And when the moment comes—when I have every piece in place, every ally secured, every weakness mapped—I'll bring it all crashing down.
Klaus included.
I set the glass down. Look at my reflection in the window.
The man staring back is a stranger.
Cold. Calculating. Dangerous.
Exactly what I need to be.
28
ALENA
I don't remember the crash.
Just flashes:
The Mustang's engine roaring too loud. Headlights cutting through rain-slick streets. Vodka burning my throat—the fourth drink in an hour, maybe the fifth, I'd stopped counting weeks ago. Tears blurring the windshield worse than the rain.
Then I saw it.
In the rearview mirror.
Not a shadow this time. A face.
Pale. Hollow-eyed. Grinning. Sitting in my back seat like it had every right to be there.
I screamed. Jerked the wheel. The Mustang fishtailed on wet pavement.
Then impact—metal screaming, glass exploding, the world flipping sideways, my head cracking against something hard. The taste of copper flooding my mouth.
Then nothing.
• • •
I wake up to fluorescent lights and beeping. Hospital smell—antiseptic sharp enough to cut through the fog in my brain, mixing with the underlying stench of despair and industrial cleaner. My head throbs like someone took a hammer to it, each pulse sending lightning through my skull.My right arm is in a cast, heavy and awkward. Ribs wrapped tight in bandages that make breathing hurt—sharp, stabbing pain with every inhale.
Everything hurts. But I'm alive. Unfortunately.
The hospital sheet is scratchy against my skin, cold despite the blanket. I can taste blood still, metallic and wrong, coating the back of my throat. When I try to swallow, it feels like swallowing glass.
A nurse hovers, checking monitors with practiced efficiency. "Welcome back, Miss Lupus. You gave us quite a scare."
I try to speak. My throat feels like sandpaper, voice coming out as a croak. "What..."
"Car accident. You hit a wall in Covent Garden at approximately 2 AM. High blood alcohol—point-two-one. No other vehicles involved, thank God. You're very lucky-"
Point-two-one. Three times the legal limit. I'd been driving drunk. Again. Because I'd been doing that a lot lately—drinking until the world blurred, until the ghosts quieted, until I could pretend Drogo might walk through the door any second.
I have a problem. The thought hits me with the clarity that only comes from nearly dying. I have an actual, serious problem with alcohol.
"How's my car?" I ask, because I can't deal with that realization right now.
The nurse blinks. "I'm sorry?"
"My car. The Mustang. How bad is it?"
