Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Forty-seven feet. That was the distance between Marina’s couch, where Alessandro now lay, and Bea’s apartment above the crystal shop. Close enough to feel through the bond. Far enough to be unreachable.
He stared at the smoke-stained ceiling and counted the feet again, as if recounting might shorten them.
The knock on the door came around three in the morning. Alessandro didn’t move.
It came again. Harder.
“I know you’re awake.” Dante’s voice, rough with his own lack of sleep. “Let me in.”
Alessandro unlocked the door without getting up. His brother entered, took one look at the apartment: Alessandro sprawled on the couch in yesterday’s clothes, the empty coffee cups, the general air of devastation. He sat down on the floor.
“She left,” Dante said.
“She’s at Bea’s.”
“That’s leaving. You know that’s leaving.”
Alessandro stared at the ceiling. “I know.”
“What happened?”
“I made the same mistakes,” Alessandro said. “The ones I swore I’d never make.”
Dante was quiet.
“You treated her like Dad treats Mom,” he said. “Like her concerns aren’t as important as yours.”
Alessandro flinched.
Alessandro remembered being twelve, watching his mother suggest they vacation somewhere other than the family estate in the Alps.
His father hadn’t argued. Hadn’t even looked up from his papers.
Just said “We always go to the Alps” and that had been the end of it.
His mother’s face had gone carefully blank, the look of a woman who had learned that her opinions didn’t matter.
He’d promised himself he would never be that man.
And yet.
“I thought I was different,” he said. “I thought I was better.”
“You’re not better yet. But you could be.
” Dante leaned against the wall. “The question is whether you’re willing to do the work.
Not just grand gestures. Not just swooping in when there’s danger.
The boring, unglamorous work of shutting up and listening when she tells you something you don’t want to hear. ”
“I don’t know how.”
“Then learn.”
The simplicity of it landed like a blow.
“She told me something was wrong,” he said. “The first time she met Malachar. She felt it. And I told her she was seeing conspiracy where there was coincidence.”
“Yeah.”
“She was right about everything. And I didn’t believe her until he admitted it to her face.”
“Why?”
“Because believing her meant admitting I’d been wrong. About Malachar. About myself.” He pressed his hands against his eyes. “My need for control isn’t strength. It’s fear wearing a mask.”
Dante didn’t argue. Didn’t comfort. Just sat with him in the darkness while the truth settled between them.
“You’re not a bad person,” Dante said finally. “You’re just so convinced you have to be perfect that you can’t admit when you’re wrong.”
“That doesn’t help her.”
“No. But it means you can change. If you stop trying to control everything long enough to actually change.”
“How do I start?” he asked.
“You ask for help. Which you have literally never done in your life, so.” Dante shrugged. “Start there. See how it feels. Then do it again tomorrow.”
“We have four days.”
“Then you’d better start now.”
Dante left as the first grey light crept through the windows. Alessandro got up and started working.
He moved through the damaged apartment, cleaning what he could, assessing the damage. The bakery kitchen was gutted. The storage room was destroyed. Marina’s pelt was gone.
He was halfway through inventory when Malachar appeared.
Not at the door. Simply present, suddenly, in the middle of the ruined kitchen like he’d been there all along. The demon smiled, and Alessandro felt his control begin to slip.
“Tragic,” Malachar said, surveying the damage. “Such a charming little establishment. Though I suppose it had… outlived its usefulness.”
“Get out.”
“So hostile.” Malachar picked up a smoke-stained mixing bowl with exaggerated delicacy. “I just wanted to check in. See how you were coping with your losses.”
“My losses.”
“The bakery. The relationship. The selkie’s trust.” He set down the bowl with a click. “She was never going to stay, you know. They never do. Selkies always return to the sea.”
“I said get out.”
“Do you know what her pelt feels like?” Malachar leaned closer. “So soft. So warm. You can practically feel her soul in it. All that ancient magic, contained in something so fragile.”
The dragon in Alessandro’s blood roared.
“If you touch her—”
“Touch her? I already have her. The most vulnerable part of her, anyway.” Malachar smiled. “Did you know that if you destroy a selkie’s pelt, they die? Not immediately, of course. It’s a slow process. The magic drains away, and they wither. But you can hurry it along if you know what you’re doing.”
Alessandro shifted.
He didn’t decide to. Didn’t plan it. One moment he was standing in the kitchen, rage burning in his chest; and the next he was dragon.
The apartment couldn’t contain him. He burst through the wall, talons shredding plaster and wood, and launched himself at Malachar. The demon was fast, impossibly fast, darting through the destroyed kitchen and out onto the street.
