Chapter 15
Balthazar
Ihad shifted back into my “normal” form as I lay beside Alina, staring up at the ceiling of the dingy brothel room.
The space reeked of mildew and forgotten sins.
Damp clung to the walls like moldy parchment, and the air was thick with the stench of rot—of sweat, despair, and cheap perfume ground into the wood over years of use.
The room was pitifully small, furnished with nothing more than a rickety bed, a plain wooden chair with one uneven leg, and a chipped washbasin resting atop a three-legged stool that looked one breath away from collapse.
The only light came from a single window, its glass streaked with grime and framed by threadbare curtains faded to the color of old bones. A sickly yellow glow seeped in from the street beyond, casting a jaundiced hue across the bed and the warped floorboards. Every shadow twitched with secrets.
In the corner sat a battered wooden chest, half-open, filled with the poor whore’s meager belongings. A pair of stained blouses. A dirty brown shawl. A cracked hand mirror with silver peeling at the edges. A handful of trinkets, none worth stealing. The total of a forgotten life.
There were no personal touches—nothing to hint at joy or comfort—just survival.
The only thing hanging on the walls was a single oil painting—a woman, her hair coiled in intricate curls, her cheeks dusted rose, her face painted a pristine, ghostly white. She was elegance captured in pigment—beautiful, noble, untouchable.
She mocked the rest of the room.
She didn’t belong here—not in this nest of sweat-stained sheets and whispered transactions. And yet, the woman in the painting hung above the bed like a ghost of forgotten elegance, her powdered face and coiled curls watching over the filth below with cold detachment.
A silent witness to the endless cycle of flesh and coin.
It was the perfect place to reveal my true self—a room steeped in habitual depravity, where shadows clung to the corners and secrets breathed beneath the floorboards.
A place where anything could happen.
And no one would ever know.
A grim smile tugged at my lips as I reflected on what Alina and I had just done—what we’d shared. No one who had ever entered this room had experienced anything like that. Of that, I was certain.
I had let her see me—truly see me, in all my grotesque, unfiltered depravity.
The truth beneath the glamour.
I was born of decay—a creature of rot and shadow. I had no place in the light, no form meant to be loved. Over the years, I’d learned to wear a prettier mask—to seduce, disarm, and make myself palatable to those who only craved beauty.
But with Alina… everything was different.
Everything.
I never thought I’d find someone who would accept what I was. Not fully. Not in the state that would make most run screaming.
Zara had once loved me, yes, but she was born of darkness, too. We were two cursed things that recognized one another—reflections in a blackened mirror.
But Alina?
She wasn’t just born of darkness—she thrived in it. Her past aligned with mine like jagged puzzle pieces clicking into place. And when she whispered that she wanted all of me—even the monster—I’d felt something terrifyingly close to awe.
I couldn’t believe it.
Even now, lying here beside her, I still couldn’t.
“What are you thinking about?” Alina murmured, dragging one long, pointed nail down my spine.
I sat up and propped one of the tattered pillows behind my back. “About us.”
She shifted, mirroring me, her bare leg sliding against mine. Her eyes scanned my face, curious and unbothered. “You’re rather disturbing in your true form, by the way. It’s a sharp contrast to what you look like now.”
My gaze snagged on her necklace—moonstone and ruby, glinting softly in the dim light.
Zara’s necklace.
Fury ignited in my chest, hot and immediate. But I buried it. I kept my voice even, my expression untouched.
“Did it bother you?” I asked.
She shook her head, brushing her tangled hair from her face. “Not at all,” she said, her voice light.
“I found it a total turn-on.”
A faint frown tugged at her brows. “Except the maggots, maybe. That part was a little unexpected.” She paused, her eyes gleaming with dark amusement. “But the whole experience? Shockingly outrageous. I’m not opposed to doing it again.”
Then she smiled—small, shy, utterly wicked. It twisted my hunger into something deeper.
Alina was a contradiction in extremes. One moment, she surrendered to the abyss with unflinching hunger. The next, she was soft and vulnerable—like a schoolgirl whispering secrets under a blanket of night.
I ran my hand along her warm thigh. “I suppose it was always fated to be this way,” I murmured. “From the first time we met, I saw it in you. That fire. That defiance. You were wild, passionate… but unbreakable. Just like me. A sadistic little monster who doesn’t let anyone get in her way.”
I looked into her eyes. “I slaughtered your parents. And yet here you are—lying beside me.”
