13. River

13

RIVER

T he deafening crack of gunfire echoes in the dimly lit study. My breath comes in ragged gasps as the room warps and twists around me, transforming from the familiar confines of my study into the desolate landscape of a foreign land. The acrid scents of gunpowder and burning metal fill my nostrils, the taste of copper thick on my tongue. My ears ring with the incessant chatter of gunfire and the anguished cries of the wounded.

I'm back there, back in the heart of darkness.

The searing heat of the desert sun beats down on my back as I crouch behind a crumbling wall, my rifle clutched tightly in my hands. Beside me, my comrades lie motionless, their eyes staring blankly at the cloudless sky. The stench of death hangs heavy in the air, a grim reminder of the cost of war.

A young boy, no more than ten years old, appears from the smoke and rubble, his eyes wide with terror. He stumbles toward me, his arms outstretched, pleading for help. But before I can reach him, a sniper's bullet rips through his chest, painting the sand crimson.

The image of his lifeless body haunts me, a constant reminder of my failure. I had vowed to protect the innocent, to shield them from the horrors of war. But in the end, I was just another cog in the machine of destruction.

A mortar shell explodes nearby, sending a shower of shrapnel in all directions. I duck for cover, the ground shaking beneath me. When the dust settles, I emerge from my hiding place, my heart pounding in my chest.

The scene before me is a tableau of chaos and despair. Bodies litter the streets, their twisted limbs frozen in macabre poses. Buildings are reduced to rubble, their shattered remains a testament to the futility of human ambition.

A wave of nausea washes over me as I stumble through the wreckage, my boots crunching on broken glass and splintered wood. The cries of the wounded grow louder, a chorus of pain and anguish that echoes in my soul.

I reach a makeshift hospital, a bombed-out schoolhouse converted into a triage center. The air inside is thick with the scents of blood and antiseptic, the floors slick with bodily fluids. I see doctors and nurses working tirelessly, their faces etched with exhaustion and despair.

A young woman, her pregnant belly distended, lies on a stretcher, her eyes wide with fear. She clutches my hand, her grip surprisingly strong. I can feel her life ebbing away, her pulse growing weaker with each passing second.

I try to comfort her, to offer words of hope. But all I can manage is a silent prayer, a plea for a mercy that seems far out of reach. She takes her last breath, her hand going limp in mine.

The weight of her death crushes me, a heavy burden I can't seem to shake. I have failed her, failed them all. The guilt consumes me, a raging inferno that threatens to consume my soul.

The scene shifts again, blurring into a kaleidoscope of fragmented memories. The roar of tanks, the deafening clatter of helicopter blades, the screams of dying soldiers. Faces flash before my eyes, their features twisted in agony.

Rat. Tat. Tat.

I jolt awake, heart pounding, a cold sweat clinging to my skin. The book in my hands, a weathered tome on the history of warfare, slips from my grasp and lands on the floor with a dull thud.

From the mirror across the room, a haunted, gaunt face looks back at me, forehead slick with sweat despite the chill.

I blink, my eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness. The familiar scents of old leather and whiskey fill my nostrils. I down the remaining contents of my glass in a quick gulp, relishing the burn as it goes down.

The knocking sound repeats itself. So I didn't imagine it, and now, I have to get up and get to the door.

"Go away," I shout, hoping Marcus or Wyatt will get the memo and leave me alone.

"I've brought food," an achingly familiar voice replies instead. "And I'm staying until you come out here."

"Damn it," I mutter under my breath, the words slurring slightly. "Of course she's not going to listen to me."

I lumber to the door in a superbly clumsy way, my body heavy and betraying me as I stumble and stagger with each step I take. Now she'll see me in this pitiful, utterly disgusting state. Fair enough. Maybe she'll throw some scraps my way. Maybe it's all I fucking deserve.

The door creaks open, revealing Bella, a tray of food balanced precariously in her hands. She's sitting on the floor, her eyes burning up at me. God, she's so beautiful. She was always beautiful, even then, but more now, more when she's somehow matured and grown more into herself.

My breath hitches in my throat, a wave of conflicting emotions crashing over me. Shock, guilt, longing, and a deep, aching sadness all swirl together in a toxic cocktail. I can never remember to think or breathe or just exist when she's this fiery, her curves accentuated by the soft glow of the lamplight. Her waist-length red hair cascades down her back like a waterfall, framing her delicate features. Those vibrant green eyes shine sadly at me, disappointment thick in them.

She's the only woman in the world who could tame me by just looking at me.

