Chapter 68 Fragments Of Us

The familiar scent of Marcel’s cologne fills my senses as my eyes flutter open, mingling with the sharp tang of alcohol lingering in the air. Despite its disruptive presence, it’s a smell I’ve gotten used to, a smell that’s oddly comforting. Blinking against the soft light filtering through the curtains, I turn my head to find him sitting on the sofa across the room, a glass of scotch in his hand and a dark look on his face. His gun rests on the coffee table beside the half-empty decanter, a silent reminder of the violence that’s become our new normal. The sleeves of his button-up shirt are rolled up, exposing the taut muscles and tattoos of his forearms.