I drunkenly lean in for another kiss, but he pulls back.
"No, it's not," he says, voice tight and breathless like it costs him everything to pull away. His eyes flick over my face like he's memorizing it. "So be a good girl. Be my good girl, moya," he says, the Russian soft and jarring against the edge of his restraint, "and go to the dance with the boy that dances."
He licks his lips, lets his hand fall from my hip, and turns without another word, walking out of the room and leaving me pressed to the counter, trembling, lips swollen, and completely wrecked.
6
ALEKSANDR
Present Day
She ran.
Everyone was talking—about the logistics of getting a priest, wedding photos, which city hall clerk we could bribe to push the date back by a couple of days. In the middle of all that, she said she had to use the bathroom. Then she didn’t come back.
I should’ve noticed it sooner. How she stared at her hands, and moved her thumbs against each other from side to side. How her curls hung low around her face, veiling her like a funeral shroud. Her mouth barely moved, lips parted just enough to let the air in, like breathing itself was an effort.
I tried to get up twice. Tried to follow her. But Nadia stopped me both times—said it was important for me to hear the story Gwen had cooked up for us. Our love story. Our origin. How we met. When we fell. Where we kissed. A timeline of lies to stitch together something believable.
After making the proper calls to arrange a wedding at sunset—because if Lily was going to marry into this mess, at the very least it should look like a dream—I watched them all settle in.
They all went to bed, well Nik and Gwen went to lay down with their children. Nadia fell asleep scrubbing the surveillance cameras for the third time, and I snuck upstairs to see if Lily was even still here. She would never leave us in our time of need. Lily isn’t like that, she’s too good for that, but I had to check, see if she was actually as panicked as I thought, and I was right.
In the guest bedroom furthest to the back, the one I normally take during our safe house days as teenagers, she’s curled up in the center of the bed like a child hiding from a storm. The TV glows soft in the background, playingInterview with a Vampire, the old one with Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise—one of the few things that ever calms her down. On the nightstand sitsCarmilla, its cracked spine faced outward, a copy she’s read a dozen times too many.
Her curls spill across her face, wild and half-frizzed like she gave up trying to tame them halfway through the day. She’s trembling slightly, not with fear, not anymore—but from the cold. The room’s always had terrible insulation. She must’ve overheated earlier and kicked the blanket to the foot of the bed, because it’s bunched there in a useless heap while she shivers in a thin T-shirt.
I move quietly, because I don’t want her to catch me staring at her in her sleep.
I grab the blanket and drape it over her, careful not to wake her. She shifts slightly, murmuring something soft and unintelligible beneath her breath, lips parting just enough to sigh. Then shesettles again, curling deeper into the warmth like a creature that finally feels safe.
For a long moment, I just stand there.
She looks so peaceful, so untouched by the chaos we’ve all been swimming in. Her face, relaxed in sleep, holds none of the tightness it did earlier. No tension in her jaw. No panic in her breath. Just her—radiant even in exhaustion. The kind of beauty that doesn’t need effort. The kind that doesn't know it's divine.
I sit down in the old armchair by the window. It creaks under my weight, but she doesn’t stir. The blue light from the TV flickers against her skin asInterview with a Vampireplays on low volume in the background, casting flashes of fangs and velvet and old-world sin. Fitting.
On the nightstand beside her,Carmillasits open and face-down, her favorite comfort book—like she needed something familiar to anchor her while the world spun out beneath her feet. And still, she stayed. Still, she chose this.
Chose me. Someone this perfect is about to be mine.
According to Nadia, it’ll last eighteen months. That’s the number they came up with—clean and painless. Amicable. She’ll get one of my Cape houses, the one with the view of the water she likes. Some alimony. We’ll file under irreconcilable differences. Easy.
I almost laughed when she said that, because none of them understand. They think I’m going to let her go. That I’ll sign the papers. Smile at the cameras. Walk away like a gentleman and thank her for the memories. But what they don’t realize is—I already thanked someone. The devil. For being on my side just long enough to let me steal an angel.
I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees, just staring at her.
She could’ve been mine a long time ago. I wanted her then—God, Iburnedfor her. But I did the right thing. The responsible thing. I listened to everyone who told me I couldn’t have her. That someone like me didn’t get someone like her. That it was selfish. Wrong. Dangerous.
Nik saw it in me first. The way my hands trembled around her. The way my eyes lingered too long. He said if the urges were back—like they ever really left—to not to touch her. Said if I loved her, I’d let her go.
So I did. But the second half toif you love someone, let them go,”is“for if they return, they were always yours. If they don't, they never were.”And guess what ladies and fucking gentlemen,she’s mine.
I let her walk away thinking I didn’t want her. That I’d never cross that line. That she was safe from me to be with the boy who would savor all that goodness, let her be perfect, good and like the fucking sunshine.
And guess what? She came back. The universe gave her to me.Again.
Do they honestly think I won’t take her this time?
