Chapter 6 Aleksandr
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, playing Interview 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 sits Carmilla, 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 she settles 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 as Interview with a Vampire plays on low volume in the background, casting flashes of fangs and velvet and old-world sin. Fitting.
On the nightstand beside her, Carmilla sits 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, I burned for 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 to if 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?
Am I expected to be more of a man than the animal I know myself to be?
The one that’s been pacing inside me every night for years, growling at every man who’s ever made her smile?
The one that watched her from across the room and imagined sinking teeth into that soft, untouched future she always seemed to carry?
I rise slowly from the chair and cross the space between us. She’s still breathing softly, lashes fluttering just slightly like she’s caught in some dream she doesn’t want to wake from.
I kneel beside the bed, fingers brushing the edge of the blanket. And then—very gently—I reach out and slide a single curl away from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear.
Her skin is warm. Her pulse, steady.
“You’ve always been mine,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. My knuckles graze her jaw. “I’ve known it my entire life.”
The runner’s high hits full force as I walk back into the kitchen, muscles loose, lungs still burning in that good, clean way. But nothing—not the adrenaline, not the rush of pavement under my feet—feels as good as the sight of Lily.
She’s standing at the island, wearing a loose tank top and baggy sweatpants, absolutely covered in flour as she kneads biscuit dough with quiet focus.
The kitchen smells of blueberries and butter.
Her curls are a little frizzy, her cheeks dusted white, and there's something almost domestic about the whole scene that makes me want to pull her against me and kiss her, or smack her plump little ass as she wiggles around, really kneading that dough.
I stroll over to the fruit bowl, deliberately stepping into her line of sight, and grab a red apple. I’m still shirtless, damp with sweat, and I know that normally when I look like this she gets flustered and is more likely to accidentally tell me the truth as she rambles.
The tips of her ears turn an adorable shade of pink, and her back straightens the minute she sees me.
She pushes harder at the dough and whistles, trying to act like she doesn’t see me.
I snort and move right behind her, leaning against the island while she works at the counter, right next to the double decker oven.
I take a hefty bite of my apple, and cross my arms over my chest. “Good Morning, Lily.”
She clears her throat, and begins to slow down her kneading, “Morning Alek! How was your morning run?”
Her voice is more chipper than normal, and she turns around to look at me, running her forearm over her head and leaving a thick line of flour over her forehead.
“Pleasant,” I reply, biting into my apple with pointed ease, watching the way her eyes flick away from mine. “Helps when I don’t get much sleep.”
“Oh.” She brushes past me, grabbing the dough cutter from the drawer by my side, her arm barely grazing mine. Then she rushes back across the kitchen like the floor might give out beneath her.
“What time did you go to bed?” she asks, tone light, almost distracted.
“We didn’t go to sleep until after we finished planning the wedding,” I say, letting the words land with weight as I finish the last bite of my apple. Her back snaps straight, her hands suddenly busy cutting the dough like it’s urgent.
She laughs a little too loudly and moves toward the stove, where blueberries simmer in a small pot. The smell hits me—sweet and warm, with a hint of lemon—and I watch her stir it, one hand on her hip like she needs to ground herself.
“I thought I dreamed that,” she says without turning.
I raise an eyebrow and cross the kitchen, tossing the apple core into the trash. “You dream of marrying me?”
“I—no, I meant—I thought I dreamed the conversation. About the wedding. Not the—” Her voice trips over itself, and she clears her throat, clicks off the burner, then turns to face me.
But she won’t look at me. Her eyes are all over the room.
The floor. The ceiling. Her hands twist together like she doesn’t know what to do with them.
“Not that it would be terrible to marry you. I think you’d be a great husband. One day. You know. To a girl you love.”
I lean back against the counter and cross my arms, not bothering to hide the amusement in my expression.
“You think I’ll be a great husband?” I repeat, slower, like I’m tasting the words.
She shakes her head, groaning softly, and turns the oven on to preheat, before turning back to the island like she can knead her way out of this conversation. Her hands press hard into the dough, her back to me, curls bouncing as she moves.