#(verse) forged

[multitudeofsxns]

❛ I can’t bear to think about a future anymore, not without you. ❜

Nathaniel stood across the kitchen from her and his world narrowed down to those seven feet and her hazel eyes. “Liza,” he rasped as his throat closed and a sudden uncharacteristic wave of anxiety shut his lungs down. “Liza,” he cleared his throat as his voice cracked on her name, “don’t promise me softness.” He turned and took a few steps towards her and scrubbed his face with his free hand. His right hand gripped his mug of tea white knuckle tight. 

This was a hell of way to finish a long day moving her into the main house to protect her. The last bout with Dmitri had him straddling the line between her Nate, and Yuri’s Nathaniel. The dissonance was dizzying. 

“Don’t promise me this, I will crawl into every nook and cranny to steal all of your attention and life. I want that. I want you. I want a life with you basking in your warmth. I’m so tired of being alone, being cold, and being outside of life. I want to share warmth, intimacy, love, a relationship with you. Do not tell me things like this because I will hold on with both hands and not let it go.” 

He set his tea down gently and swallowed hard enough to make his adams apple bob. “Don’t be cruel, I beg of you.” He wanted nothing more than to cross the kitchen and pull her into his arms, put his hands on her waist and boost her onto the counter, put his lips on hers until they couldn’t breathe. 

[multitudeofsxns]

Forged

Books were always a solace for him. Years, near three decades of reading and self study--outside the shambles public school system--and he could pass as a relatively well educated man. He was extremely, excruciatingly educated in what it took to be the best most revered (feared?) right hand in any organized crime history. They made him into a monster. No, he allowed himself to be forged into this twisted blade made only for maximum brutality and damage. 

One day a happenstance meeting changed all of that. He stopped by to get flowers for his mother in a small college town she lived in and the little clerk was so sweet, so adorable, and her smile beamed holes into his soul it was so bright. He wasn’t able to answer anything beyond her surface questions and he realized how steeped in violence and awful his life was. He left the weekend trip from his mother’s and drove the two hours back to his penthouse and felt so cold behind the bulletproof glass. He researched and bought a house in the same city, started fixing it up with subtle tech tricks with the intent of walking. 

The price for his freedom was high, and there was the clause he would always be on retainer for his previous owner. Bratva never willingly let go of their people easily. He had helped Yuri climb though, paved the road of his success with bodies, cemented the mortar of his empire with the blood Nathaniel had spilled for him. They called him Chernobog, or the Dark God. He was feared and he felt hollow for it now. 

Now, with his partial retirement well planned, he grinned as he stood across the street from the storefront he had just finished restoring. His pride and joy. His mother stood beside him and they squeezed hands. A bookstore, multi story and well lit from the two sides of windows on the corner front, across from the same flower shop that had saved his life. He wondered briefly if the same little woman worked there but he had other plans, like seeing to paperwork for the cafe and bistro he was opening next door. His mother suggested pairing with the local culinary school to host events there for the students to show off their talents. He had things to do, the opening day wasn’t for another two weeks, and there was still one more task he had to for his freedom. 

Finally, the day of the grand opening he popped into the flower shop and wanted an arrangement for the front counter. He was thinking something soft, light and fragrant. The bell chimed and he took a deep breath of the riotous scents of the flowers. 

“Good morning!” He called, half paying attention to the window, half to the flowers, not at all to the clerk of the actual store.