18+ VERY SPICY WITH PLOT.
(This book series is under editorial changes)
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Set in Ireland, Dark Falls. Secret agent Emilia Day is taking some time off from the organization that raised her after she was orphaned as a child. After years of training...
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Edited version
Now
The unexpected knock on my door startled me.
Winter's icy wind had been mercilessly bruising my face as I trudged through the snow-covered streets, wearing one sweater too few beneath my coat. It had been the coldest winter in years, as per the news. I sought refuge in a pharmacy, where a wall of warmth greeted me as the door swung open, and the familiar ding chimed in my ears. I pressed the red button for a ticket and patiently waited in a line of only three people ahead of me.
The man behind the counter, with dark hair and piercing gray eyes, greeted me with an overly friendly smile that didn't quite suit him. I nodded my way through the conversation, my gaze fixed on him. At one point, his dark brows furrowed, and I shifted my attention to the ticket in my hand, which read fifty-seven. I hadn't seen him here before, and I was a regular customer, coming here every month.
The scent of cinnamon and honey filled my lungs as I entered my small apartment, still lingering from the pie I had baked the day before. I dismissed the notion that some people believed it was unwise to eat an entire pie by oneself. There were still three pieces waiting for me in the fridge, that is, of course, if I ever found the time to eat them. I had a plan to follow, and it was crucial. If pie didn't fit into the schedule, so be it. I contemplated how many pies I had consumed alone over the years, for dinners and such. Glancing at the time, I found it to be only four o'clock, meaning there were five more hours to go.
I emptied my bag onto the counter and arranged everything neatly, then indulged in a long, hot shower to warm up. The eucalyptus in my shower filled the room with an earthy, minty scent, instantly relieving my slight headache. Clad in towels and a old bathrobe, I made my way to the living room.
I had lived in this flat for two years now. Dark blue covered the walls, the kitchen boasted dark wood, almost black, the floor a soft brown with creaky planks. The place was old but comfortable. Heavy blue curtains almost concealed the arched framed windows. I glimpsed the snow falling slowly outside, the setting sun painting the white landscape a delicate pink. By now I had grown accustomed to the solitude and stillness, but occasionally, the cold would creep in, chilling me to the bone.
I had tried to live with what happened, but on this particular night, with snow falling heavily from the night sky, I couldn't push away the painful memories that had shaped me and led me to my doom. I could never return home because I knew what I had done, and they knew it too. Sometimes I can feel him judging me, as if he can see inside me and the rotten corpse that lied within. The lies, the deceit, the betrayal – it left a mark on me, and I wondered if it transferred to him too. Did he think of it? Could he feel it? When it melts at night it feels like acid.
In the beginning, we were passionate, all-consuming. Like poets, bleeding their pain onto paper, they had etched themselves into my heart. I had always been reluctant to let anyone in, but I had let them in. When I lost him, I lost everything. It left me breathless, thoughtless, and barely existing. There was no Emilia after him, after them.
I pressed my palm against the cold window. I thought fire would be the destruction of me, by the burning that had been lit, but I had held my palm over the fire and forgotten it would ache if I kept it there too long. I had been wrong; the pain of the burn was nothing compared to the empty coldness that engulfed me when he left my world. I fled the shards of my shattered heart and took them with me, ensuring it was impossible for anyone to find me.
For the past two years, I had been in purgatory, wondering where I would ultimately end up. I hoped for some better place, and perhaps he would be there waiting for me. I longed to see him again, to end this continuous suffering. He had told me to find him in hell, but I hoped there was a place, a better place, for people like him, people like us who hadn't had enough time.
Maybe I should have gone back; perhaps I never should have left. Perhaps I could have survived the loss eventually, and maybe he could have helped mend me over time, picking up the shattered pieces. Instead, I had buried myself in the pain that now consumed me. When I closed my eyes, I could still feel his whispers to my skin, his gentle touch to my cheek, and his fingers in my hair. But I knew I would never feel it again. I was weary, and I had brought this upon myself.
A handful of pills and a bottle of whiskey.
I know what you are thinking; it gets better, just go back and find the one to help you pick up the pieces. But I didn't want to go back, I didn't want to get better. I didn't deserve it.
The unexpected knock on my door startled me. My pulse raced with the sinking feeling of going numb. Another forceful knock followed, even louder. Panic gripped my heart as I slowly approached the source of the deafening noise. As I unlocked the door, it swung open abruptly. I met a pair of all-too-familiar eyes that locked onto mine before surveying the chaos behind me.
"What have you done?" he demanded.
I drew in a trembling breath.
"What have you done?" he repeated.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
The skies shifted from night, and in time of dawn he found me.
You're probably wondering how I ended up in this mess.
Allow me to explain.
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