I change for bed and lie down in the darkness, staring at nothing.
Tomorrow there will be training. Strategy meetings. Theendless work of preparing for Konstantin's attack. I'll see Maximus, and we'll both pretend tonight didn't happen, because that's what people do when they're too scared to acknowledge what's building between them.
But tonight, in the dark, I let myself feel it.
The confusion. The wanting. The terrifying possibility that this might be real.
Whatever this is.
Chapter
Twelve
I've been avoiding her.
Not obviously, I'm too disciplined for that. I still attend training sessions, still review intelligence reports with the inner circle, still move through my compound with the same controlled efficiency I've maintained for centuries. But I've arranged my schedule so our paths cross only when others are present. Only when there's structure. Safety in numbers.
Because three nights ago, I touched her face and nearly lost myself entirely.
The memory surfaces unbidden as I stand in the training room, watching Marcellus run Celeste through defensive formations. She moves well, better than she did a week ago. Her vampire instincts are finally integrating with her fighter's training, creating something fluid and dangerous.
She blocks a strike, counters, almost lands a hit on Marcellus before he redirects her momentum.
"Better," he says grudgingly. "Again."
I should leave. I have reports to review, messages to answer, anetwork to maintain. Instead, I watch her reset her stance, watch the focus settle into her expression, watch the way her body coils before she moves.
She glances toward me. Just a flicker, barely a second. But I see something in that look, awareness, uncertainty, a question she's not asking.
I look away first.
"Your footwork is still telegraphing," I say, my voice carefully neutral. "You shift your weight before you commit. Against an experienced opponent, that's a death sentence."
"Then show me."
The challenge in her voice makes something tighten in my chest. Three nights ago, that same voice told me about her mother, about guilt, about the relief she's never admitted to anyone else.
"Marcellus can demonstrate," I say. "I have matters to attend to."
I leave before she can respond. Before I can see whatever crosses her face.
Coward, some part of me whispers.Oversix hundred years old, and you're running from a woman you've known for a week.
But that's precisely the problem. A week. And already she's slipped past defenses I spent centuries building. I've survived wars, betrayals, a hundred and fifty years of enslavement. I've outlived everyone I ever loved and learned to want nothing, need no one.
Now I find myself listening for her footsteps in the corridor. Catching her scent in rooms she left hours ago. Remembering the exact pressure of her cheek against my palm.
This is how empires fall. Not to armies, but to moments of weakness dressed as something softer.
In my study, I force myself to focus on the intelligence reports Ethan delivered this morning.
The news is not good.
Konstantin has accelerated his timeline. Three smaller blood operations in the southeastern territories have been hit in the past week, not destroyed, but disrupted. Donors frightened. Supply chains interrupted. The attacks are surgical, designed to create pressure without triggering full retaliation.
He's testing. Probing. Looking for weaknesses in the network.
And according to our sources, he's paying particular attention to reports about Celeste.