I notice the way her fingers tighten around the tray, her knuckles glaringly white. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, her jaw clenched as if she's fighting back tears. She's doing her best to rein it in, to make sure I can't see the pain I've put her through. Doesn't work.

My heart aches for her, for the years of heartache and disappointment I've caused. I want to reach out, to pull her into my arms and beg for forgiveness. But the words stick in my throat, choked by the guilt that gnaws at my insides.

I'm a broken man, damaged beyond repair. I have no right to touch her, to taint her purity with my darkness. Yet, I can't tear my eyes away, can't deny the yearning that consumes me.

She's a vision of perfection, every inch of her a masterpiece. The graceful curve of her neck, the delicate dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks, the red moles that dot her creamy skin like constellations in the night sky. Each detail is etched into my memory, a painful reminder of what I've lost.

"River," she whispers.

Honey and milk. That's what she is.

It's as if time stands still, the world fading away until all that remains are the two of us, locked in a silent battle of wills.

A single tear escapes, sliding down her cheek like a fallen star.

I want to reach out, to wipe away that tear and soothe the ache in her heart. But I know I can't. I'm not the man she needs, not the man she deserves.

So, I do the only thing I can do. I step aside, my voice barely a whisper. "Come in."

She nods to the tray. I pick it up and take it inside. She follows and settles down on a couch beside the fireplace. I look at the food on the plate. It's mercifully hot, waves of steam curling up into my nose and sending good signals to my brain. With a little sigh, I begin eating. The food settles in my stomach, warming and nourishing me, helping fight the waves of nausea from earlier. "Wyatt?" I ask, not looking up from the plate.

"Yeah," she replies, tapping her feet against the carpeted floor. "With a bit of help from Marcus."

I nod. "Thanks for taking care of me."

There's a sharp exhale. "That wasn't my intention," she counters in an even sharper voice. "I'm just…" And then, silence.

"Marcus said you weren't feeling well," she continues, her voice laced with a tentative concern that makes my chest ache.

"I'm fine," I lie, my words a reflex.

She sighs, her shoulders slumping slightly. "You don't look fine, River."

The sound of my name on her lips once again, spoken with such tenderness, is almost too much to bear. I clench my fists, the nails digging into my palms. "You shouldn't be here, Bella."

Her head snaps up, her eyes flashing with a spark of anger. "Don't do that," she says, her voice rising. "Don't shut me out."

"It's for the best," I say, my voice barely audible. "You deserve better than this."

"Better than what?" she demands, stepping closer. "Better than you, being an asshole right now? Damn right, I do. I didn't fall in love with this man, if you remember—unless the front you put up then was a lie, too."

The accusation stings. "None of it was a lie," I say, tearing into the bread with a vengeance. "You know that. All I wanted was for you to have the happiness of a home, a family."

She scoffs bitterly. "Because obviously, it was too much on my part to expect those things from you, right?"

I'm only eating because I'm famished. There's no drive left, even as the soup sends a flicker of warmth to my heart, lungs, and blood. "It was at the time," I admit slowly. "You know that, Bella."

"You never even gave me a chance," she cries, her voice thick with emotion. "You just pushed me away, told me to move on."

"I was trying to protect you," I say, my voice barely a whisper.

She slams a hand down on her lap. "Don't you get it, you stubborn oaf? I would have waited ." Her voice breaks. "The things you've been through, the things you put me through—none of it needed to be suffered in solitude if you'd just told me to wait, God damn you."

Her words are drowned by a muffled sob. "But no. You had to play the bigger man, tell me I deserved someone else. Because that's what you say when you love someone, right? RIGHT?"

My ears are ringing. I want to hurl the bowl of half-eaten soup across the room and scream back at her, but she's right. I was stupid back then. Stupid to let go of the only thing that could have saved me.

"I would have waited," she repeats, her voice barely audible. "If you had just said the words. If you had just asked."

I reach out, my fingers trembling as I brush a stray strand of hair from her face. Her skin is soft as silk, warm beneath my touch. A single tear escapes my eye, tracing a path down my cheek.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper, the words barely audible. "I never meant to hurt you."

"But you did," she counters, jumping off the couch. "You did, and now, try as I may, I can't give you the basic respect you fucking deserve because I'm so angry at all of it."

She moves to turn, to run away from me.

The way I ran all those years ago. The way I closed a door that should have always been open.

I can't let her get away. I can't. Without thinking, I push off from the chair, sending the bowl clattering down. There'll be time to deal with that later. I grip her elbow and pull her to me, whipping her around so her face is level with mine.

"No," I utter in a broken, hoarse voice. "Don't you dare fucking run."

Before she can reply, I bend my head and kiss her.