The lake shimmered under the indifferent moon, uncaring of gods or monsters.
I waited for the man who had once saved me, the man who had even been at her burial, to tell me whether he had also stolen her from death—or from me.
Chapter 12
PENELOPE
Ilingered in the doorway of Vanya’s room longer than necessary, my hand resting on the frame as I watched the steady rise and fall of his small chest beneath the covers. Sleep had claimed him at last, but only after a battle—questions fired like arrows into the dark.
Will you be here in the morning?
Why does the big house have so many doors?
Is the pretty lady bad?
I had answered what I could. Soft truths. Half-promises. I’d kissed his forehead, smoothed his curls back, and told him the world would feel safer tomorrow.
A lie wrapped in love—but it was all I had.
I closed the door quietly, careful not to let the latch click, and walked the short corridor to Dmitri’s room.
Our room.
The thought scraped against me.
My luggage sat at the foot of the massive bed—two modest suitcases placed with military precision, as if even my belongings had been assessed and accepted under terms. To the right, Vanya’s room, the connecting door cracked open just enough to ease my breathing. To the left—Seraphina’s.
The wall between us felt too thin.
The bedroom was dim, lit only by a single lamp on the nightstand. Shadows stretched across dark wood paneling andheavy curtains, the air faintly scented with smoke and lakewater and something distinctly him.
Dmitri was already in bed.
Sprawled might have been the wrong word—he occupied it, unapologetically, like a king who had never learned how to make himself small. Loose black sweatpants rode low on his hips, his bare chest and arms exposed, muscle and scar etched together like a history written in flesh. Old wounds. New tension. Power resting in stillness.
Five years.
Five years since I had last lain beside him.
Five years of graves and ghosts. Of letting the world believe I was dead while he mourned me—while I mourned him from the shadows.
Or maybe he had always known.
I changed into jeans and an oversized sweater.
The jeans and oversized sweater felt like armor, layers between me and everything my body still remembered.
I slipped off my shoes and crossed the rug barefoot, the plush fibers whispering under my steps. I eased onto the edge of the bed as if it might recoil from me, then lay flat on my back, hands folded over my stomach, eyes fixed on the ornate molding carved into the ceiling.
I didn’t reach for the duvet.
Neither of us moved.
His eyes were closed, lashes dark against his skin, but his breathing was too controlled. Not the slack rhythm of sleep. Anyone who had ever shared a bed with him would have known.
Memories came anyway.
The reckless joy of our teenage years—stolen kisses behind the old oak trees, the way he used to look at me like I was the only good thing in a brutal world.
