Page 50 of Wicked Embers

Terror twists my stomach, and I go still. “Who are you? What do you want?” I mumble against his hand.

“If I let go, you have to promise not to scream,” he whispers, low and calm. “Nod if I can trust you.”

I hesitate, my body trembling, but I nod. Slowly, he releases me, stepping back just enough for me to turn around.

I whirl on him, ready to scream if I have to—but the sound dies in my throat the moment I see his face.

Eyes. Those eyes. They’re mine. A rare, piercing green—almost too vivid to be real. The exact same pigmentation. Hisjet-black hair, dusted with silver, frames a face both familiar and foreign. A face that pulls at something deep inside me. A locked door in my memory rattles violently, threatening to burst open.

I stumble back, my voice cracking. “Who the hell are you?”

His lips press into a thin line, his expression careful, but I see the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders stiffen. He’s holding something back. Something heavy.

“I’m Nickolas Vasilikis,” he says, his voice gentler than before. “This isn’t how I wanted us to meet again, Lulu-Petal.”

Again?My chest tightens, and I shake my head, trying to make sense of the swirling chaos in my mind. Shards of memory flash—half-formed images, fragments of voices, laughter, warmth—but they’re blurry, distorted, just out of reach.

“I know you,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “I don’t know how, but I do.”

“You do,” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting in the faintest smile. “Your memory may be locked away, but your heart remembers.”

My pulse thunders in my ears. “How do you know what my mother called me?” I demand, the words rushing out like bullets. “How do you know anything about me? Answer me, or I’ll scream this house down.”

His smile fades, replaced by something raw—grief, maybe, or regret. It’s almost too much to look at. “Lulu-Petal,” he says softly, “I gave you that name.”

“No.” I shake my head, taking a step back as if distance will undo what he’s just said. “You’re lying.” But the words don’t feel right. They stick in my throat, heavy with doubt. My pulse roarslouder as the fragments swirl faster, almost frantic now. His eyes, those damn eyes, tug at something buried deep inside me. Something familiar. Something I’m too scared to name.

He exhales slowly, like he’s bracing himself for a blow. “I named you Leigh on the day you were born because your mother and I hadn’t found a name for you yet,” he says. “Then, the first time you smiled at me, you became my Lulu-Petal.”

My heart stutters. “Liar!” My voice cracks as panic rises, sharp and jagged. “My father named me Leigh.”

A shadow crosses his face. Nikolas nods, his voice low but steady. “You were named Leigh because when you first opened your eyes, their green was so vibrant, it put the lushest spring meadow to shame.”

His words swirl in my mind, shattering something deep inside me. Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back, refusing to let them fall. “What are you saying?” My voice is barely above a whisper now, trembling as violently as my hands. I already know. Deep down, I’ve known since the moment I saw him. But my mind refuses to accept it. “Who are you?”

He steps closer, his movements deliberate, his gaze never leaving mine. “I know you’re scared Leigh,” he says, his voice a mix of pain and warmth. “And I know this is too much, too soon. But we’ve run out of time.”

I back up until my shoulders hit the door. “Don’t—“

“I’m your father.” The words hang heavy in the air, final and inescapable.

The words hang in the air, heavy and final. My breath catches, and for a moment, the world feels like it’s tilting.Everything I thought I knew about myself shifts, cracks, threatens to break apart entirely.

Nikolas doesn’t move, doesn’t say another word. He just stands there, letting the truth sink in, his eyes never leaving mine.

And in those eyes, I see it. The same pain, the same longing, the same love. The truth.

Chapter 19

RADOMIR

I swirl the vodka in my glass, the burn of the alcohol doing little to ease the tension knotted in my chest. The penthouse office gleams, restored to perfection after the breach, but the chaos left behind isn’t so easily scrubbed away.

The Ember Club was a waste of time. Gavriil and I were on our way when Tara called in a panic to report that Carla had been attacked in her dressing room. The emergency button installed in every dressing room in case of pushy fans had saved her life, but not before she broke her leg trying to escape.

Carla described the assailant as stocky, no taller than six feet, with cold blue eyes, an accent, and dressed in all black with his face covered. Before the Ember Club security could get there, the fucker vanished into the night.

Four break-ins in one day. Carla’s dressing room, my office, my penthouse study, and Mark’s hotel room—ransacked. I don’t for one moment think it’s a coincidence that this happened the day after Dalton gave me that fucking documentand put his daughter in my protection. All the break-ins had one thing in common—him.

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