Page 32 of Crimson Curse
My office suddenly feels smaller. This is psychological warfare, a targeted strike designed to hurt Naomi in the most personal waypossible while demonstrating that my protection means nothing when they decide to move against what I care about.
I push back from my desk and head for the library, my footsteps loud in the hallways that suddenly feel too quiet and empty. The house around me, this fortress I've built to keep my world separate from everything that could threaten it, feels like it's been compromised in an unrecognizable way.
I find Naomi exactly where I expected to, curled on the leather sofa with her glasses sliding down her nose, and a pen caught between her fingers as she works through notes for another project. The lamplight paints her hair copper and gold, highlighting the concentration in her expression. She looks up when she hears my approach, and I watch her face change as she studies mine, reading the tension in my shoulders and the restrained anger I'm trying to keep locked behind my teeth.
“What happened?” she asks, her face creasing with the understanding that whatever brought me here will change something fundamental about her world.
“They took the reliquary,” I tell her, watching the words register. “Lucien stole it. Viktor told him exactly how to hurt you.”
Her pen falls from nerveless fingers, forgotten as the reality sinks in. “No... the security system, the guards, the protocols that were put in place...”
“They walked through it like it wasn't there.”
The security system at the museum isn't amateur work. I've seen the specifications myself and reviewed the camera placements and alarm configurations when Naomi first started working on her exhibit. Motion sensors, pressure plates, and magnetic locks that should have triggered the moment someone breathedwrong in the vicinity of that display case. Yet somehow, Lucien's people moved through it all like ghosts, leaving no trace except the absence of the one thing that mattered most.
Her expression hardens, disbelief turning dangerous. I recognize that look, have seen it in my own mirror when someone pushes too hard against boundaries I've drawn in blood.
“Why would Viktor do this?” she asks, though I can hear in her voice that she already knows the answer.
“Because Viktor wanted this to leave a mark. And Lucien doesn't just wound. He makes sure it feels like it will never heal."
Viktor understands psychological warfare in ways that make him more dangerous than any conventional enemy. He doesn't just want to hurt me, he wants to destroy the parts of my life that make me human and connect me to something beyond the brutal mathematics of power and control. Taking the reliquary isn't about money or strategic advantage. It's about demonstrating that my love for Naomi makes me vulnerable in ways that can be easily exploited.
She pushes to her feet, looking like a warrior preparing for battle. “We're going to the museum,” she hisses.
I don't argue. I don't try to convince her that staying home would be safer, or that seeing the empty display case will only make the wound deeper. Naomi needs to see this with her own eyes to understand exactly what we're facing so she can make informed decisions about what comes next. I've learned not to underestimate her strength or assume she'll break under pressure just because she chooses compassion over violence in most situations.
The drive to the museum passes in tense silence, Chicago's nighttime streets flowing past my windows like scenes from someone else's life. I keep my hands steady on the steering wheel, but inside, I'm already planning the response this theft demands. Viktor and Lucien have made another move and have chosen to escalate this conflict into territory where collateral damage becomes inevitable. They want a war, and they're about to discover exactly what that means when they're facing someone who learned strategy from Galina Zorin herself.
When we arrive, Charlotte is already there, leaning against her car in the side parking lot, impatience radiating from her like she’s been waiting too long for answers. She must have broken every speed limit in the city to get here this quickly, dropping everything the moment Naomi told her about the theft. She goes straight to Naomi the moment we step out of my car, pulling her into a tight hug.
“You okay?” Charlotte asks, though her eyes are already searching Naomi's face for signs of damage that might not be immediately visible.
Naomi shakes her head but stays present instead of retreating into the shocked numbness that would be understandable under these circumstances. “No.”
Charlotte glances at me, then back at Naomi, and I can see her putting pieces together, connecting this theft to the larger pattern of violence that's been escalating around us for weeks.
“Someone knew exactly what that piece meant to you,” she states.
“That someone is Viktor,” I tell her, watching her expression harden, a reminder of why I’ve always respected Charlotte’sloyalty to Naomi. She might not understand the full scope of what my world contains, but she recognizes betrayal when she sees it, understanding that this attack was personal in ways that make it unforgivable.
Charlotte unleashes a string of profanity that would earn my enforcers’ respect, her eyes narrowing with the kind of rage born from watching her best friend bleed at the hands of people in my world.
“Then he needs to pay for it,” she snaps, “and for every other vile thing he’s done.”
We head inside, past security guards who are rattled but cooperative, past yellow tape and official procedures that mean nothing when you're operating in the spaces between legal and necessary. The museum feels different at night, sterile and empty in ways that emphasize the absence of the crowds and children's voices that usually fill these halls during business hours. The sound of our footsteps bounces off the high ceilings and classical architecture, built to inspire awe and reverence for the treasures within.
The gallery where the reliquary was displayed feels like a crime scene, which it technically is. Police tape marks off the area around the empty display case, and I can see where forensics teams dusted for fingerprints they won't find and searched for DNA evidence that doesn't exist. Lucien's people are too professional to leave traces behind.
Naomi stops in front of the empty display, and I watch her hand hover over the glass case. The placard is still there, describing the historical significance of the Byzantine reliquary in language that manages to be scholarly yet accessible. But the space wherethe artifact should have rested is empty, a void that seems to pull light and hope into its darkness.
“They didn't just take it,” she whispers, her voice carrying a soul-deep pain. “They took the part of me that believed my work couldn't be touched by your world.”
The words feel like a blade between the ribs, designed to find the spaces where guilt lives in my chest. She's right, of course. I brought this violence into her life and made her a target for enemies who see her as nothing more than leverage to use against me. Every choice I've made, every line I've drawn to protect her, has ultimately failed when it mattered most.
I stand beside her, close enough to offer what comfort physical presence can provide, but careful not to touch her when she might need space to process what this theft means for her future, and our future together.
“Then we take it back,” I vow.
