Chapter 55
ALENA
I miss Lucy. God, I miss her so much right now it physically hurts.
She would know what to say to make this less terrifying, would crack some joke about my dress or the armed men or the fact that I am walking into what is essentially a mob wedding reception without an actual wedding.
But Marcus did not want her here tonight, and I understand why.
If this goes wrong—when this goes wrong, let us be honest—he does not want her anywhere near the bloodbath.
So instead I am alone, walking up marble steps in four-inch heels I can barely balance in, wearing a dress that cost more than my first car, about to smile and nod my way through a celebration thrown by a man who threatened to kill me two years ago. Just another Tuesday, really.
The entrance hall is exactly what Drogo described—dark luxury taken to an almost absurd extreme.
Black marble floors so polished I can see my reflection.
Crystal chandeliers hanging low, their light dim and golden and designed to cast dramatic shadows.
Heavy velvet drapes in deep burgundy. And men.
So many men in expensive suits, all turning to look at us as we enter, their eyes assessing, calculating, determining our worth in the hierarchy.
Fun fact: being stared at by forty Russian mobsters is significantly less enjoyable than one might imagine.
Drogo keeps my hand tucked firmly in the crook of his arm as Klaus leads us deeper into the manor.
I can feel the tension in his body through the fabric of his suit—every muscle coiled tight, ready to spring.
But his face is calm, almost pleasant, playing the role of dutiful son with an Oscar-worthy performance.
And damn, he looks good. Unfairly good. The black suit fits him like it was painted on, tailored to perfection, making his shoulders look even broader and his waist even narrower.
His hair is styled back, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass, and when he glances down at me with those blue eyes, I forget for half a second that we are walking into potential death.
All I can think is that he is mine. That impossibly beautiful, dangerous man is mine. Always was.
We enter the main hall, and I have to force myself not to stop dead in my tracks.
It is massive—a ballroom, really—with long tables arranged in a U-shape around a central space.
Black tablecloths, gold-rimmed crystal glasses, bottles of vodka lined up like soldiers.
At least eighty people are already seated, maybe more, and they all stand when we enter.
The scrape of chairs against marble is deafening in the sudden silence.
Klaus gestures to the head table with a flourish. "Please, please! The guests of honor!" His accent is thicker than usual, performative, playing up the Russian patriarch role for his audience.
Drogo leads me to our seats—center of the head table, of course, because subtlety is apparently not a Bratva virtue.
I sit carefully, smoothing my dress, hyper-aware of every eye still watching me.
The women in the room—and there are maybe fifteen of them total—are all seated toward the back or sides, dressed elegantly but quietly, their eyes downcast. Not participating.
Just… present. Like decorative accessories to prove their men have good taste.
Well. This is not going to get old fast.
Klaus takes his seat to Drogo's right, and immediately the temperature drops.
Not gradually—suddenly, violently, like someone opened every window in the dead of winter.
My breath fogs in front of my face. I see several men shift uncomfortably, pulling their jackets tighter. One of the chandeliers flickers.
The ghosts are here. Of course they are. Because why would my dead supernatural friends and tormentors miss out on this delightful evening? But tonight, they feel more like friends. They make me feel less alone. Less unprotected. As if I could stand my ground if Drogo wasn’t here.
Klaus stands, raising his glass of vodka, and the room falls silent again.
"My friends," he begins in Russian, then switches to accented English.
"My brothers. Tonight, we celebrate not just an engagement, but the future of our family.
My son—" He claps Drogo on the shoulder with what looks like genuine affection.
"—has found a woman worthy of our name. Beautiful, yes, but more than that.
Strong. Loyal. A woman who will give us heirs to carry on our legacy. "
Oh good. I am a broodmare now. How lovely.
"To Drogo and Alena!" Klaus raises his glass higher. "Za zdorovye!"
"Za zdorovye!" The room echoes back, and eighty men down their vodka in unison. The sound of glass hitting tables is like gunshots.
Drogo stands next, and I watch him transform.
His posture shifts—shoulders back, chin up, every inch the heir claiming his birthright.
