Page 38 of Crimson Curse
“Is it over?” she asks quietly, her voice laden with all our shared fears.
Lucien is gone,” I murmur, my tone unforgiving. “But Viktor still runs.”
Her gaze hardens with understanding. She has learned to read the shadows in my world and understands that peace is always temporary in the life we have chosen. She knows there will be no rest yet, no quiet mornings free from the demands of violence. She reaches out, her fingers brushing mine in a way that steadies me like nothing else can.
“For tonight,” she whispers, her thumb tracing across my knuckles, “we can breathe.”
I nod, drawing her hand fully into mine, grounding myself to her warmth and strength. For tonight, Lucien Antonov is dead and cannot threaten us any longer. But Viktor bleeds somewhere in the city, alive, dangerous, and waiting for his moment to strike.
The war is not over. It has only changed course.
15
NAOMI
I stand in the doorway of what I've begun to think of as our nursery, notebook pressed against my chest, pencil tucked behind my ear. For the first time since Viktor took that bullet and vanished into Chicago's underground, the silence feels almost peaceful. No emergency meetings echoing from Daniil's office. No urgent calls bleeding through the walls like poison. No reports of Viktor's movements turning every shadow into a potential threat.
It's been three days since Lucien breathed his last breath. Three days since Viktor went into hiding. The mansion rests in a stillness that feels foreign and almost dangerous in its completeness. But tonight, I let myself sink into it.
I've watched Daniil pace these halls, waiting for Viktor to resurface and the other shoe to drop. There have been no reports from hospitals or safehouses. No sightings by Daniil’s allies. Viktor simply vanished, wounded but alive, leaving behind only the echo of gunshots and Daniil's growing tension.
The room stretches before me, empty but not lifeless. Dust motes dance in the late afternoon light filtering through tallwindows, and I can see everything I want this space to become. In my notebook, I've filled page after page with sketches of simple outlines of cribs and mobiles, and others of mural ideas of painted vines climbing cream-colored walls, and stars scattered across the ceiling like wishes waiting to come true.
I press the edge of my pencil against fresh paper, shading where I want a cluster of clouds, and for a moment, I let myself believe this dream could be real. I picture myself here in the morning light, the scent of fresh linen drifting through an open window, and the sound of small hands.
My hand drifts to my stomach, resting over the small swell where life stirs. A quiet hum slips from me, a lullaby meant only for the tiny heartbeat within. I sketch another crib rail with careful lines, imagining small fingers curling around polished wood, and picture a mobile of soft fabric animals turning lazily.
Behind me, the air stirs, that subtle change that means Daniil has entered the room. He rarely makes a sound when he approaches, but I always know. It's the quiet brush of energy, the way my chest tightens as if my body recognizes his presence before my eyes do.
After months of living together under the constant threat of attack, we've developed an awareness of each other that runs deeper than sight or sound. I can feel his ice-gray eyes on me, studying my posture.
“You've been in here a long time,” Daniil observes, his accent threading through each word in that way that always makes my pulse falter.
I don't turn immediately, savoring this moment where I can pretend we're just any couple planning a future together. Wherethe notebook in my hands contains normal dreams instead of desperate hopes sketched between gunshots and strategic meetings.
When I finally face him, he leans against the doorframe, his broad frame almost filling it, dressed in a dark shirt unbuttoned at the throat. There's something different about him tonight. Less guarded. The perpetual tension that usually holds his shoulders rigid has eased slightly.
“I was sketching,” I reply softly. “Ideas, for later.”
Later implies survival and a world where Viktor's rage doesn't dictate our days and sleepless nights.
A faint crease forms between his brows. “Later,” he repeats, as though testing the word.
“Yes. For after.” I swallow, feeling exposed under his scrutiny. “For when Viktor’s threats are gone.”
He steps into the room slowly, as though the ground beneath his feet is unfamiliar territory. The space transforms around his presence, becoming charged with electricity that makes my skin hum with awareness. His hand brushes the corner of my notebook, his fingers grazing mine, and the contact sends heat shooting up my arm.
“You think of things like this when the world outside is on fire,” he murmurs.
“It's the only way to win,” I whisper back. “Otherwise, Viktor has taken everything.”
His eyes soften in a way that steals my breath. He studies the sketches more carefully, his thumb lingering over the line of a crib I drew with care.
“You will make this place beautiful,” he tells me, his voice quieter than I expect. “Something I never thought it could be.”
The sincerity in his tone breaks makes my chest ache. This mansion has worn many faces since I arrived: fortress, symbol of power, prison. But never a home.
I smile faintly, though my throat feels tight with emotion. “You will too, Daniil. You just don't know it yet.”
