The Vows We Break - Serena Akeroyd Page 0,33

of the street, which he subsequently unlocks, I have my answer.

I know where he lives.

Fortuitous, it is.

Paying the taxi driver, I climb out of the car, wincing a little when my head aches as I stand up too fast.

A sigh rumbles from me, because I’m so beyond tired of my body not behaving as it should. Pre-surgery, I was fine. But now? Mentally, I’m strong, but physically? I’m weak.

And I hate that.

But there’s nothing I can do. Only time will heal me, only time will take some of my issues away. Maybe a few will always hover around, but I can deal with that so long as I return to a semblance of ‘normal’ working order at some point.

Impatience and drive got me here, and out of rehab ahead of the schedule by months, but my obstinacy can only do so much, and that’s clear as I hobble across the street.

For a second, I stand outside, watching as lights flicker on through the windows on the second floor.

I feel...

My hand shakes as I reach up and rub at my eyes.

I didn’t expect to feel this way, to feel so unconfident in my next steps, but seeing him in the flesh? Seeing his darkness? Sensing how on edge he is?

It’s so much more than I expected. Not necessarily in a bad way, just in a way that makes me wonder if I’m good enough for him.

My brow puckers at the thought of all my failings, all my scars, and if they’ll serve him.

My zealous need to be with him, to cement the connection I’ve felt since I was seventeen as his life brushed up against mine, even only on the tattered edges, is what pushed me through my recovery.

But nothing has happened how I thought it would.

I thought our eyes would meet and he’d feel the sparks.

I thought we’d trigger a connection, and he’d want to speak with me. Would want to be with me too.

Maybe I’m crazy without the cyst doing anything to help me.

Maybe I really am insane.

And if I am, should I be here? Should I just leave him alone?

The thought whispers through my mind at the same time as I hear a slight grunt.

After dark, I’ve noticed how quiet Rome actually is. Especially on certain streets.

I think it’s because it’s winter. In summer, I could imagine the streets always bustling with life, but at this time of year, it’s actually quiet. Only a few cars rumble down the streets, and only tourist spots like Borgo Pio where my Airbnb is, and where there are plenty of restaurants, have more people gathering, but even then, nothing like through the day.

It’s that peace that helps me hear it.

A grunt.

A slapping sound.

Faint.

Like a murmur in my ears.

I strain to hear it again, wondering what it is, then the grunt is louder.

And the whistle?

Louder still.

It’s rhythmic. A dull thwacking sound with a high-pitched whistle.

I struggle to recognize what it might be, and then it hits me.

My throat chokes, and I rush forward on shaky legs. I tried to walk across the river, back to Borgo on foot, but my body just wouldn’t let me. And even now, after the drive, I still feel weak, but for him, I’ll push it. Push myself to the limits, because this has to stop.

He has to stop.

I slam my hand on the doorbell, not letting go, my heartbeat roaring, the sound whooshing in my ears as I wait for him to answer.

I refuse to let him ignore me.

There’s a dull thudding sound from behind the door, and I think he’s running down the stairs. He pulls it open, and I see he’s wearing a shirt that he just pulled on, and only a few buttons are fastened.

The sneak peek of his chest, of those pecs, all those muscles, has me momentarily diverted before I cast him a look and see his face is pale, white even. Sweat beads on his brow, and there’s a strange light in his eyes.

A fever.

God, I want that fever breaking over me.

I stare at him, and he stares back.

From my position on the doorstep, he could slam the door in my face, but I shove myself forward, pushing past him and walking into the building.

As he closes the door, I see his back, the black shirt soaked in places, and though I know, seeing is believing.

I push forward, grab the hem of his shirt, and lift it up, exposing raw gouges along his spine. Thick train track lines of flesh.

Blood