Chapter 16
Alina
Crickets and frogs peeped in the distance, calling for mates or mourning young lost to the shadows. The soft chorus of dawn filtered through the cracked window—gentle, innocent, almost soothing.
It lured me toward peace.
But that peace shattered like a bubble beneath the story Balthazar had painted—of my father, of her, of a love too sacred to speak aloud.
Rage simmered beneath my skin.
The man Balthazar described sounded like nothing more than a self-righteous hypocrite. A man more suited for robes and sermons than darkness and blood. The twisted triangle between him, Balthazar, and that ghost of a woman made my stomach burn with acid.
I wanted to kill her twice—once, for ever existing in his arms, and again for the longing she left behind.
And him? I wanted to strike him for telling me that story. How dare he parade such potent, undying love before me like a relic from a better past? There should be no room for love in his heart… except ours.
“I should have been allowed to join you in my father’s execution,” I hissed.
“It was an honor I had to take with one hand,” Balthazar replied coolly, unbothered. “And you were but a babe.”
“My hatred for him is only eclipsed by the pride I feel knowing you took my mother as well,” I spat. “There’s no mercy left in me for those who are too sweet.”
He arched an eyebrow, silent, but his eyes gleamed with quiet approval.
I glanced around the room and felt a sudden loathing rise in my throat—the air stank of sweat, sex, and scorched memories. The faded wallpaper, creaky floor, and stifling heat all sickened me.
I threw the covers off and stormed across the room, grabbing my clothes in harsh handfuls. I snatched Balthazar’s garments off the chair and flung them at him.
He raised his arms lazily to ward them off, a smirk curving his lips.
“What’s got you in such a snit?” he asked, voice thick with amusement.
“Everything!” I snapped, yanking on my undergarments with furious hands. “My father was a simpering, sanctimonious bastard—”
I struggled with the fabric, my rage boiling hotter with every movement.
“And your former lover… I want to summon her from hell and tear her apart for existing.”
Balthazar hummed a low, tuneless melody from the bed as he watched me. The sound needled under my skin, maddeningly calm. Mocking.
Then, without warning, his voice dropped low and sharp.
“Your father never wanted you.”
I froze mid-motion.
“What?” I whispered, blinking at him, stunned.
“He wanted nothing to do with a daughter,” Balthazar said, his words like ice cracking through the floor beneath me.
“He ran the moment your mother gave birth. Disappeared. Hid from the responsibility. When she begged him to return, he only returned long enough to say it out loud—he never wanted you. Not then. Not ever.”
The air in my lungs turned brittle. My fingers trembled as I held my dress, unable to respond.
“It’s not your fault,” Balthazar said softly now, his tone a strange mixture of cruelty and consolation. “He had demons of his own. But he was never ready to be a father—especially your father.”
I turned away, my eyes burning. I refused to let the tears fall.
The ache in my chest turned to fury.
I seized the nearest object—a chipped figurine, probably a trinket from a whore’s enamored client—and hurled it across the room. It broke on impact, porcelain shards scattering like the broken remnants of my childhood.
“I’m sick of this room!” I screamed, breath ragged. “Do you hear me? I’m sick of the stink, the heat, the filth! I want to go home!”
I yanked my dress over my shoulders, struggling to fasten the tiny buttons. My hands shook too much to manage the task. Frustrated, I let out a strangled cry and threw my arms up.
Balthazar rolled out of bed with infuriating elegance, tugging on his clothes with unhurried grace. He sauntered over to me, calm as ever, and planted a soft kiss on the tip of my nose.
Then, one by one, he began fastening the buttons of my dress.
“It doesn’t matter what your father did or didn’t think of you,” he murmured. “He was a selfish man. Always watching out for his own best interests.”
He lifted his head, met my gaze, and leaned in—his tongue flicking a single tear from my cheek.
“Think about it…” His voice was gentle, coaxing. “If he had raised you… If he had loved you the way he was supposed to… would the outcome have been any different? Would you be you?”
I hated it when Balthazar turned tender. His softness unspooled something deep inside me—made me feel fragile, like a leaf clinging to a branch just before the wind tears it loose.
I despised that feeling.
So, I shoved him.
But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t fume.
He laughed.
Then, he surged forward in a flash, wrapped me in his arms, and we vanished into the shadows before I could resist. The room, the anger, ghosts, and shattered porcelain—all faded.
