He smiles. It’s an open, sincere smile that pulls me in a little closer. “I know what you meant. But you know, Artem became a brother to me. I made my own family in L.A.”
His words have my heart sinking so fast that the fire in front of us seems to blur and blend with the stars above.
But I force my tone into calm when I speak.
“Oh. I didn’t realize you have a family.”
And I’m proud of how in control I sound when I speak.
“Do you have kids, too?” I inquire.
He’s quiet for a moment, and I feel my fear swell tenfold.
I have no right to be upset. No right to feel betrayed or disappointed. But then, my feelings for Cillian have never been rational.
“Would it upset you if I say yes?” he asks at last.
I don’t meet his eye. I can’t.
“I’d be happy for you,” I lie.
Another pause. The cold inches into the tips of my fingers.
And in the silence, I see his imagined family. It sure as hell doesn’t include me.
A beautiful woman, dark-haired, dark-eyed. Some L.A. beauty with an infallible sense of confidence and legs that stretch on for miles.
A child—no, two children. A boy who looks like Cillian. A girl who looks like a mix of both of them.
A shared life that holds a billion tiny little moments that I can’t touch.
“No, I don’t have children,” Cillian tells me eventually. “I don’t have a wife. When I said I made a family for myself, I was talking about Artem and the Bratva.”
The relief coursing through my body feels like a glass of water after days of thirst.
I know how selfish, how unreasonable I’m being.
But I can’t seem to rein in my feelings where Cillian is concerned.
He’s been a part of me for so long that it’s hard to come to terms with the inarguable presence of the real him, of seeing and speaking to him again.
It’s hard to let go of the dream and see the reality instead.
And the reality is: he’s not mine.
Maybe he never was.
“Oh,” I say quietly. “You never met anyone?”
“Not anyone who matters,” he says in a voice so low I barely hear it.
I want to ask him what he means by that, but I know I don’t have the right to.
So I go with another question instead. “Why’d you come back, Cillian?”
He gives a strange little laugh. The kind that says that life can be ironic and complicated and cruel, and sometimes it can catch you in between all three.
“As it turned out, Artem’s uncle was the one who killed his father.”