Rachel savoured the bitter tang of espresso on her tongue, the warmth of the ceramic cup a small comfort in her palm. Around her, the Italian afternoon buzzed with life — the distant calls of vendors, the rich aroma of baking bread, the laughter of passersby under the sun-kissed sky. Yet, beneath the idyllic surface, her heart thrummed with a silent, unrelenting restlessness.

Her gaze drifted over the young couples strolling arm in arm, their carefree mirth a stark contrast to the solitude that clung to her like a shadow. Even amidst the vibrancy of life in this quaint Italian town, a part of her remained forever an observer, detached, set apart by secrets.

"Buongiorno," said the waitress who had the voice of an angel.

"I missed you this morning," replied Rachel as she smiled. This waitress was the reason Rachel chose to go to this bar. The first time she'd set eyes upon her, she'd had a déjà vu moment. She had still not pinpointed why she felt she knew this woman, but she admired her youth and beauty. Brown eyes, long dark brown hair and rouge cheeks, the young men who walked past always glanced at her a second time.

The young waitress placed a plate next to the caffe. "Sfogliatella."

"Oh no, I couldn't."

The waitress sat down, pushing the plate forward. "Every day you come here," she said with a thick Italian accent. "It is not healthy to skip breakfast. Besides, my papa makes it the best."

Rachel glanced down at the delicate pasty, stomach grumbling. On the outside, her beauty and youth shone, but inside her belly grew a shadow. Its hunger was insatiable. Food was no sustenance for the creature in her womb.

"Please," the young woman said, "it would make me so happy to see you try it."

"You are too kind," Rachel said as she surrendered. "It's amazing. Please send my thanks to the chef."

"Tell me, dear, what is your name?"

"Of all the days that I've been here, why did you decide to sit with me on this day?"

The waitress smiled widely. "Every day we go through the same routine. I worry for you. At first, you come here, enjoy the caffe, people watch. But now I feel you watch with envy. I feel you have grown sad."

She thought she could hide her feelings behind her routine and fake smile, but even a young waitress had seen beyond the façade.

"Interesting observation." Rachel leaned forward. "I feel as though you have a glow to you that you didn't have yesterday. Tell me, why are you late this morning?"

The young woman blushed. "I met a boy last night, at a party. Papa does not approve, so to get some space from him, I thought I would sit with you. He would never bother me if I'm with a customer."

"Oh, I see. The pastry was a bribe."

"But I am speaking the truth. I do worry about you. Are you alone? You sound like you are not from here."

It had been a long time since Rachel had anyone to talk to, and she was starting to warm up to the idea of having a friend in the young waitress. "I have moved here with my partner, and I am still getting acquainted with this city. I'm glad to hear the seeds of love are blossoming for you."

The waitress glanced at Rachel's bloated belly. "Oh, are you with bambino?"

"The dress hides it well, but soon I will balloon and there will be no hiding it."

"Well, congratulations. Even more reason to enjoy the pastry. Each morning now, I will make sure you are fed well. If you came back this afternoon, my papa will whip up gnocchi. He makes the sauce, and Nonna makes the gnocchi."

If only she could tell the young woman food wasn't what she craved. Essence, dark or light, was all she desired. "That's so kind of you. Thank you for your generosity, but in the afternoon, I must be at home."

The young woman grabbed her hand, touching the lace trimming of her white fingerless gloves. "These are so pretty. I noticed yesterday the black tattoo. Is that why you wear them? To hide it?"

Rachel pulled her hand away, surprised at the waitress's boldness. "It's a special tattoo, and for some reason, people take a real interest in it, so I hide it."

"Can I see?"

"Maybe another day. Mi chiamo, Rachel."

"Piacere di conoscerti. Mi chiamo, Bria. Are you and your husband planning on staying?"

"For now, but less talk about me. Tell me about this boy you met last night."

Bria sighed as she placed her hand on her heart. She glanced into the shop window, keeping an eye out for her father, Rachel imagined.

"A friend from my old school, she introduced me. His father is a politician, and they live in the hills. He is very sweet and very handsome. He is a little taller than me, but he has these gorgeous blue eyes. But the problem, you see, is that my father doesn't like politicians. He is a smaller business owner and these people living in the hills in their big houses put up the taxes and change the laws. He wants me to find a husband who will work with me. He wants me to take over management of the bar one day."

"And is that what you want?"

"I want to travel, see the world. Where did you come from, Rachel? What part of the world have you seen?"

Rachel's eyes drifted to the empty plate, a soft note of surprise brushing her thoughts. The pastry was gone, its remnants a mere dusting of sugar and flaky crust. Perhaps there had been a genuine hunger stirring within her, after all.

With a smile warming her features, Rachel pushed back from the table and rose to her feet. "Your kindness is a gift, Bria, truly. I'm grateful for it," she expressed. "I'll be here tomorrow, same time. And if you happen to be late," she added with a playful glint in her eyes, "I'll choose to believe it's because you're courageously defying your father's wishes."

Bria's laughter was a melody that danced on the air as she began to gather the dishes, her movements fluid and assured. "I'm holding onto the hope that we can dive back into our conversation tomorrow," she replied, the anticipation clear in her sparkling eyes.

"Absolutely," Rachel responded, her hand instinctively finding its way to rest upon her stomach. "I'll be looking forward to it."