We reappeared in his place, wrapped in darkness, in quiet.
And just like that, I left every thought of my father and her—that cursed woman—behind. Where they belonged. In that whore’s room of sweat and regret.
The following days passed in a haze of carnal indulgence and quiet routine. We lost ourselves in the pleasure of each other’s company, in the constant hunger of flesh. There was no time. No world. Just us.
Until he vanished.
No warning. No explanation. One day he was there—and the next, gone.
At first, I told myself it was one of his moods. He had always been a creature of vanishing acts and riddles.
But days became weeks, and my worry grew with each sunrise. At night, I stared at the full moon, wondering where and who he was with.
The need to find him turned restless… then unbearable.
Finally, I broke.
In a frenzy, I packed a small bag. Before leaving, I left behind a message—a desperate signal only he would understand. It was a glass perfume bottle imported from France. Etched onto the side—
1411 France.
I held the dagger. I whispered the rite. The shadows answered.
And just like that, I was gone, flung into the cobbled streets of 1411 France.
Alone. Waiting.
For him.
It took him two months to find me.
Our reunion was, as always, both joyous and tempestuous—fire meeting fire, love tangled in war. But then, without warning, I vanished again.
And so began our cat-and-mouse game, one that would stretch across years.
I became a master of time travel, slipping through the ages like a shadow.
I moved with ghostlike precision, leaving only the faintest trace—just enough to keep him chasing.
A scent. A letter. A shattered mirror etched with a date.
I never stayed long. Never gave him the satisfaction of catching me too easily.
I lived for the thrill, the chase, and the way history became our personal playground of seduction and subversion.
Balthazar was endlessly amused—sometimes enraged, often perplexed, but always addicted. Each reunion was its own unraveling. Every time he managed to decipher my trail and find me again, it was like being caught in a new story—different setting, same tangled passion.
I kept him guessing. I kept him working.
It was my way of balancing our dynamic.
I never forgot how he had pinned me to that whore’s bed, how his hand had tightened on my throat to make a point.
This was my way of making mine.
And every time we collided—time and space be damned—the sex was devastating. Deep. Depraved. Soul-drenching. Our bodies became battlegrounds and sanctuaries alike. We shared things in those hours that could never be spoken aloud. Secrets. Fantasies. Scars.
The world disappeared. We became our own universe.
Once, in 1730 Vienna, Balthazar stormed into the drawing room, his normally regal features forming a scowl.
I was lounging on a plush velvet sofa, my journal open across my lap. The late afternoon sun spilled through the tall bay windows, casting warm gold over my face and my emerald satin dress, which shimmered with every delicate movement.
The moment the door slammed shut, I jumped, instinctively clutching the journal to my chest.
“Put down that blasted book,” Balthazar growled, his voice rumbling like thunder. “You’re always scribbling in that fucking thing.”
Before I could respond, he strode across the room, eyes blazing, and ripped the journal from my hands. With a single vicious motion, he hurled it across the room. Pages fluttered like wounded birds before smacking against the wall and collapsing to the floor.
My mouth parted, stunned—but not speechless.
I rose, cool as glass, sauntered across the room, and retrieved the fallen book. I brushed off the cover and set it gently on the side table beside the settee where I had been lounging.
“Rough day, my lord?” I asked, deliberately lacing the title with venom.
His jaw clenched. “I told you never to call me that.”
“Apologies, my lord,” I said with a mock curtsy.
“God damn it, Alina. Stop fucking with me.”
He surged toward me and grabbed my face, squeezing hard. Pain bloomed under his fingers, but I refused to flinch. I blinked, locked eyes with him, and said evenly, “I shall never do it again, my…” I paused, then corrected myself with a sly smile. “My love.”
His grip eased slightly.
“That’s better.”
He yanked me forward, crashing his lips onto mine in a brutal, punishing kiss. My skirts bunched around my thighs as he tugged them up and forced his way beneath my undergarments, fingers finding the heat he knew would be waiting for him.
I gasped as he worked me relentlessly until release rocked through me, leaving me breathless.
Then he shoved me to my knees.
I obeyed without hesitation, delighting in the power and submission braided so tightly between us. His roar filled the drawing room like a war cry when he came. He tucked himself away and stalked off, humming a low, tuneless melody as he vanished—again.
He didn’t return for days.