I yanked my dress over my shoulders, struggling to fasten the tiny buttons. My hands shook too much to manage the task. Frustrated, I let out a strangled cry and threw my arms up.
Balthazar rolled out of bed with infuriating elegance, tugging on his clothes with unhurried grace. He sauntered over to me, calm as ever, and planted a soft kiss on the tip of my nose.
Then, one by one, he began fastening the buttons of my dress.
“It doesn’t matter what your father did or didn’t think of you,” he murmured. “He was a selfish man. Always watching out for his own best interests.”
He lifted his head, met my gaze, and leaned in—his tongue flicking a single tear from my cheek.
“Think about it…” His voice was gentle, coaxing. “If he had raised you… If he had loved you the way he was supposed to… would the outcome have been any different? Would you beyou?”
I hated it when Balthazar turned tender. His softness unspooled something deep inside me—made me feel fragile, like a leaf clinging to a branch just before the wind tears it loose.
I despised that feeling.
So, I shoved him.
But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t fume.
He laughed.
Then, he surged forward in a flash, wrapped me in his arms, and we vanished into the shadows before I could resist. The room, the anger, ghosts, and shattered porcelain—all faded.
We reappeared in his place, wrapped in darkness, in quiet.
And just like that, I left every thought of my father andher—that cursed woman—behind. Where they belonged. In that whore’s room of sweat and regret.
The following days passed in a haze of carnal indulgence and quiet routine. We lost ourselves in the pleasure of each other’s company, in the constant hunger of flesh. There was no time. No world. Justus.
Until he vanished.
No warning. No explanation. One day he was there—and the next, gone.
At first, I told myself it was one of his moods. He had always been a creature of vanishing acts and riddles.
But days became weeks, and my worry grew with each sunrise. At night, I stared at the full moon, wondering where and who he was with.
The need to find him turned restless… then unbearable.
Finally, I broke.
In a frenzy, I packed a small bag. Before leaving, I left behind a message—a desperate signal only he would understand. It was a glass perfume bottle imported from France. Etched onto the side?—
1411 France.
I held the dagger. I whispered the rite. The shadows answered.
And just like that, I was gone, flung into the cobbled streets of 1411 France.
Alone. Waiting.
Forhim.
It took him two months to find me.
Our reunion was, as always, both joyous and tempestuous—fire meeting fire, love tangled in war. But then, without warning, I vanished again.
And so began our cat-and-mouse game, one that would stretch across years.
