Chapter 1 #4
Kellan smirks. “Knew you’d make a good first impression.”
Ash’s brow arches. “Anyone suspicious?”
“Nikolai,” I mutter. “He’s sharp. And bored. The dangerous kind.”
“Rafael’s right hand?” Kellan asks as he shifts into drive.
“Yeah. He did the interview. Told me if Rafael notices me, it’s because he let himself .”
Ash snorts. “Arrogant bastard.”
“No,” I say, my voice quieter. “Not arrogant. Just… honest.”
They both glance at me, but neither says anything.
Kellan pulls onto the main road, the city rushing past outside our windows. The hotel disappears behind us, swallowed by the skyline.
I lean my head against the window and close my eyes for just a second.
There’s a pulse beneath my skin I can’t quiet.
Not fear.
Not adrenaline.
Something else.
Something that started the second I stepped into that building.
And it has his name.
The SUV slows outside my building—tall, sleek glass, the kind that reflects the stars even when they’re hidden behind clouds. Doormen in pressed uniforms. Cameras angled just right. The illusion of safety wrapped in luxury.
Kellan pulls to the curb, puts the car in park.
“Want us to check the perimeter?” he asks.
“No need,” I say, unbuckling. “I’m fine.”
Ash doesn’t speak. He just watches me like he always does, eyes never soft, never tired.
As I reach for the door, Kellan adds, “Tomorrow… things shift. You walk into that place again, it’s not recon anymore. It’s war.”
I pause. Then look over my shoulder.
“I’ve been at war my whole life.”
And I step out, heels hitting the curb with a quiet click.
The lobby smells like white marble and chilled air. A concierge nods at me. I ignore him.
Upstairs, my penthouse is just as I left it—clean, quiet, untouched. Floor-to-ceiling windows with the whole city laid out below me, glittering like broken glass.
The door clicks shut behind me with a sound too loud for the quiet that lives inside this place.
My apartment is dark, lit only by the scattered city lights pouring through the massive windows. They cast long shadows across marble floors and minimal furniture, every edge sharp, untouched. This space isn’t warm. It’s not home.
It’s a facade. Just like me.
I walk across the open living room, shedding layers as I go—my scarf, my coat, the tension in my shoulders, even if only a little. I toe off my heels near the window and let my bare feet meet the cold floor. The cold always helps. It keeps the fire under my skin from burning too loud.
I stop in front of the glass wall and stare out at the city, glittering like it doesn’t know how many monsters walk its streets.
Or maybe it does. Maybe that’s why it glows—hoping the light can hide the rot underneath.
My reflection stares back at me in the glass. My features are soft in this light, almost delicate. It’s a lie. There’s nothing delicate left. Just sharp edges dressed in skin.
The woman in the glass is Natasha Orlova now. She has grace in her spine and silence in her mouth. She’s calm. Elegant. She doesn’t bleed when you cut her.
But I still do.
I press my hand to the glass and exhale.
You’re inside now, I remind myself. He’s close. All you have to do is watch. Listen. Wait. And when the time is right… you’ll finish what you started.
And yet… I can still feel it.
His presence.
Even now, far away, the memory of him lingers in my bones like a bruise I can’t touch. I didn’t even see him today, but I felt him. I felt the weight of his world pressing down on mine.
The men who orbit him are dangerous. But he’s something else.
Something colder.
Something I haven’t defined yet.
And that scares me more than I’ll admit.
I turn away from the window and walk toward the kitchen. Everything here is sleek—black counters, clean lines, untouched appliances. I never cook. I barely eat. Food feels… trivial when your hunger is for something deeper.
I pour a glass of water, the silence stretching tight around me.
I used to crave silence.
Now it feels like a waiting room before the kill.
I sip slowly, my fingers gripping the glass a little too tightly. My pulse still hasn’t fully settled, and I hate that. I hate how my body reacts even when my mind is disciplined. Hate how Rafael’s name—just his name—makes something coil in my stomach I can’t identify.
Not yet.
I carry the glass with me as I walk back to my bedroom. The hallway is dim, lights low, just how I like them. Nothing here is cluttered. No photos. No color. Nothing personal. That was always the rule: don’t bring ghosts where you sleep.
But I keep the locket on.
Always.
I reach up and undo the chain, setting it gently on the dresser beside the bed. My eyes catch the photo inside—worn, faded. A moment frozen in time that I can’t let go of.
They should’ve grown old.
I should’ve had birthdays.
Christmases.
A father who walked me down an aisle. A mother who kissed my cheek when I was too tired to stand.
Instead, I got ash. And blood. And a name to hunt in the dark.
Rafael.
He became my answer when the world stopped giving me questions.
But now… I’m not so sure.
I set the glass down and slowly peel off my clothes, exchanging them for one of the oversized black tees I keep in the drawer by the bed. It swallows my frame, soft against skin that’s always prepared to bruise.
Sliding into the sheets feels foreign. I rarely sleep more than a few hours at a time. Dreams are dangerous things. They trick you into thinking you’re safe, then show you all the ways you’re not.
I lie on my side, facing the window, the lights of the city blinking slowly in the distance.
My fingers curl under the pillow.
Tomorrow, I walk into his world like I belong there. Tomorrow, I become the girl he notices. Tomorrow, the game begins for real.
But tonight… Tonight, I let myself rest in the illusion of silence.
Because for the first time in fifteen years, I’m close enough to burn him .
And if I do this right, he won’t even see the match in my hand.