Chapter 7
Sera
I've been nauseous for two weeks straight. At first, I assumed it was the stress. Artem's presence at the bookstore, and Gabe's words have put me on edge.
And it hasn't abated. For eight weeks, I've been oscillating between normalcy and a mental breakdown.
The gala was the last time I'd had a shred of normalcy, and God knows that that night was far from normal.
The stress is starting to get to me. Every morning my stomach revolts. I'm exhausted to the point that I can barely keep my eyes open during the workday.
It's become so bad in the last two weeks that even Mr. Bolinger has noticed.
"Seraphina, you look terrible."
I look up from the book I'm restoring. A first edition Dickens, pages yellowed and brittle. I've been staring at the same page for twenty minutes, unable to focus.
Mr. Bolinger is standing in the doorway of my restoration room, concern creasing his weathered face.
"I hope you don't give your wife that kind of sweet talk."
I expect him to laugh. Instead, he frowns. "When's the last time you ate?"
I try to remember. Breakfast made me nauseous. I skipped lunch because the smell of the deli downstairs made me gag, and I was so exhausted that I couldn't cook dinner."
"This morning," I lie.
"Seraphina." His eyes narrow. When I first started here, I barely ate.
I was too busy crawling out of debt, trying to keep my head above water while Gabe drained me dry, and the easiest place to skimp was food.
Mr. Bolinger filled my fridge then, looking at me with the same concern and pity I see now.
"I'm fine, really. Just been having trouble sleeping." That part is true. When I do sleep, I dream. And the dreams are always the same. Silver eyes. Strong hands. The feeling of being completely, thoroughly claimed.
I shake my head, banishing the memory. That night was a mistake. A beautiful, terrible mistake that I've locked away in a box labeled "never think about this again."
"Go upstairs," Mr. Bolinger says gently. "Rest. The Dickens can wait."
"I'm almost done with—"
"Home, Seraphina. That's an order."
I want to argue. I need to work. Need the distraction from the shit show that is my life. Not only has my brother brought a bunch of shit to my doorstep, but I still haven't heard from the library.
But Mr. Bolinger is using his stern voice, the one that means he won't budge.
"Okay," I say quietly. "I'll go."
I clean my workspace with movements that feel mechanical. Even though I live above the store, I don't go home immediately.
I need to run some errands and get a breath of fresh air before I go home and rest. I'm too keyed up.
Outside, October has turned cold. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones and makes you want to curl up under blankets and never emerge.
I pull my cardigan tighter and start to walk to the bodega two blocks away.
Normally I take the main streets, but I'm exhausted and the alley is a shortcut. I've used it a hundred times.
I'm halfway through when I realize my mistake.
The sound of footsteps behind me. Too close. Too deliberate.
I speed up. So do the footsteps.
My heart starts racing. I reach for my phone.
Then someone grabs me from behind.
An arm wraps around my throat, stopping a scream before it could make its way out.
I slam my head back as hard as I can. I grew up in this city, and I wasn't going down without a fight. I feel the crunch of his nose against my skull, and his grip loosens just enough for me to drive my elbow into his ribs.
He grunts but doesn't let go.
We're grappling now. My cardigan tears. I scratch at his face, aiming for his eyes. My nails find skin and I drag them down. He yells and screams bitch, but he still doesn't stop me.
He's bigger and stronger, and even when I manage to get a blow in, it barely does more than wind him.
He recovers quickly, and his fist connects with my face so hard that I see stars and taste copper as blood explodes on my tongue.
He grabs me, slams me against the brick wall, and my head cracks against the hard surface and everything goes white for a moment.
His hand wraps itself around my throat, and my air is cut off.
"Should've just cooperated," he snarls.
I try to pull his hands off my throat, but he doesn't let up.
"Your brother owes us money." His accent is thick. Russian. "We're taking you until he pays." He squeezes harder.
I try to fight. Try to kick. But my body won't respond. Everything is going dark.
Then I hear it. A voice. Cold. Deadly. Familiar.
"Let her go."
The pressure on my throat eases slightly. My attacker stiffens.
"This doesn't concern you," he says, but there's fear in his voice now.
"I said. Let. Her. Go."
Footsteps. Measured. Calm.
My attacker releases me and I collapse against the wall, gasping, trying to see through the stars dancing in my vision.
He turns to face whoever's coming.
"Walk away," my attacker says. "This is Morozov business."
"Wrong answer."
Everything happens so fast.
One moment my attacker is standing, reaching for something in his jacket.
