Couldn’t call. Couldn’t text. Couldn’t send her anything—and even if I could, there was nothing I could say that wouldn’t give Klaus more ammunition.
All I could do was become the monster he wanted.
Kill for him. Obey him. Damn myself over and over until she was truly safe.
And hope that when this was over—if I survived it—there'd be something left of me worth saving.
I set the phone down.
Lay back on the bed.
Stared at the ceiling.
And wondered if she'd even recognize me when this was over.
If there'd be anything left of the man she loved.
Or if Klaus had already won—not by forcing me to kill, but by showing me how good I was at it.
How easily I wore my father's skin.
How little separated us now.
I closed my eyes.
But all I saw was her face.
Crying.
Alone.
Safe.
But not okay.
Never okay.
Please, wait for me.
22
ALENA
I don't know what day it is anymore.
The light outside my window has gone from grey dawn to bruised afternoon to black night so many times I've lost count. Time doesn't pass here. It just pools, thick and stagnant, like the vodka sweating in the bottle between my fingers.
Third bottle. Half empty. Or half full. Doesn't matter. It's the only thing keeping the edges from cutting too deep.
I'm on the couch—curled on my side, knees drawn up, Drogo's hoodie pulled tight around me like armor that doesn't fit anymore. The sleeves swallow my hands. The hem rides up my thighs. It still smells like him—smoke and cologne and that indefinable thing that was always just Drogo.
I press my face into the fabric and breathe him in until my lungs burn.
The smell is already fainter, like he's slipping away even from the fabric. Panic claws higher. I press harder, as if I can trap him there.
The whispers are everywhere.
Not just in the corners now. They're in the walls. Under the floorboards. Crawling across the ceiling like insects made of sound.