Alessandro pursued.
Fire poured from his mouth in concentrated streams, scorching the cobblestones where Malachar had stood a moment before. The demon laughed, a cold, hollow sound, and vanished.
Reappeared behind him.
Vanished again.
Alessandro destroyed a streetlight. A parked car. Half of a garden fence. He couldn’t think, couldn’t strategize, could only hunt and burn and rage.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew this was wrong. The dragon didn’t care. The dragon only understood that someone had threatened his mate.
Malachar led him to the hotel. Later, Alessandro would realize this was intentional; the demon wanted witnesses, wanted to force Alessandro to reveal his nature as destructively as possible.
In the moment, he only saw red.
The hotel lobby disintegrated around them. Furniture burst into flames. Windows shattered. Guests fled screaming while Alessandro’s dragon form thrashed through the space, trying desperately to reach the demon who kept flickering just out of reach.
Malachar laughed the whole time.
“Look at you,” he crowed, dodging another burst of flame. “So impressive. So powerful. And so utterly useless. You can’t protect her, dragon. You can’t even protect yourself.”
Alessandro lunged. Missed.
“She’s going to die knowing you failed her. Just like your grandfather failed. Just like your father is failing. The Draven curse claims everyone eventually, and all your fire won’t save a single one of them.”
His certainty broke.
Not his rage—the conviction beneath it. The part of him that had believed, despite everything, that he could fix this alone.
He crashed through a pillar. Hit the floor. Lay there in the wreckage of his own making, scales receding, fire dying, human form reasserting itself with brutal finality.
The transformation back was always worse. His bones ached. His skin felt too tight after the armor of scales. And without the dragon’s rage to shield him, every emotion came flooding back.
The hotel lobby was destroyed. Marble cracked and blackened. Chandeliers melted into abstract sculptures of twisted crystal. Guests clustered at the edges, staring.
And Malachar was gone.
Alessandro pushed himself to his knees amidst the rubble, naked, shaking, surrounded by destruction.
“I’ve made everything worse,” he whispered. “Everything I touch falls apart.”
“Then perhaps it’s time to stop touching.”
He looked up. Estelle stood in the ruins, immaculate despite the chaos, regarding him with ancient eyes.
“And start listening,” she finished.
“I don’t know how.”
“You start by admitting you need help.” She offered her hand. “You continue by accepting it.”
Alessandro stared at her outstretched hand.
He took Estelle’s hand.
“Four days until the full moon,” she said, pulling him to his feet. “That’s not much time to become a different person.”
“I know.”
“But it’s enough time to start.” Estelle wrapped her own coat around his shoulders. “Now stop destroying my town and go figure out how to be worthy of that love.”
She led him away from the destroyed lobby, past the gawking crowds and the arriving fire crews. The path she took was deliberate: away from Bea’s shop, away from Marina, toward the beach where the salt air could clear his head.
“Malachar wanted this,” Alessandro said as they walked. “He wanted me to lose control. Wanted the town to see what I really am.”
“Of course he did. Public destruction. Property damage. Terrified civilians.” Estelle’s voice was dry. “You gave him exactly what he wanted.”
“I know.”
“But here’s the interesting part.” She stopped at the edge of the sand, watching the waves roll in. “Everyone saw what you are: a dragon, powerful and dangerous. But they also saw why. They heard what he said about Marina’s pelt. They understand you were defending her.”
“I destroyed a hotel lobby.”
“Yes. And you’ll pay for the repairs. And you’ll apologize to everyone affected.” She turned to face him. “But this town knows the difference between a monster and a man who lost control because someone he loves was threatened. They’ve seen Malachar’s true nature now. They know what he is.”
“Small comfort.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps it’s the beginning of something larger.” Her ancient eyes gleamed. “You’re not the only one he’s hurt over the centuries. You’re not the only one who wants him stopped. And now that his mask has slipped, others might be willing to help.”
“We need a plan,” he said. “A real one. Not just rage.”
“Now you’re learning.” Estelle smiled. “Go clean yourself up. Eat something. And then come find me. We have work to do.” She paused, studying him with those ancient eyes.
“And Alessandro? When you see Marina (and you will see her) don’t try to fix things with words.
Show her with actions. That’s what she needs. That’s what she’s always needed.”
She walked away, leaving him alone with the sea.
Through the bond, Marina was distant, guarded, but still there.
He stood there until the salt dried on his skin and his hands stopped shaking. Then he went to find Estelle.