And for the first time since I was found screaming in a Transylvanian forest as a baby—
I’m not alone in the dark.
I’m surrounded by family.
The kind that never left.
Even when I begged them to.
I don’t know how long I kneel there.
Long enough for the sobs to slow into hiccuping breaths.Long enough for the room to warm, inch by inch, until my skin stops burning from the inside out.
When I finally lift my head, most of them have faded back into the shadows—softened, not gone. A few linger near the edges, watching with something almost like peace.
The girl who touched my cheek first is still closest.
She reaches out again—slow—and this time her fingers rest against the diamonds at my throat. Not possessive. Not angry.
Just… acknowledging.
Then she smiles—small, sad, real—and dissolves into mist.
The others follow.
One heartbeat. Two.
Gone.
But not really.
I feel them settle somewhere deeper—under my ribs, behind my eyes—like they’ve finally found a place to rest instead of haunt.
I wipe my face with shaking hands. Mascara streaks black across my knuckles. The velvet is wrinkled now, the perfect lines of the gown ruined.
I don’t care.
I push myself up on trembling legs.
The gun lies forgotten on the floor.
I leave it there. I don’t think I will need it anymore. Now, I have my family by my side.
54
DROGO
Two days. Two days since Klaus walked into my house and made himself comfortable like he owns the place. Two days of playing the dutiful son while planning his execution. Two days of cold so intense I can see my breath inside my own damn house.
The temperature has not risen above fifty degrees since he arrived. Dark spots appear in corners where there should be light. Shadows move across walls when no one is there to cast them. I watch Alena shiver constantly, watch her pull sweaters tighter around herself, watch her eyes track movement that I cannot see.
Her ghosts are angry. Protective. They do not like Klaus any more than I do, and they are making their presence known in ways that cannot be ignored. Even Klaus has noticed—I see him glance at the cold spots, see his jaw tighten when shadows shift too deliberately to be natural. But he says nothing. Just smiles that warm, paternal smile and pretends everything is normal.
Tonight is the engagement celebration. Not optional—mandatory. Klaus insisted, and in the Bratva, you do not refuse the Pakhan when he wants to celebrate his heir finding a bride. It is political theater. A test. A display of power and loyalty where every man in the organization will watch to see who is strong and who is weak, who supports me and who might be turned.
I stand on the porch in my suit—black, expensive, tailored to hide the gun at my ribs—holding a glass of vodka and going over the plan one more time with Konstantin, Marcus, and Dmitri. The cold out here is almost a relief compared to the supernatural freeze inside. At least this cold makes sense.
"Klaus will toast first," I say in Russian, keeping my voice low. "Then me. Then the others in order of rank. That is when we watch—who hesitates, who avoids eye contact, who toasts too enthusiastically. Those are the ones we cannot trust."
