I am left standing in the living room with Konstantin, with eight armed men staring at four other armed men, with broken glass at my feet and my breath still fogging in air that should not be this cold.
The ghosts are pressing closer now. I can feel them, angry and protective, swirling around me like a storm. They do not like Klaus. They do not trust him. And neither do I.
Because underneath all that friendly warmth and paternal pride, I saw what Drogo sees. I saw the predator. The man who threatened to kill me to control his son. The man who holds all the power and knows it. The man who looked at the bite mark on my neck and his smile twitched like he knew exactly how it got there, like he knew exactly what Drogo and I were doing when that knock came on the bedroom door.
And now he is in my house, in Drogo's office, talking about weddings and futures and celebrations while his men stand ready to kill and Drogo's men stand ready to kill them back.
I am not scared for me. I am scared for him. For Drogo. For the boy who gave me stolen flowers and became a man who kills to keep me safe. For my monster, my salvation, my everything.
53
ALENA
Bonus Chapter
The bedroom is quiet except for the soft rustle of silk and my own breathing, which feels too loud in the hush.
I stand in front of the full-length mirror in nothing but black lace underwear and the diamond choker Drogo fastened around my throat an hour ago—his fingers lingering, possessive, promising later. The stones are cold against my skin, heavy with meaning. Tonight isn’t just a party. It’s a coronation disguised as champagne and caviar.
I lift the gown from its hanger. Midnight velvet, floor-length, cut so low in the back it’s practically an invitation. The bodice is structured, boned, meant to cinch me in and push everything up until I look like sin wrapped in elegance. I step into it, the fabric cool against my calves, then thighs, sliding up like dark water.
I pull the straps over my shoulders. Reach behind for the hidden zipper. Tug it slowly, tooth by tooth, feeling the dress close around me like a second skin. The sound is intimate, obscene in the silence.
When the zipper reaches the small of my back, I smooth my hands down the front, adjusting the neckline, the fall of the skirt. Then I look up.
And freeze.
In the mirror, behind me, there is a woman who is not me.
She stands perhaps five feet away—too close for the depth of the room, too still for anything living. Pale as frostbitten marble, her dress is old-fashioned, high-necked, the kind of mourning gown women wore a century ago when grief still had rules. Her hair is dark and loose, falling in heavy waves past her waist, the same length as mine. Her eyes are black pools, unblinking.
She doesn’t move at first.
Just watches.
I don’t turn around. I know better. Turning gives them permission to cross the threshold between glass and reality.
My pulse kicks hard under the diamonds.
She takes one step.
Slow. Deliberate. The hem of her dress doesn’t brush the floor—it floats just above it, as if the laws of gravity gave up on her long ago. No sound. No whisper of fabric. Only the sudden drop in temperature that makes my breath fog the mirror in a small, perfect cloud.
Another step.
Closer.
The air thickens, tastes of old grief and wet stone. My fingers tighten on the edge of the vanity until my knuckles bleach white.
She stops directly behind me now—close enough that if I leaned back, my spine would meet her chest. In the reflection, her face hovers just over my shoulder. Her lips part. No sound comes out at first, but I feel the words anyway, sliding cold and wet into my ear like fingers dipped in frost.
He will never be yours.
The voice is layered—hers, mine, someone else’s all at once. It vibrates inside my skull.
I don’t flinch. I’ve heard worse from the things that follow me.
But this one… this one feels different. Personal.