The next, there's a flash of silver, and then, the blade is in the attacker's throat.
It's so quick, I almost miss it.
He makes a wet choking sound, and blood squirts out of the wound, more than I thought possible.
It sprays from his throat in rhythmic spurts, hitting the brick wall, the ground, me.
Hot. Sticky. Wrong.
He falls to his knees, still clutching his throat, making that horrible gurgling sound.
His eyes are wide as he looks at me. He knows he's dying, but the realization comes and goes so quickly that neither of us process it fully.
Then he falls forward onto the filthy alley floor, dead.
I can't breathe. Can't move. Can't process what just happened.
The man with the knife is still standing before me.
He wipes the blade on the dead man's jacket, slides it back into his suit, and presses the toe of his boot against the man's shoulder, checking if he's still alive. When he's satisfied, he looks at me.
My breath catches. I know that face. I would literally never forget those eyes. They are silver, like mercury, and moonlight, and I blink rapidly as I try to process what I am seeing.
"You," I whisper, not sure if I am going insane.
Adrian.
Adrian from the gala. From the night I've tried so hard to forget.
The stranger I fucked and fled from.
He's here. He just killed a man in front of me.
"Seraphina," he says, and his voice is exactly as I remember it. Deep. Controlled. The kind of voice that makes you want to obey.
I'm covered in blood. A dead man is lying between us. And Adrian is looking at me like he remembers exactly what I taste like.
"What are you doing here?" The words come out strangled. Wrong. "How did you find me?" I'm shaking as he comes towards me.
I'm a mixture of grateful and terrified, and I'm not sure which one will win out.
"I've been looking for you."
"Why?"
"Because you disappeared." His voice is cold. Controlled. "Because I wanted to find you again."
"You've been watching me?" Horror mixes with confusion.
"We can discuss that later. Right now—" His eyes scan me, assessing. "Are you hurt?"
"You killed him." I can't stop staring at the body. I'm covered in this man's blood.
"Yes."
"You just—you killed him."
"Yes."
"You killed him." I'm repeating myself, and I can't seem to stop. My brain isn't working properly.
"Are you injured?" His hands are on my face now, tilting my head to check. "Where did he hit you?"
I try to stand, and I immediately feel vertigo overtake me.
My stomach revolts.
I barely turn in time before I'm throwing up right there in the alley, next to a dead body.
Could this get any worse? Probably.
Adrian's hand gathers my hair, holds it back. His touch is gentle despite the violence I just witnessed.
"Breathe," he says quietly.
I heave until there's nothing left, wiping my mouth with shaking hands, smearing blood across my cheek. When I stop, Adrian lets go of my hair and straightens me.
"We need to go," Adrian says, looking around. "We are too exposed."
I pull away, shaking my head. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
"Seraphina—"
"You just killed someone." My voice is high. Desperate.
"He was going to kill you."
"So, you call the cops!"
"I don't deal with cops." His voice is matter of fact. Like we're discussing the weather, not murder.
I pale. I can feel the color draining from my face. "What are you?"
"It doesn't matter right now. What matters is getting you somewhere safe—"
That's when I feel it.
Different from the blood on my skin. Different from the nausea in my stomach.
Wetness between my legs. It feels wrong. Tacky and sticky as it slides down my leg.
I look down, and I see thick, vicious blood sliding down my thighs. It's different from the arterial blood that sprayed across me.
This blood is mine.
I cramp so hard that I double over.
"I think—" My voice breaks. "I think something's wrong."
Adrian follows my gaze. Sees the blood dripping down my leg, soaking through my jeans. Pooling on the concrete.
His face changes. Not panic. But something close to it.
"Where are you hurt?" His hands are on me again, checking, searching for wounds.
"I don't know." A cramp hits. Sharp. Wrong. Like my body is trying to tear itself apart. "He slammed me against the wall. Maybe he—"
Adrian's jaw tightens. "We're going to a doctor."
"I can't afford—"
"My doctor. Now." He's already moving, scooping me up like I weigh nothing.
I want to fight, but another cramp hits, stealing my breath and my words, and I have no choice but to allow Adrian to take care of me.
Because something is wrong. Very wrong.
Adrian places me in the passenger seat of his car. It's black, expensive, and I feel bad about ruining the expensive leather. Not that he seems to care.
The engine purrs to life. We're moving.
I'm leaving a crime scene with the man who committed the crime, and yet, I couldn't care less, because another gut-wrenching cramp is slamming through me.
"How did you find me?" I manage.