Chapter Fourteen - Rostya
A storm has found the hills tonight, angry and relentless, battering the Sharov estate as if it means to tear the stones from their mortar.
Rain hammers against the old leaded windows, wind shrieks down the chimneys, and the lightning that splits the sky turns every gilded frame and velvet curtain into a shadow’s playground. Each thunderclap rattles glass and bone, setting my teeth on edge.
I don’t sleep when the weather turns like this. Too many years listening for the soft tread of enemies masked by rain, for the creak of doors masked by wind.
Storms make men sloppy, make alarms less reliable, make cover for things that shouldn’t move in the night.
I prowl the corridors, silent and watchful, double-checking that every guard is in his place, that no one has fallen asleep lulled by the lullaby of thunder.
Lightning flashes again, white and blinding, and for a heartbeat, the world is stark and clear. Then darkness slams back down, thicker than before.
Without warning, the power dies. Every chandelier, every sconce, every line of hidden wiring goes silent, plunging the estate into a darkness so deep it eats the air itself. For a moment, all I hear is the rain pounding the glass, the wind clawing at the stone, the hush of my own breath.
In the distance, candles and flashlights flare uncertainly, little islands of gold adrift in a sea of black. Here, in this stretch of hallway, I stand in pitch. No light, no voice, just the weight of my own vigilance.
I go still, senses sharp, old habits rising fast. For a moment I see nothing—then, at the far end of the corridor, a shape moves, faint and tentative. For a split second, the predator in me tenses for violence.
Then I see the smallness of the figure, the uncertain way she presses a hand to the wall, feeling her way. The ghost-pale glint of silk at her wrist. Karmia.
Of course. Wandering the house like a specter, even in the dark, even in a storm. Part of me wants to bark at her, demand what she thinks she’s doing. Another part is caught by a strange curiosity. What drives her out of bed, out of safety, into the unknown halls at this hour?
I watch her a moment longer, hidden by shadow, the urge to step out and claim her battling with the urge to simply observe. Even in darkness, even lost, she finds a way to haunt me.
She moves slowly through the dark, fingers trailing the wall, her hair wild, the hem of her nightdress catching against her ankles.
She’s all but blind in the blackout, shadow folded into shadow, lost but stubbornly refusing to call for help.
I can hear her breathing—a hitch with every gust of wind, a shallow gasp when thunder rattles the glass.
Lightning flashes, throwing her silhouette sharp against the wall. Then blackness drops again, thicker than before. I step out of the shadows, closing the distance silently.
She startles hard when my hand closes around her wrist. Her breath stutters, sharp and uneven. I feel her tense to pull away, but my grip is firm—protective, not bruising, my thumb pressed just above the frantic flutter of her pulse.
“Let go,” she whispers, the words hot and frightened in the hush. “You scared me.”
I draw her closer, not to threaten, but so she doesn’t stumble into something sharp or treacherous in the dark. “You shouldn’t be out of your room,” I say quietly, voice pitched low so it doesn’t carry beyond the storm. “Especially not during a blackout.”
She twists in my hold, trying to wrench free, but I only tighten slightly. “And you’re what, playing the night watchman? I can handle a little darkness,” she hisses back, defiant as ever even with her pulse thrumming wildly beneath my fingers.
I let out a breath, half a laugh, half a sigh. “I’m not worried about the dark. I’m worried about what the dark can hide.”
For a heartbeat, we’re just two shapes pressed together in the hallway; her wrist captive in my hand, her chest heaving with anxiety and anger. I can feel the heat of her skin, the quick, uneven rhythm of her heart, the delicate bones beneath my grip.
Lightning splits the sky again. It’s a violent, searing burst of white.
The whole corridor is lit up for a second.
I see her eyes, wide and bright, lips parted, her face turned up to mine.
I see my own hand, unmistakable, wrapped around her wrist. Inches separate us, the crackle between us impossibly sharp.
The world plunges back into black, but the afterimage burns behind my eyes.
She swallows hard. “Are you going to drag me back?” There’s challenge in her voice, but fear too—fear not just of the storm or the dark, but of the nearness between us.
