Fourteen.

Mikhail

She's like no one I've ever met.

I sit beside Maria's bed and watch her sleep, her chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. A soft glow from the bedside lamp illuminates her sleeping form, creating an almost ethereal aura around her face. Her expression, contorted with pain earlier, now displays a tranquil expression.

In this light, she has the look of a princess. I can almost forget the glimpse of the fierce hellcat underneath.

Almost.

I admire her courage. Foolish but definitely brave.

Her long, curly, auburn hair fans out like a halo on the silk pillowcase. A dark bruise mars her soft cheek, and a bandage is wrapped tightly around her wrist. All because of me. It takes every fiber of my being to not reach out and caress the wound. But something tells me that if I so much as feel her skin against mine, then all semblance of control will burn away like mist on the morning sun.

I force myself to look away. Guilt, desire, anger, and other emotions that I cannot—or dare