When he speaks, his voice carries across the hall with natural authority.
"Thank you, father. And thank you all for being here tonight.
" He looks down at me, and something in his expression softens.
"This woman—" His hand finds mine on the table.
"—has been mine since we were children. Seventeen years I have waited to make her my wife.
She is my oxygen. My salvation. And anyone who threatens her answers to me. "
The room is dead silent. That last line was not romantic—it was a warning. A declaration of war wrapped in wedding vows. I see several men exchange glances, see Klaus's smile tighten just slightly at the corners.
Drogo raises his glass. "To Alena. The only woman I will ever kneel to."
My breath catches. He just publicly declared in front of the entire Bratva that he kneels to me. Not to Klaus. Not to tradition. To me. The implications of that are staggering and probably going to get us killed, but damn if it does not make my heart race.
The room toasts again, and I manage to smile and nod like I am supposed to, like I am not internally screaming at Drogo for being simultaneously the most romantic and most reckless man alive.
The toasts continue. Viktor stands—a hard-faced man with cold eyes who watches Drogo like a hawk.
Then Dmitri. Then Konstantin. Each one more elaborate than the last, more performative, testing the waters to see how the room reacts.
I stop listening after the fifth one because they all sound the same: lots of words about legacy and strength and family that really just mean power and violence and control.
That is when I notice Klaus watching me.
Not watching Drogo—watching me. His eyes track my every movement, every breath, every time I shift in my seat.
It is not the way Drogo looks at me, hungry and possessive and loving.
This is different. Clinical. Like he is studying me, cataloging my weaknesses, figuring out exactly how to use me against his son.
It makes my skin crawl.
The gifts start arriving. Envelopes of cash—thick ones, rubber-banded stacks of hundreds and thousands.
Jewelry boxes containing diamonds and emeralds and rubies that would make a jewelry store weep.
A set of car keys. A property deed. Things that cost more than most people make in a year, handed over casually like party favors.
I smile. I nod. I thank them gracefully like Drogo taught me. And internally I am calculating how many of these gifts are genuine respect versus how many are hedging bets in case Drogo actually manages to kill Klaus and take over.
Probably fifty-fifty, if I am being generous.
"Alena, my dear," Klaus says, his voice cutting through the murmur of conversation. "Would you show us the ring? I am sure everyone is curious to see what my son chose for his bride."
There it is. The moment Drogo warned me about. I extend my left hand, holding it up so the black diamond catches the light. It is beautiful—dark and unusual and perfect. Exactly the kind of ring a horror writer would choose. Exactly the kind of ring that says this is not your typical love story.
The room murmurs appreciation. Klaus reaches out and takes my hand—his grip firm, his thumb brushing over the ring—and holds it just a fraction too long.
His eyes meet mine, and I see something there that makes my stomach turn.
Not lust. Worse. Ownership. Like he is reminding me that Drogo might have put the ring on my finger, but Klaus is the one who allowed it.
A glass on the far end of the table suddenly flies off the edge, shattering on the marble floor. Everyone jumps. The temperature drops another five degrees, and I swear I hear a whisper—low, angry, protective—somewhere near my left ear.
Klaus releases my hand quickly, his smile never wavering. "Old buildings," he says with a laugh. "Always settling."
Yeah. Sure. That is exactly what that was.
Drogo's hand finds mine under the table, squeezing once. You okay? I squeeze back. For now.
The night continues. More vodka. More toasts.
The knife ritual where Drogo cuts a massive loaf of bread with an engraved dagger and we share pieces—symbolic of him providing and protecting, because apparently we have time-traveled to the fifteenth century.
Music starts playing from speakers hidden somewhere, low balalaika melodies mixing with modern remixes that make no sense together but somehow work.
And through it all, Klaus watches me. Not constantly.
Not obviously. But enough. His eyes find me when he thinks I am not paying attention, when I am talking to one of the few women who dared to approach me, when I am laughing at something Konstantin said.
Every time I catch him, he smiles that warm, paternal smile. But his eyes stay cold. Calculating.