Chapter 6
ALENA
The deadline’s bleeding into my skin. I have to write, have to finish, but the ghosts—he—he’s already there. I see him in the reflection of the window, dark and watching. Not moving, just lurking.
When I moved into this apartment, I begged Drogo to make it cozy, but leave the shadows. Leave the spook. He did exactly that. The walls feel alive. The corners breathe.
I’m scared to walk to the damn kitchen now. It’s not just fear—it’s the weight of every scratch, every whisper I thought I left behind. The dark hides things here. Jaws waiting to snap, claws hidden in corners.
I’m hunching over my laptop, fingers pounding like a frantic drummer. Writing like a madwoman. Desperate. The story has to be told. The injustice has to bleed through these pages.
But the air is cold with ghost breath, right down my neck. Its voice was gravel and hunger, promising new marks if I stopped typing. I close my eyes and plead—not another scratch, please.
I’m doing it. I’m fighting.
His voice is in my ear—whispering, dictating the story as it unfolds. Always like this. Since I was a kid. This isn’t new, but it still cuts like a blade.
My fingers race, pouring out words, and my tea goes cold and forgotten on the desk.
Hours slip like smoke through my fingers.
When the deadline loomed, I could disappear into my writing for days—no sleep, no food, nothing but the cold glow of the screen and the scratch of keys.
The ghosts didn’t care about time. They stayed, watching, whispering.
“Alena?”
The voice was soft but steady, pulling me back.
I snapped my head up, heart hammering like a caged animal.
“Baby, it’s morning.”
It was. The night had slipped away while I was lost in that other world—where the shadows chased me, where time folded and twisted until I couldn’t tell what was real and what was fear.
A single tear slipped down my cheek, and before I could stop it, Drogo was there—arms wrapping around me, pulling me close like I might shatter. His bare chest dampened with my tears as he knelt beside me, a silent fortress. Warm, inked, trembling just enough that I felt it against my skin.
His eyes—those fierce, beautiful blue eyes—were soft, clouded with something I hated: pity.
I hated pity. It made me small. Invisible. Like I was already halfway gone.
I thought about the terrace—how easy it would be to step off and free him from my ghosts. But I was too much of a coward to leave him with the mess.
Instead, I wiped my tears roughly and forced myself to meet his gaze.
He held me so tight I thought I might break under the pressure, but I didn’t care.
Kisses rained softly—forehead, cheeks, hair.
His eyes searched mine, desperate and raw, begging me to hold on.
And then I saw it—behind him, lurking just out of reach—a dark, twisted shape.
It was more than shadow. Ragged long limbs curled like claws scraping stone, cold breath slipping over my skin like ice. The thing whispered words I didn’t want to hear.
But couldn’t block out.
Suddenly, the panic was suffocating.
The shadows crept closer, tendrils wrapping cold fingers around my arms and legs. My lungs seized, burning with cold fire. Breath ragged. Desperate.
I felt the first scratch bloom between my shoulder blades—hot, deliberate, like a signature.
The room shrank, walls bending inward like a trap designed just for me. Cold claws pulled at me, dragging me under.
And then—
I was on the floor, cradled in Drogo’s arms.
His tears hovered but never fell, as if he held back the flood just for me. He rocked me gently, murmuring wordlessly, pleading for me to come back. His hands trembled as they brushed my hair from my face.
“Baby?” His voice cracked.
I forced a smile, weak but real. “Your breath smells.”
He laughed, a rough bark of humour, wrapping his arms tighter around me like a shield.
“Fuck you,” he said, and for a moment, the world held still in that laugh.
Later, he made us coffee—the warmth a small rebellion against the cold that chased me.
“Have you slept?” he asked quietly.
“No,” I whispered.
“You have to.”
“I can’t, Drogo. I have a deadline. Talking takes time. You know that.”
He nodded, understanding. “Okay. Write. I’m cooking. You need to eat.”
And so it went.
I sat in the office, the French glass doors cracked open to the living room where he shed his suit, tie, and shirt like armour. He cooked in silence, moving around the kitchen like a guardian angel with a mission. He brought food without comment, refilled tea I didn’t notice was empty.
Sometimes he’d sit behind me on the desk chair, pulling me back against his bare chest while I typed. His arms loose around my waist, chin on my shoulder, breathing steady against my neck.
“Keep going,” he’d murmur when my fingers slowed. “I’ve got you.”
I’d lean into him, stealing his warmth like it could chase the cold whispers away. His heartbeat against my spine was the only rhythm that made sense when everything else was chaos.
The ghost hated it—I could feel its frustration in the air, the cold receding just slightly when Drogo held me.
I wrote with the ghost breathing down my neck, but because of him I ate. Because of him I breathed.
There were moments—brief, stolen—when I collapsed onto the sofa for a nap.
Drogo sat beside me, reading fairy tales from his phone in a voice that changed for each character—dramatic and silly, warm and soothing.
The Three Little Pigs, Snow White, the tales I hadn’t heard in years.
His fingers found my hair without asking—slow, gentle strokes from scalp to ends, like he was smoothing out the nightmares one strand at a time.
I didn’t stop him. Couldn’t. His touch was the only thing that felt real when everything else was slipping.
My cheek pressed warmer against his thigh. I felt the muscle shift under my skin when he laughed at something in the story. His free hand rested on my arm—thumb tracing absent circles over my sleeve.
Innocent. Always innocent.
But my heart kicked anyway.
I closed my eyes, resting my head on his leg, feeling peace for the first time in days.
I woke with my head resting on Drogo’s legs. The afternoon light hit the curves of his skin, the dark ink wrapping around his muscles like stories. Shirtless from the waist up, bare chest rising slow, ink shifting with every breath.
I could feel the heat of him through my hair, steady and alive in a way nothing else was. Relaxed but every inch still carrying that quiet strength he never tried to show off.
He was watching TV, half-focused, eyes flicking between the screen and me.
I blinked slowly, feeling the warmth of his skin through my hair. He caught my movement and smirked, that familiar, easy grin that made everything a little lighter.
“Finally decided to join the living?” His voice was low, casual.
I shrugged, trying not to sound as tired as I felt. “Your bedtime stories worked better than I expected.”
Drogo laughed, a soft, genuine sound. “Figured they might.”
There was a pause, comfortable and easy. I glanced up at the ink on his arms, then his eyes.
“You excited about tonight?”
His jaw tightened—just slightly. “Yeah. Can’t wait to see you own that stage.”
But his fingers lingered longer on my cheek, thumb brushing my lip for half a second too long. I felt it everywhere.
He didn’t answer right away. Then, with that same calm certainty, he said, “No. But I might get nervous if you trip on stage.”
I rolled my eyes, but I smiled. “I’m not gonna trip.”
He reached out, fingers brushing my hair gently—a small, steady touch. His fingers lingered at my temple, thumb tracing the edge of my cheekbone like he was mapping safe territory.
“Good. Because I’d have to catch you.”
The moment hung there, quiet but heavy with something I didn’t have to name. Not yet.
I looked away first, biting my lip. “Thanks, Drogo.”
He nodded, eyes still on me, calm and steady. “Always.”
I closed my eyes, trying to hold onto the warmth of his leg under my cheek.
But in the corner of the room, the shadow shifted—just slightly.
The shadow thickened—just for a second—taking the shape of claws.
It knew tonight was different. Lights. Audience. Exposure.
And Drogo watching me like he always did. Like he was the only one who saw the real dark behind my eyes.
I wondered if the thing knew that too.
If it was waiting for him to finally look away.
Waiting for night.
Waiting for the stage lights to find me.
And for whatever came after.