As Bria retreated indoors, Rachel began her leisurely stroll down the cobblestone pathway. The alley, narrow and intimate, was flanked by buildings that offered respite from the sun. She couldn't help but admire the vibrant planter boxes that adorned the railings of petite balconies, their blooms a testament to the care infused into every nook of this town. Here, the homes and shops were more than mere structures; they were silent guardians of history, their resilience evident in the meticulously maintained facades.

Her journey continued down a series of uneven steps, each one a reminder of the town's age and character. Guided by the sturdy rail, Rachel navigated around a corner and along a terrace painted a vivid red. She then ascended a challenging set of stairs, their steepness demanding but promising a reward that never failed to take her breath away. And there it was — the balcony. Its tiles were a masterpiece, each one a costly and artistic marvel, yet they paled in comparison to the panoramic spectacle that awaited her.

The ocean stretched infinitely, and there, against the awe-inspiring backdrop of the undulating sea, stood a figure. He wasn't her husband, nor a lover in a traditional sense, but rather a creature to whom she was bonded. Their union wasn't sculpted from tender love or affection but had been forged in the fiery crucible of strength and power.

He turned at her approach, a smile of genuine warmth transforming his features, softening the edges of the formidable being she knew him to be. "My Aphrodite," he greeted, "your beauty blooms each day our son grows."

She nestled into his embrace, his body warm in the cool sea breeze. His appearance was that of a man in his early thirties, with dark, tousled hair that caught the sunlight. His eyes, once a frightening shade of red, now mirrored the serene blue of the Mediterranean Sea. He was the Abaddon, but not as the world knew him. To her, he had become something else, something more human.

He laid his hand gently on the swell of her abdomen. "Our son craves essence," he said.

She looked at him, vulnerability shadowing her eyes. "I fear he's drawing more than I can provide," she confessed.

A cryptic smile, tinged with pride and anticipation, curved his lips. "I have a surprise in store for you tomorrow," he assured her. "Did you enjoy your walk, Rachel?" he asked.

"It was...pleasant," she admitted, though her mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. "I met someone interesting today."

His eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Oh? Do tell."

She recounted her encounter with Bria, the young waitress, and how strangely comforting it had been to have a normal conversation. He listened, his gaze never leaving her face.

As the sun began its descent, casting a golden hue over the tranquil waters, they retreated inside their villa. It was a grand structure, one that spoke of old money and timeless elegance, nestled in the heart of the Italian seaside.

Nighttime was when the villa truly came alive. It was their time. The Abaddon, this man who had once been her nightmare, had become her sanctuary. In the darkness, he would lay with her, his touch igniting her skin as he awakened memories she thought were lost forever.

Each night, he would give back a piece of her past, showing her moments of joy, of laughter, of happiness. They were memories of them, together, in different times, different places, always finding each other in every lifetime.

Nestled together under the soft embrace of the night, she laid her head upon the rhythmic heartbeat of his chest. "Why does everyone believe I was running from you?" she asked, torn between the echoes of a forgotten past and the reality she lived.

His chest rose and fell in a deep sigh, the rhythm momentarily disrupted. "Because, Rachel," he began, his voice a low rumble beneath her ear, "they see only the surface. They see the Abaddon, the darkness, the power that can be perceived as a threat. They don't see the depth, the bond, the history that ties us together."

She lifted herself slightly, propped up on one elbow to gaze into his eyes, seeking the silent truths that words often failed to convey.

"And what is the truth?" she whispered, her own vulnerability laid bare in the asking.

He reached up, his hand cool against her cheek, thumb brushing lightly across her skin. "A story as old as time," he murmured. "Conflict and resolution, pain and comfort, darkness and light. We're entwined, you and I, in ways that others fail to comprehend. You weren't running from me, Rachel. You were running from a truth too overwhelming to accept, a past too painful to remember."

His words resonated with her, echoes of memories flickering at the edges of her consciousness — laughter shared in another time, tender touches, fierce embraces, a sense of belonging that she couldn't quite grasp.

"Were we happy?"

"We were," he said, pulling her closer until she was enveloped in his embrace. "We are," he corrected with a confident smile, pulling her closer.

Rachel found herself caught between the world she was coming to cherish and the one she couldn't fully remember. The creature within her grew, its presence a constant reminder of the life she was now tethered to. The Abaddon, her formidable partner, remained a source of strength and passion. He was her past, her present, and the uncertain future.

Their days fell into a comfortable rhythm, punctuated by long walks on the beach, hearty meals prepared by the local staff, and nights where they rediscovered each other in the most primal of ways. Yet, Rachel couldn't shake the feeling of an impending crossroads. Her thoughts often drifted to Vlad. Memories of him ignited a different kind of flame within her, one that danced with the colours of excitement, passion, and a happiness that felt as natural as breathing.

In stark contrast, her bond with Abaddon was a different entity altogether. It was power, raw and immense, coursing through her veins like molten fire, demanding to be revered, to be feared. He was the embodiment of strength, a fortress impervious to the trivialities of mortal emotions. Yet, within that invincibility, there lay an echoing hollowness, a void where her heart yearned for the tender chaos that Vlad had woven into her soul.

These reflections stirred a melancholy within Rachel, a longing for something that the grandeur of her current life couldn't quench. The Abaddon, once a figure of fear and power, had transformed into her refuge. In a world where humans had shattered her spirit, he had become the balm that soothed her wounds and the fortress that protected her fragile heart.