She didn’t flinch.
Instead, she tilted her head, curiosity glinting in her eyes. “Tell me more about the darkness,” she said softly.
My throat tightened.
“Your father was the first darkness,” I began. “He found me when I was young, feral, and full of rage—and shaped me into something worse. He taught me how to survive in a world that only ever took. He taught me how to thrive in the rot.”
I swallowed hard.
“He introduced me to depravity I couldn’t have imagined. Bent me to his will. I followed him faithfully… until the scars he gave me became my legacy.”
Alina was silent for a moment, eyes searching mine. Then she leaned in, her voice featherlight. “Do you have to kill to survive?”
I met her gaze, unwavering. “Yes,” I whispered. “I do.”
She didn’t recoil. Instead, her expression shifted into something unreadable—intrigued, maybe, and moved, even.
“He used to say he wanted to turn bad people into good ones. He talked about salvation, about redeeming monsters. He believed the world could only be saved by removing the rot. By hunting evil with evil.”
She frowned, confusion flickering across her features. “Then why train you—why train someone like you—to kill people just like yourself?”
I exhaled. “Because he believed fear was the most powerful teacher. That only a monster could understand another monster. He thought if we punished enough evil, it would stop. That blood could somehow balance the scales.”
Alina shook her head, lips curling with faint disdain. “I just don’t understand why he restricted it to the depraved. Why not let you kill whoever you please? We should be able to choose. That’s true power.”
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “Nor did I. Believe me—it wasn’t easy. I am, admittedly, the most depraved of them all. But in the beginning, I was happy to do what Mathias asked. I wanted his approval. I craved it.”
I looked away, eyes hardening.
“But over time, I began to question it. Who was I, born of rot and ruin, to decide which monsters deserved to die and which deserved redemption? Why should I spare the ‘innocent’? I didn’t want limits. I wanted to strike down anyone I chose. Even the good.”
Alina tilted her head, studying me. “So, my father… didn’t even know what he was doing. He wasn’t right?”
I shook my head. “No. He was idealistic, but blind. He said ‘I’m building a sanctuary. A school for others like you. Those born of darkness, lost and wandering without answers. We’ll guide them. Peace. Purpose.”
“That’s when your father created his little academy,” I continued, venom threading my voice. “Then your mother, Cora, came along and made your father softer. All sunshine, smiles, and simpering compassion. She diluted his edge. I came to loathe her.”
“I can see why,” Alina said, her voice low.
I narrowed my eyes, surprised. “You can?”
She nodded, her gaze burning with shared resentment. “Yes. I probably would’ve despised her, too.”
Her tone darkened. “My adopted parents were just as tedious, as you know. Always going on about marrying well and finding the right man. It is as if a woman’s entire worth could be boiled down to rings and childbirth. It was suffocating.”
Her jaw tightened.
“It’s like the only path laid out for us is servitude,” she said bitterly. “Meanwhile, men get to explore, to fight, to create. And I wanted that—I wanted what you have. Freedom. Power. The right to exist exactly how I want.”
The intensity in her eyes took me off guard—shadowed and burning with conviction. It stirred something primal in me, something raw and eager. My cock began to harden, straining beneath the sheets, demanding I abandon this unraveling of souls and return to the heat of her body.
I slid my hand along her thigh, tracing idle, seductive circles.
But she was lost in thought, restless, questioning.
“How old are you, Balthazar?” she asked.
I hesitated.
Should I trust her with that truth?
“Very,” I said at last, my voice clipped. Guarded. “Old enough to know better. And old enough to know which of your questions deserve an answer.”
My gaze locked onto hers, daring her to push further.
But she didn’t flinch. Her fierce stare held mine, the air between us taut with challenge.
“Where were you born?” she asked relentlessly.
I paused. The ache bloomed before I could stop it.
“The land of the Norsemen,” I said quietly. “Centuries ago.”
A hollow, ancient pain opened inside my chest. Zara’s laughter—soft and real. My daughters’ faces, bright and perfect. Flashes of a life buried in blood and memory. They came to me like ghosts, dragging chains behind them, threatening to unravel the armor I’d built around my soul.
It hurt. Gods, it always hurt.
I clenched my jaw, trying to shove it all back. To lock the memories in that dark place where they belonged. I clawed at the abyss, desperate to shut them away. But they never stayed buried for long.
“Look,” I said, harsher than I intended, “I don’t want to speak of where I was born. Or my origins. None of it matters anymore.”