Chapter Seventeen

Raisa

“I thought this recipe was supposed to be easy,” I grumble to the empty apartment. Wondering if I messed something up, I step into the living room to give myself an adult time-out.

I’ve been here with Durga for almost three weeks. He checks in and around my apartment every day, either before or after his work, or early in the morning before I wake up on his days off. He says he hasn’t smelled the bad guys since the day I left, but we’ve never really talked about when I should move back to my place.

In fact, as I look at the succulents on the windowsills, I have to admit that many of my favorite things are here, with a new shipment arriving after each of Durga’s recon trips to my apartment. The plants were the first to come, which made sense. They needed tending. I smile at our little green menagerie.

I took great pains pairing them up. One of mine next to one of his of the same species, shape, or similar container. Happy little couples basking in the sun.

All my favorite clothes are here. My toiletries and my art supplies have been migrating over, although, rather than artistic pursuits, most of my free time is spent having sex. It’s become my favorite creative outlet.

Working from home as a Photoshop expert allows me total freedom. I work when Durga’s gone no matter what shift he’s on.

Except for now. Now I’m trying to make a recipe for galamash. I tried it from a street food cart and then got one of our neighbors to dictate the recipe to me as I took careful notes. I’m stumped, though, and don’t want to bother Nerita to see where I’ve gone wrong.

Shit! The sound of liquid overflowing onto the old-fashioned ring-top burner makes me run to the kitchen. After taking the pot off the eye, I stand in the small, cluttered kitchen, glancing around absently as though I just dropped in from outer space.

The smell of sizzling onions fills the air, mingling with the scents of curry and spices. My hands move automatically, stirring the contents of the saucepan, while my thoughts drift toward the events that brought me here.

Three weeks ago, I was an ordinary human, living a mundane life. But then everything changed when those gangbangers started chasing us in the park. The fear, the adrenaline coursing through my veins, it all seems a lifetime away now. Back then, I had no choice but to seek refuge in the Integration Zone, with Durga.

He was my savior that night, my guardian in the darkness. Durga, with his towering presence and beautiful exterior, became my protector. And now I find myself living in his world, in his home, blending in among creatures I never thought I’d encounter outside of storybooks.

As I stand here, stirring the simmering pot, a sudden realization crashes over me like a wave. This relationship, if it can even be called that, was never a choice. It was a necessity fueled by circumstance, a temporary solution to ensure my safety. What foundation does our connection truly rest upon?

Durga and I have never spoken about what we are to each other, about the affection that seems to linger in the air when we’re together. We’ve shared laughter, stories, the occasional silence, and hours of passionate sex. But beneath it all, there’s a weight of unspoken words, a hidden truth I can no longer ignore.

How did I become the picture of domesticity, cooking here in Durga’s kitchen? Was it a choice born out of affection or desire, or is it purely one of convenience, survival? And now, as I watch the sauce thicken before me, I know that living within this fenced perimeter was a choice I never really made. I simply fell into it.

Have I only stayed because I’ve been dickmatized? God knows the sex alone is enough reason to stay. No. Not really. Almost enough reason to stay.

And Durga, poor guy. We never discussed the impact that my being here has made on his life. He has friends and a job, and although he would have told me if he had a current ladylove, he’s clearly had lovers. That male is no virgin, that’s for sure.

I crashed into his life and stole his nights of drinking bitter orc brew with his friends. His entire life changed because of his generous efforts to protect me. I barged in and squatted in his little apartment, and he never had the heart to tell me it was time to go.

The first words out of his mouth the night we met were his concern, his urge to protect me. That was when he thought I was a child. But that’s who he is, a protector. Am I only here because he has an overactive knight-in-shining-armor gene?

As the old proverb says, no good deed goes unpunished. He’s tolerated me for weeks, now it’s time to let him get back to his old life. If he had feelings for me, surely he would have mentioned it, right?

A profound sadness washes over me, dulled by the realization that leaving is the only choice I have. Although I have no desire to live a life inside this fence, I would do it gladly under other circumstances—if he and I loved each other. But except for those moments in the heat of passion when Durga calls me dear, he’s never breathed a word about a deep connection, or given a hint about commitment.

I turn off the stove, the silence in the apartment thunderous as I stare at the pot of galamash. It’s painful to admit, but this relationship, born out of necessity, can never be enough without his buy-in.

With a heavy heart but newfound resolve, I make the hardest choice of all. I need to leave. The male was a saint to save my ass and bring me here and put his life on hold. It’s time I let him get back to the life he was living before those gangbangers followed us to my door.

It’s a bittersweet departure, but necessary. I only admit to myself in passing that my heart is breaking. Doesn’t every romantic tragedy revolve around the fact that one person in the couple loves the other more? And with Durga, I don’t just love him more, I’m the only one who loves at all.

I’m fighting back tears as I pack my things and uncouple the little succulents, putting his on one sill and mine on the other. After taking one final look around the kitchen, I pack the memories of fun and sex and our fleeting connection, fold them up, and file them in the back of my mind.

I guess I’m terrible at adulting, and not just because of the travesty in that pot of galamash on the stove. If I was a responsible adult, I wouldn’t write Durga a letter and leave it on the kitchen table like the coward I am. Nor would I call Marissa and beg her to drive me home without telling her mate, Brokka, because I don’t want him to give Durga a heads-up. I’m truly a shit to ask someone to keep a secret from their mate.

But I do call her and she does take me home, and after one refusal to explain things, she drives the rest of the way in silence.

Yes. I’m a shit. A cowardly one at that.