“But over time, I began to question it. Who was I, born of rot and ruin, to decide which monsters deserved to die and which deserved redemption? Why should I spare the ‘innocent’? I didn’twant limits. I wanted to strike down anyone I chose.Even the good.”
Alina tilted her head, studying me. “So, my father… didn’t even know what he was doing. He wasn’t right?”
I shook my head. “No. He was idealistic, but blind. He said ‘I’m building a sanctuary. A school for others like you. Those born of darkness, lost and wandering without answers. We’ll guide them. Peace. Purpose.”
“That’s when your father created his littleacademy,” I continued, venom threading my voice. “Then your mother, Cora, came along and made your father softer. All sunshine, smiles, and simpering compassion. She diluted his edge. I came to loathe her.”
“I can see why,” Alina said, her voice low.
I narrowed my eyes, surprised. “You can?”
She nodded, her gaze burning with shared resentment. “Yes. I probably would’ve despised her, too.”
Her tone darkened. “My adopted parents were just as tedious, as you know. Always going on about marrying well and finding therightman. It is as if a woman’s entire worth could be boiled down to rings and childbirth. It was suffocating.”
Her jaw tightened.
“It’s like the only path laid out for us is servitude,” she said bitterly. “Meanwhile, men get to explore, to fight, tocreate. And I wanted that—I wanted what you have. Freedom. Power. The right to exist exactly how I want.”
The intensity in her eyes took me off guard—shadowed and burning with conviction. It stirred something primal in me, something raw and eager. My cock began to harden, straining beneath the sheets, demanding I abandon this unraveling of souls and return to the heat of her body.
I slid my hand along her thigh, tracing idle, seductive circles.
But she was lost in thought, restless, questioning.
“How old are you, Balthazar?” she asked.
I hesitated.
Should I trust her with that truth?
“Very,” I said at last, my voice clipped. Guarded. “Old enough to know better. And old enough to know which of your questions deserve an answer.”
My gaze locked onto hers, daring her to push further.
But she didn’t flinch. Her fierce stare held mine, the air between us taut with challenge.
“Where were you born?” she asked relentlessly.
I paused. The ache bloomed before I could stop it.
“The land of the Norsemen,” I said quietly. “Centuries ago.”
A hollow, ancient pain opened inside my chest. Zara’s laughter—soft and real. My daughters’ faces, bright and perfect. Flashes of a life buried in blood and memory. They came to me like ghosts, dragging chains behind them, threatening to unravel the armor I’d built around my soul.
It hurt. Gods, italwayshurt.
I clenched my jaw, trying to shove it all back. To lock the memories in that dark place where they belonged. I clawed at the abyss, desperate to shut them away. But they never stayed buried for long.
“Look,” I said, harsher than I intended, “I don’t want to speak of where I was born. Or my origins. None of it matters anymore.”
Alina’s face shifted.
“Itdoesto me,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost wounded.
Without warning, I pinned her beneath me, my arm pressing hard against her throat.
A surge of fury tore through me, ignited by the memories I could never outrun—betrayal, loss, and grief. They returned, feral and uninvited, dragging phantom pain behind them. My jaw clenched. My fists trembled at my sides, rage scraping against the last fragile remnants of restraint.
