ADIRA

One of the things I hated with a passion in this miserable world was waking up angry—and no one but Andronikos is to blame for it.

How dare he walk into my room, all bloody and shit, and tell me that he misses me after ghosting me for God knows how long? And I’m supposed to what? Fall on my knees and thank him for thinking about me?

You know what? Fuck that bastard. I don’t have time for his shit today. I had problems at the company to handle, and entertaining his drama wasn’t on my agenda.

After taking a shower, I threw on my usual corporate outfit, ignoring the lingering tension from last night, and headed downstairs to the kitchen. But guess who was already there? That’s right—the fucking demon and his obedient hellhound right behind him.

I didn’t acknowledge them. Didn’t even give them a glance. I marched straight to the fridge, pulled out the leftovers from last night, and angrily shoved them into the microwave.

“Adira,” Andronikos’ voice called to me, smooth yet sharp enough to send a shiver down my spine, reigniting a flame I thought I’d doused completely. The bastard still had a hold on me, even when I tried my hardest to ignore him.

I said nothing. When the microwave dinged, I grabbed the warm plate, and placed it on the counter to eat in peace.

“Iason, leave. Now,” Andronikos commanded, his tone dropping dangerously low. I froze, not liking the direction this was heading to.

Iason hesitated, clearly debating if he should argue with his boss, but ultimately, he gave a slight nod and walked out of the kitchen.

Now, it was just us.

“Come here, flogítsa mou,” he said, patting his lap. The nerve of this man. He actually thought I’d willingly sit there like some obedient pet.

Once again, I ignored him, my fork stabbing into the food with more force than necessary, imagining his head in place of the meat.

“Adira, come here right now, oh so help me God, when I get my hands on you, I’ll spank the living shit of your ass.”

Okay, that got my attention. I froze mid-bite, stunned. My blood boiled as I slammed the fork down and stormed over to him.

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” I hissed, glaring down at him as I plotted his demise in my head.

“Retract your claws gataki, before I shorn them off myself.” His eyes gleamed with dark intent, his fingers gripping air as if searching for something—searching for his knife.

“Now, I believe you heard what I said.” He tapped his lap again, an annoying smirk playing on his lips as his eyes gleamed with a mix of challenge and dark amusement.

“You are unbelievable.”

“And you, flogítsa mou, are predictable. Now, sit.” At that, he grabbed my wrist and tugged me toward him.

“I am not—”

I had barely finished my statement before I found myself gingerly lowered onto his lap. Fuming but refusing to let him see how flustered I was, I snapped, “Happy?” Crossing my arms over my chest, I tried to ignore the heat radiating from his body but my lower half wasn’t cooperating.

“Not yet,” he murmured, his hands moving to my wait, holding me firmly in place.

“You’re the most insufferable person I’ve ever met. You know that right?” I muttered, glaring at him.

“And your stubbornness is a perfect match to my insufferable persona, don’t you think?” he quipped, leaning closer.

“Let me go.”

“Not until you admit you missed me.”

I scoffed at that. “Maybe you should go get your head checked. You probably fractured something up there.”

“The only thing that feels fractured is the fissure you’ve managed to open in my mind.”

Before I could utter a word, he slammed his lips onto mine, stealing my breath and every coherent thought inside my head. I should have pushed him away—God knows I should have—but of course, I did the opposite. Like a muscle memory, my body melted into him, my hands sliding up to grip his shirt as he deepened the kiss.

How could I have ever thought I could forget this?

Everything else became a blur: the kitchen faded in view, his fingers, the only thing on my mind, roamed my body and gripped my ass. He squeezed tightly, eliciting a gasp out of me, as he yanked me closer—impossibly closer—pressing a far more desperate, needy kiss against my lips.

Teeth clashed, tongues danced and our lips battled for dominance I eventually relinquished to him.

But no sooner had it begun than we were jerked back to reality by the sound of Iason's voice from the doorway.

"Nónos, we have to go," he said, his voice short with urgency.

Groaning, Andronikos broke the kiss with a heated sigh.

Looking into my eyes, he whispered against my lips, his voice low and heated. "This isn't over, flogítsa mou.

"Don't hold your breath," I snapped, but my pink cheeks gave away my bravado.

He smiled, his thumb stroking over my bottom lip before he kissed me again, slower this time, like a promise.

"Later, flogítsa mou," he whispered, then stood and walked out, leaving me reeling.

I touched my lips, scolding myself for falling so easily once more. Why is it so hard to resist him? I thought dejectedly.

Still thinking about my inability to resist Andronikos, my phone buzzed, snapping me out of my thoughts. Glancing at the screen, I noticed it was my father calling.

I breathed in and out twice, before I answered the call.

"Hi, Baba."

There was a long pause before his voice, low and strained, came through. "Come to the family hospital. Now."

"What's happening Baba?" I asked, my heart racing.

He didn't respond, and the line was dead.

My mind ran wild with worst case scenarios as I sped to the car outside, feeling panic clinging onto my chest.

When I arrived at the hospital, my nerves were all haywire—but little could have prepared me for the sight that awaited me.

My mother lay in the hospital bed, pale and frail, her body hooked up to a great many machines. Tubes snaked around her like some kind of cruel web; her breaths were shallow and labored as she slept.

"Mama," I whispered, rushing to her side.

At that moment, the doctor came in; a grim expression on his face.

"Good day Mr. and Miss Abara," he began. "After critical examination, Mrs. Abara has been diagnosed to have cervical cancer. Stage 2, to be precise." His words cut through the air like a knife.

He went further to explain the procedures—surgery, radiation therapy, chemotherapy—but my mind couldn't grasp anything he was saying, as all that kept ringing in my mind was the word cancer.

My poor Mama.

"Devastating but treatable at this stage," he concluded, trying in vain to give my father and I hope. I wasn't listening, though. I should have known better than to listen to Mama when she told me to forget about her health issues. Maybe then—

This is not the time for self-guilt, Adira, I said to myself, turning to face my father.

While my father's face was all strong on the outside, I could see through it; he was crumbling. His hands were trembling, his jaw clenched in its usual way, but his eyes told another story—the storm inside him shone through them like beacons.

Mama was the glue of this family, and the thought of losing her was unimaginable.

"We’ll get through this, Baba," I told him, trying to be strong, but I could hear the waver in my voice.

He nodded in response, but the fear in his eyes mirrored mine.

I sat next to Mama, aware of her every painful breath, an arduous, labored lifting of her chest. As I held her cold hands, a single thought echoed in my mind: No matter what it took, Mama cannot leave us.