Chapter 55 FIFTY-FIVE

Chapter 55 FIFTY-FIVE
J A D E

After an afternoon of utter silence, with me taking a nap in the bedroom and Markov typing away in his laptop in the living room, it was finally time for unpacking the groceries we bought.

I stepped out of the bedroom, the silence a heavy blanket in the apartment. Markov was at the kitchen counter, methodically putting away the mountain of food he'd bought. His back was to me, the muscles in his shoulders tense under the thin fabric of his shirt. He didn't turn, but I knew he knew I was there. The air itself seemed to shift, growing denser, electric with all the things we'd left unsaid.

My gaze fell on the bags. My stomach rumbled, a traitorous reminder of a day spent in emotional turmoil, forgetting to eat.

"I'm making something," he said, his voice a little too loud, a little too brittle in the quiet. "If that's okay with you." He added.

"What are you making?" I asked, my voice softer than I intended.

He finally turned, and the look on his face was a punch to the gut. It wasn't smug or manipulative. It was just… weary. And underneath that, a flicker of something so raw it made me want to look away.

"Steak and potatoes," he said, gesturing to the counter. "With mushrooms. Seemed appropriate, given the caveman accusations."

A weak, humorless smile touched my lips. "That was uncalled for."

"Maybe," he conceded, turning back to the task at hand. "But you looked like you needed to eat something that didn't come in a plastic wrapper."

I watched him work, his movements precise. The clink of a knife against a cutting board, the sizzle of meat hitting a hot pan. It was all so normal, so domestic, it felt surreal. Like we were actors playing the parts of a couple, two strangers sharing a kitchen, a history, a bed, and nothing else.

"I'm sorry," I said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "For… for this morning. For what I said."

He paused, the knife hovering over a potato. "You were angry. You had a right to be."

"It's not just about being angry, Markov. It's about being scared."

He set the knife down and turned to me, leaning against the counter. His full attention was on me, and it was suffocating and intoxicating all at once.

"I get that," he said, his voice low. "But you can't keep pushing me away and then being surprised when I'm still here."

"I'm not surprised," I admitted, my gaze dropping to my hands. "I'm… I'm trying to protect myself."

"From what? From me?"

"From this," I said, gesturing between us. "From the way my brain short circuits when you're near. From the way I forget who I am, what I stand for, what my family went through. One touch from you and all of that just… evaporates."

A slow smile spread across his face, but it wasn't mocking. It was… tender. "Good."

My head snapped up. "Good? How can you say that?"

"Because I feel the same way," he said, taking a step toward me. "But for me, it's not about forgetting. It's about remembering. Remembering what it feels like to be alive. To want something so much it hurts. To feel… anything other than this… emptiness."

He was closer now, the scent of him filling my senses.

"Markov, I can’t be with you. I would be betraying my parents. What would they think about their daughter being with the man who murdered them in cold blood? What if they’re watching me? I would be disrespecting them. I would be disrespecting their memory."

He didn't flinch, but I saw a flicker of pain in his eyes. It was so fleeting, I almost missed it.

"I know," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I know I can't change what I did. I can't undo the past, no matter how much I wish I could. I don’t expect you to forgive me for that. I never did. But I can promise you this. I would never, ever, hurt you. I would rather die than see you in pain."

"You have a funny way of showing it," I shot back, my anger rising again. "You lied to me. You manipulated me. You used me."

"I know," he said, his gaze unwavering. "And I hate myself for it. But I was desperate. I was alone, and I saw you, and I… I couldn't stay away."

He was right in front of me now, his body a mere inch from mine. I could feel the heat radiating off him, the pull of him like a physical force.

"Jade," he said, his voice a low growl. "Look at me."

I did, and I was lost. His eyes were burning with an intensity that took my breath away.

"I love you," he said, the words a raw, ragged sound. "I know I don't deserve you. I know I'm a monster. But I love you, and I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you. If you'll let me."

Tears welled up in my eyes, and I blinked them back, refusing to let him see me cry.

"Please, Jade," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "Just give me a chance. One chance to prove to you that I'm not the monster you think I am. That I can be the man you deserve."