I step closer, closing the space until there is no room for escape. The scent of her skin, clean and faintly floral, fights against the cold air and the electric charge of ozone.
“Do you want to go back?” I murmur. My words are soft, dangerous, more a confession than a threat.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The storm outside rages on, thunder rolling, wind shrieking down the stone halls. The storm inside me is just as wild, just as relentless. Her presence is a current I can’t pull away from, her nearness a live wire I can’t stop touching.
She’s trembling now, but she doesn’t look away. “I just… I couldn’t sleep.” Her voice is softer, stripped bare. “The storm. And—” She falters, as if what she really wants to say is: you.
I let my grip soften, thumb brushing lightly against the inside of her wrist. “You’re not safe out here,” I say, but the words hold more meaning than they should. Not safe from the world. Not safe from me.
She breathes in, shaky and hesitant, but she doesn’t pull away.
The wind slams the windows again, rattling the glass in its frame. I know I should release her, send her back to her room, lock her away from everything that prowls these halls—including me.
I can’t let go. Not when every storm, every blackout, every charged second in the dark makes the need to keep her close burn hotter.
For a moment, in the eye of the storm, we just stand there. Caught between threat and promise, between danger and something that tastes dangerously like desire.
I don’t bother to ask if she’ll follow. I just guide her through the darkness, my hand at the small of her back, steering her through shadowed halls to the only place that makes sense right now.
My chambers. The click of the door behind us muffles the storm’s roar, but thunder still vibrates the windows, rattling something deep in my chest.
A single candle burns on the table. It’s enough to push back the dark, but only just. The flame throws gold across her skin, painting her face in shifting warmth and mystery. Every line is heightened; her wide eyes, the uncertain parting of her lips, the tremor that’s not quite fear.
We stand facing each other, the silence swollen with things neither of us will say. She watches me with a gaze that doesn’t waver. It’s not defiance, not exactly, but something else—something that draws me closer even as it dares me to break the space between us.
I take a step. She doesn’t retreat.
The air is thick, electric, each heartbeat crashing louder than thunder.
I can smell rain and candle wax and her, sharp and real and impossible to ignore.
My pulse drums in my ears. I want to speak, to explain, but the words tangle in my mouth.
Instead, I reach out with my hands framing her face, rough but not unkind, thumbs tracing the line of her jaw.
Her breath catches. For a second, she’s stone, rigid with hesitation. I can feel the resistance in her, the fight not to give in, not to let me win whatever war still burns between us.
I can’t hold back. My mouth finds hers, urgent and wild, all the storm’s violence pressed into the kiss.
I devour her, every movement hungry, dragging her close with hands that have learned too well how to take and never learned how to ask.
The taste of her—fear and longing, fire and surrender—rips the restraint from my bones.
She gasps into me, fists pressed against my chest, caught between push and pull. For a heartbeat, I think she’ll shove me away. But her resistance buckles; her hands soften, sliding up to my shoulders, twisting into the fabric of my shirt. Her body sways into mine, caught in the same undertow.
The world outside crashes and howls, lightning painting the walls, but the storm here is inside our skin. My hands move—her jaw, her throat, down her sides, anchoring her to the moment. Every inch I claim feels like a victory, a surrender earned and stolen at once.
Her mouth answers mine, softening then turning fierce, and her fingers curl tighter in my shirt, her body pressing close. The kiss is wild, consuming, neither of us careful, neither of us willing to stop. The storm outside has nothing on what’s breaking loose between us—violent, endless, alive.
The kiss deepens, turning reckless, then hungrier still.
My hands roam her body—her back, her hips, the curve of her spine arching into me.
Her lips part for me, welcoming, trembling, her breath soft against my cheek.
Each brush of skin, every desperate pull draws us tighter, the need for her burning past any logic or defense I could summon.
I want her. I want to devour her, to mark her, to remind her with every touch that she belongs to me.
The violence of the storm is nothing compared to what surges in my veins.
But beneath the hunger, beneath the need, something rawer pulses—a danger I refuse to name, something too close to tenderness, too close to regret.