gone in an instant, cutting across the pavement toward the back entrance. I watched until she disappeared. She was becoming a problem I couldn’t shake off, and didn’t want to.
My phone buzzed as I stepped out of the car. I pulled it from the pocket, standing by the door. It was a message from Dorothy:
I hit the call, and she answered.
“Send me the details once you have everything,” I said.
“Yes, boss.”
I hung up and slid the phone back into my pocket. That was another moving piece in my favour.
The evening blurred under paperwork and calls until the clock read close to three in the morning. I could’ve worked through dawn, but it struck me that I hadn’t seen Alessia once since she walked away. I headed to my quarters, half-hoping she’d be waiting in my bed. She wasn’t.
I stood there, staring at the space, wondering if the girls she ran to were therapists. Or if they gave her something, I couldn’t. Worse than that? I wanted to give her what she wanted. That was the part I didn’t know how to stomach.
What the hell did women want? I didn’t understand them, not in the way that mattered. They were fragile, emotional, and always carrying storms I couldn’t read.
I sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, and typed the question into Google.What do women want?
The answers stared back at me: emotional connection, support, communication, respect, understanding.