I wanted to say yes. I wanted to throw myself into his arms and forget everything. But I couldn't. The memory of my parents, their faces frozen in terror, was too strong. The betrayal was too deep.

"I can't," I whispered, my voice cracking. "I'm sorry, Markov. I just can't."

His face crumpled, the hope in his eyes extinguished. He looked away, his jaw clenched.

"I understand," he said, his voice heavy with defeat.

He turned and walked back to the stove, the sound of sizzling steak filling the silence. I stood there for a moment, my heart aching, before I turned and walked away.

I went into the living room and sank onto the couch, my head in my hands. I was a mess. A confused and conflicted mess.
A couple of minutes later, he walked in, two plates in his hands. He placed one on the coffee table in front of me, the other in his lap. The steak was cooked to perfection, the potatoes golden brown, the mushrooms sautéed to a delicate crisp. It looked delicious.

"Here," he said, his voice soft. "You need to eat."

I looked up at him, my eyes searching his. There was no anger, no resentment, just a deep, aching sadness.

"Thank you," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

He nodded, and sat down next to me. In order to not make things more awkward, I picked up the remote and looked at him. "Movie?" I asked, my voice a little too bright.

He studied me for a long moment, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "Sure."

I flicked through the channels, my mind a blur. I finally settled on a cheesy romantic comedy, the kind of movie I usually hated. But tonight, it felt right. It was an escape, a way to pretend, even for a little while, that we were just a normal couple, enjoying a quiet night in.

We ate in silence, the only sounds the crunch of our utensils and the fake laughter from the television. The food was amazing, the steak so tender it melted in my mouth, but I could barely taste it. My mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

I could feel him next to me, the heat of his body a constant, distracting presence. I wanted to lean into him, to rest my head on his shoulder, to lose myself in his arms. But I couldn't. The wall between us was too high, too thick.

He was watching the movie, his jaw moving sexily as he chewed. I found myself staring at him, my gaze drawn to the way the light from the television flickered across his face. He was so handsome, it was almost painful.

He turned to look at me, and our eyes met. The air crackled, the unspoken tension between us a living, breathing thing. He opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it, turning back to the movie.

I could feel the tears welling up again, and I blinked them back, my throat tight. I was so confused, so lost.

I finished my food, my appetite gone. I placed my plate on the coffee table, my movements stiff and awkward.

"I'm tired," I said, my voice a little too loud. "I think I'm going to turn in."

"Stay," He suddenly said, grabbing my wrist before I could leave.

The touch was electric, a jolt of pure, unadulterated desire shot through me. I froze, my heart pounding in my chest.

"Please," he whispered, his eyes pleading. "Just... stay. Watch the movie with me. No talking. Just... be here."

I looked into his eyes, and I saw the vulnerability there, the desperation. He was laying himself bare, and it was disarming.

I hesitated for a moment, my mind screaming at me to run, to put as much distance between us as possible. But my body, my treacherous, traitorous body, betrayed me.

I nodded, and he let go of my wrist. I sat back down, my body rigid with tension. I couldn't relax, couldn't let my guard down. Not for a second.

I turned my attention back to the movie, my mind a mess. The romantic comedy was in full swing, the two main characters declaring their love for each other in the middle of a crowded street. It was so cheesy, so unrealistic, and it made my heart ache.

I could feel him watching me, and I knew he was thinking the same thing. He reached out, his hand resting on my knee. The touch was gentle, tentative, but it was enough to send a jolt of electricity through me.

I flinched, my body tensing even more.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Jade," he said, his voice soft. "I just want to be close to you."

I didn't pull away. I couldn't. His touch was a lifeline, a connection to the man I loved, the man I couldn't have.

His hand stayed there, warm and steady on my knee. I slowly relaxed, my body melting under his touch.

He started to rub slow, lazy circles on my skin, the motion hypnotic. I closed my eyes, letting out a sigh I didn't know I was holding.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his breath warm on my ear.

I opened my eyes, my gaze meeting his. The desire in his eyes was undeniable, a burning, all consuming fire that mirrored my own.

He leaned in, his lips a breath away from mine. I should have stopped him, should have pushed him away. But I didn't. I couldn't.