I still remember my first steal. It was to buy her painkillers. And she did rest as I held her all night on my chest. I was her mattress, pillow, and protector, and I'll stay like that for the rest of my days.
Marcus was the man who offered us a couch. It was a shitty couch—he barely made a living from fighting pits also—but he did take us in. Best night of my life when I could see Alena sleep on something soft.
And then, that's how we continued. In a house, small and dirty, three seventeen-year-olds trying to survive. Later,came Lucy to our small home. Some months after, when she was running away from her abusive foster home. I remember she didn't speak for weeks.
"That was survival," Marcus said quietly. "This is different. You're not homeless kids anymore. You're successful. Rich. You don't need to share a bed for warmth. You don't need to shower together to save water. So why do you still do it?"
I didn't answer.
Because the truth was too close to the surface. Because this morning I woke up with my hand on her breast and she told me to keep it there. Because I jerked off in the shower thinking about her skin. Because I've been in love with her for seventeen years and I'm too fucking terrified to do anything about it.
"You're going to lose her," Marcus said. "One of these days, she's going to find someone who isn't afraid. And you're going to have to watch her walk away."
"She won't."
"She will. And you'll have no one to blame but yourself."
He walked back inside, leaving me alone in the cold.
I stood there, fists clenched, trying not to think about day after tomorrow. About the private jet. About my father's leverage.
About how Marcus was right.
He was right. I'd lose her. To someone braver. Or to my own father. Or to the ghosts that took her at night.
And I still couldn't say the words.
My phone buzzed again. Unknown number.
I didn't answer. Not yet.
But I knew who it was.
And I knew what I had to do.
6
ALENA
The deadline’s bleeding into my skin. I have to write, have to finish, but the ghosts—he—he’s already there. I see him in the reflection of the window, dark and watching. Not moving, just lurking.
When I moved into this apartment, I begged Drogo to make it cozy, but leave the shadows. Leave the spook. He did exactly that. The walls feel alive. The corners breathe.
I’m scared to walk to the damn kitchen now. It’s not just fear—it’s the weight of every scratch, every whisper I thought I left behind. The dark hides things here. Jaws waiting to snap, claws hidden in corners.
I’m hunching over my laptop, fingers pounding like a frantic drummer. Writing like a madwoman. Desperate. The story has to be told. The injustice has to bleed through these pages.
But the air is cold with ghost breath, right down my neck. Its voice was gravel and hunger, promising new marks if I stopped typing. I close my eyes and plead—not another scratch, please.
I’m doing it. I’m fighting.
His voice is in my ear—whispering, dictating the story as it unfolds. Always like this. Since I was a kid. This isn’t new, but it still cuts like a blade.
My fingers race, pouring out words, and my tea goes cold and forgotten on the desk. Hours slip like smoke through my fingers. When the deadline loomed, I could disappear intomy writing for days—no sleep, no food, nothing but the cold glow of the screen and the scratch of keys. The ghosts didn’t care about time. They stayed, watching, whispering.
“Alena?”
The voice was soft but steady, pulling me back.
