39. Snapped String

Aella

Inside the black SUV, the silence is almost eerie. I sit with my hands resting on my lap, staring out at the blurred pine trees whisking by through the tinted windows. It’s as if the world outside exists on a different plane, far removed from the storm of emotions surging within me.

The SUV’s leather seats, the quiet hum of its engine, the soft breeze from the AC—all of it feels surreal in the aftermath of what I’ve just witnessed. What we’ve just done.

Roman sits across from me, separated by the narrow aisle of the car, but it might as well be a mile for how distant he seems. He’s on his phone again, the deep baritone of his voice rhythmic and fluid as he speaks in Russian. He’s all focus, intensity, authority.

I shouldn’t find it as attractive as I do, but there’s no denying the heat that rises within me at the sound. He looks gorgeous today, even more so without a shirt now. And I hate myself for noticing, for caring, for feeling anything other than the detached respect owe