I remember his hand on my shoulder, the urgent way he turned me from the blood.“Don’t look,”he said. For one instant, his grip was almost human.
That’s what haunts me, more than the killing—that he is capable of both cruelty and care, and I can’t decide which frightens me more.
The night settles heavy and close. I stare out the window, watching shadows crawl across the yard. The world outside is quiet, but my mind is anything but. I replay every detail, every word, searching for answers I know I may never find.
I don’t sleep. Hunger sharpens the edges of my grief, but I refuse to break. Tomorrow I might eat. Tomorrow I might speak. Tonight, I bury myself in silence and memory, the echo of Miron’s violence and the inexplicable softness that followed. Both linger, neither letting me go.
When I finally close my eyes, the images return—the flash of steel, the spatter of blood, the ghost of his hand steering me away from the darkness he lives with so easily. I don’t know if it’s mercy, or another form of control. I only know that it’s changed something in me, something I cannot name.
I hate him all the more for it.
***
I haven’t left my room. Not to eat, not to answer the soft knock of a maid with a tray, not even to use the bathroom except when desperation forced me to sneak out in the early morning, wrapped in a blanket of shame. The memory of blood, of Miron’s empty eyes, gnaws at me. I huddle on the bed, knees hugged to my chest, wishing for nothing but erasure.
The sun sinks, gold fading to gray, and the house grows quiet. I try to lose myself in counting cracks in the ceiling, in the soft rub of fabric between my fingers. Anything not to remember.
Then another knock splits the silence; different, heavier, full of purpose. I know instantly it’s not a maid.
His voice slips under the door, low and calm but threaded with iron. “Sera. Open the door.”
I freeze, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth to stifle the sound of my breath. I pray he’ll go away. My heart races, a rabbit trapped in a snare. I don’t move. I dig my teeth into my lower lip, tasting copper. If I stay quiet, maybe he’ll lose patience and leave me alone.
The next words come, deep and dangerous, scraping away any hope. “Open the door, or I’ll break the damn thing down.”
The silence that follows is short, electric. I keep still, clinging to a last shred of stubbornness. If he wants in, he’ll have to force it. I refuse to give him anything—not obedience, not words, not even fear.
A crash shatters the room. The lock gives way, the door slamming back against the wall so hard it rattles the windows.
Miron stands in the threshold, shoulders filling the space, face as hard as ever. He takes in my hunched posture, the wild look in my eyes, and his jaw clenches. He steps inside, calm as always, and closes the broken door behind him with the gentlest click.
The confrontation is immediate. Fury tears through me, raw and hot. I’m on my feet before I know it, spitting words with more venom than I thought I had left.
“You heartless bastard,” I hiss. “You’re a monster. Is this what you want, Miron? To make me as empty as you are? Is that why you killed him? Is that why you kill anyone who looks at you the wrong way?”
He doesn’t flinch. He takes one slow step, then another. Each one shrinks the distance between us, swallowing the room. I back away, but the wall finds me before he does—a cold, unyielding presence against my spine. I brace myself, fists clenched, voice trembling with rage.
“I hate you,” I whisper. “I wish I’d never met you.”
Miron towers over me, so close now I can see every line etched by years of power and violence. For a moment, he’s silent. Then his hand comes up—not to strike, but to rest, flat against the wall beside my head. He leans in, his breath hot against my ear.
“You want to know a secret?” he murmurs, voice pitched so low I feel it in my bones. “You’re the only thing keeping me human.”
The words land like a blow, knocking the air from my lungs. I blink, confusion scrambling my anger. I don’t know what to say. I stare at him, searching for any hint of mockery, any sign that this is just another game. His eyes—shadowed, fierce—are more open than I’ve ever seen them.
I shake my head, tears stinging. “Don’t lie to me.”
He doesn’t blink. “It’s the only truth I have left.”
He holds my gaze for one long, impossible moment, then lets his hand drop. The tension between us crackles—rage and longing, pain and something softer I don’t want to name.
I expect more. A threat, a command, maybe even a plea for understanding. Instead, he steps back, drawing in a breath that sounds suspiciously like surrender.
“If you hate me, hate me,” he says, voice tired. “Don’t pretend you don’t see what I am. I won’t apologize for surviving.”
He turns and walks out, leaving the shattered door hanging open. The hallway beyond swallows him in shadows.
I stand where he left me, body shaking, throat raw. I press my hands to my chest, trying to slow the frantic beat of my heart. His words circle in my mind—“the only thing keeping me human”—filling me with confusion and dread.
