Goodbye, Love

**James**

The next morning, I dragged myself back to the hotel, my footsteps heavy with a mix of dread and fading hope. The air in the lobby was stale, devoid of her familiar scent.

I approached the front desk, my voice tight as I asked about her. The clerk barely looked up from his ledger. “She left early. Checked out before dawn.”

My chest tightened. No goodbye, no note. Just gone.

Desperation clawed at me as I raced to the airport, weaving through crowds of travelers, scanning every face for hers. The buzz of announcements and the shuffle of luggage grated on my nerves, but there was no sign of her.

I tried the bus station next. I stood there, staring at the departing buses, willing her to step off one, but the platforms remained empty of her presence. She had slipped away, like smoke through my fingers.

Back at our refuge, I fumbled with my phone, my hands trembling as I tried to reach her. No answer. I paced the creaking floorboards, the silence deafening, until Tunder’s voice broke through my spiraling thoughts.

“I felt Veny. She’s still here, somewhere.”

My heart lurched. If she were still in the city, then where? Why hadn’t she come back to me?

I sank onto the edge of the bed, the worn mattress groaning under my weight, and trying to connect her again. “Please, please answer me. Vicky, I just want to know if you’re okay. Love…”

I called her in my mind again. And again. On the third try, her voice finally cut through the silent, rising in my mind.

“Don’t call me love.”

“Okay,” I said quickly, my throat tight. “I know I was horrible. Please forgive me. I just need to know if you’re okay. Why aren’t you at the hotel?”

“I’m fine,” she replied, her tone clipped but steady. “The hotel wasn’t safe anymore. Get out of Romania.”

“We’re already taking care of that,” I said, glancing at the half-packed bags strewn across the room. “Aren’t you coming?”

“No, not now,” she said, and I could hear the weight behind her words. “I still have something to resolve.”

“Vicky, please,” I begged, my voice breaking as I leaned forward, elbows digging into my knees. “I want to talk to you. I’ve made so many mistakes—too many. If I have any credit left with you, any at all, I need you to listen to me.”

There was a pause, a silence so heavy it pressed against my chest. Then she spoke, her voice softer but resolute. “James, some things change even if we don’t want them to. Only time will heal this. I think we need to focus on staying alive and going home now. We’ll talk one day.”

“Are you going to come home?” I asked. The idea of leaving without her felt like abandoning a piece of myself.

“If my home is there, yes,” she said cryptically. “I’ll come back when it’s ready.”

“Forgive me,” I pleaded, my eyes burning. “For everything.”

“For yesterday, too?” Her voice sharpened slightly, a reminder of the way I’d let my temper unravel everything.

“Especially for yesterday,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I love you, Vicky. I always will. And I’m only accepting to leave without you because I’m trying to respect your wishes. Because my heart—God, my heart doesn’t want you to stay. I’ll suffer every second until I know you’re out of danger.”

She was quiet for a moment, then voice raise again. “Thank you for respecting my wishes,” she said at last. “I’m already an adult, James. I’m responsible for myself. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, love,” I murmured.

…

**Marcelo**

I watched her crumple to the ground. Diana. Or Vicky, as she insisted I call her, pressed her hands to her face, fingers trembling as she fought to hold back the tears threatening to spill. The sight pierced something deep inside me, a pang of sorrow that felt both foreign and achingly familiar. I’d known her for less than a week, yet the pull of her pain was undeniable.

This, I thought, must be what they meant by the bond of family. Well, step-family, technically, but the distinction felt meaningless in that moment.

I lowered myself beside her. Hesitant at first, I reached out, my hand resting gently on her shoulder. Her skin was warm beneath the thin fabric of her shirt, and I could feel the faint shudder of her suppressed sobs.

“I’m almost in tears too, Ame,” I said softly.

She lifted her head just enough to glare at me, her dark eyes glistening but fierce. “Don’t joke about it, Marcelo. My feelings are not a joke.”

I winced, raising my hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, bad timing,” I couldn’t help myself, I added, “Does he know you had that conversation with him, lying in another man’s bed, in your underwear—just a t-shirt and panties?”

Her glare sharpened. “You’re ridiculous when you want to be funny,” she said, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“No,” I said with a grin, leaning back on my heels, “but I love your sincerity. I’m going to make a mental note of this: improve my jokes.”

Vicky was… captivating. There was no other word for it. Beneath the vulnerability of this moment, there was a fire in her, a resilience that drew me in like a moth to a flame. To me, she’d always be like a sister, even if she was my Âme. She has a connection with me deeper than blood, one I couldn’t fully explain.

I’d never been one for convention, an open defender of polygamy in a world that often misunderstood it. For me, love wasn’t just physical; it was a harmony of souls, a meeting of minds and hearts. If Vicky and I were truly in tune, she’d only know for sure when her powers returned, when the veil of her own strength lifted. Until then, my role was clear: protect her.

Ian Wladimir and Jean. Each one a threat. And if luck was on our side, Vicky might just help me bring Jean down.

“Vicky,” I said, my tone softer, more serious, “have you ever thought about visiting our kingdom?”

She looked away, her gaze drifting to the horizon where the city lights blurred into the dusk. “Marcelo, I really want to distance myself from this world that never wanted me.”

I shook my head, leaning closer. “That’s not true, Âme,” I said earnestly, willing her to believe me. “This story about purists and half-breeds is ancient history, outdated nonsense. Most witches today accept half-breeds. Hell, some of us think we’re stronger for it. We carry the power of a broader ancestry, a deeper well to draw from. I’d love to show you that world, to go with you. But first…” I hesitated, studying her face. “I need to know something from you. What do you prefer: the truth, no matter who it hurts, or half-truths that keep the peace?”

She turned to me then, her gaze steady despite the redness rimming her eyes.

“Of course the truth, Marcelo.”