Page 52 of Embers of Fate
There was a time when I would have given anything to live here, to immerse myself in the glittering world of art and fashion and endless possibility. But now... now it all feels hollow, a shiny veneer hiding the rot and decay beneath.
I release a long, weary sigh, sinking deeper into the plush leather sofa as I run my fingers back and forth over my gown, the repetitive motion soothing in its mindlessness.
“Any plans for tonight, brother?” Vlad asks, breaking the heavy silence that hangs over the room.
“None,” Gavriil replies, his tone curt and dismissive. Lazily, he picks up a WIRED magazine from the coffee table, his glazed eyes barely registering the words on the page. I know he’s not really reading, just going through the motions, his mind no doubt whirring with plans and schemes, always three steps ahead of the rest of us.
“What about you, Sam?” Vlad turns to me, his eyebrows arching softly, his expression gentle and inviting. He’s always been like this with me, all heart and warmth, the wolf to Gavriil’s bear.
“No plans tonight,” I mutter, the words tasting sour on my tongue. Gods, when did I become so bitter, so jaded? I’m moping and brooding just like Gavriil, a realization that sends a shudder of disgust through me. Have I really sunk so low?
“Then I’m sure we must come up with something,” Vlad says, his smile bright and hopeful, a valiant attempt to lighten the oppressive atmosphere. But it’s futile, a band-aid on a gaping wound. Everything feels bleak and pointless these days, a never-ending cycle of misery and frustration.
A knock on the door shatters the stillness, and Gavriil grunts in annoyance, rolling his eyes as he folds the magazine and tosses it aside. He slumps back on the sofa, his posture the very picture of royal ennui.
I scowl, turning to Vlad with a silent plea, but he just leans back, his stormy eyes meeting mine with a knowing look. The corner of his mouth twitches, a hint of a smirk that says, “You know I’m not getting that, right?”
Another knock, more insistent this time, and I feel my patience snap like a frayed thread.
I suck at my teeth, rising from my seat with a huff of irritation. “A little chivalry would be nice now and then,” I grumble under my breath as I march towards the door, my footsteps heavy with resentment.
It’s infuriating, the way they treat me. “Too mighty and kingly to open a door? Ugh!” I mutter, my hand closing around the lock with more force than necessary.
But as I turn the key and pull the door open, all thoughts of annoyance and frustration flee my mind, replaced by a shock so profound it steals the breath from my lungs.
Because there, standing on the other side of the threshold, is Nik.
My Nik.
31
SAM
“Nik,” I breathe, my fingers tightening on the door handle, my knees threatening to give out beneath me. His name falls from my lips like a prayer, a plea, a desperate attempt to make sense of the impossible sight before me.
“Sam,” he whispers back, ocean eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that steals my breath. He licks his lower lip, a nervous gesture that sends a shiver down my spine, and I find myself drinking in every detail of his face, from the chiseled line of his jaw to the perfect slope of his nose. And gods, that scent—that glorious, intoxicating cologne that clings to his skin, making my head spin and my heart race.
His hair is longer now, falling in tousled waves that beg for my fingers to run through them. It suits him, this new look—a little wild, a little untamed, like the man himself.
But then reality comes crashing back in, the shock of his presence hitting me like a punch to the gut. What is he doing here, at my house, with my brothers just a few rooms away?
Panic claws at my throat, my eyes widening as I hiss out a warning. “You can’t be here!”
But Nik doesn’t flinch, doesn’t back down. Instead, he presses his hand against the door, pushing it open with a slow, deliberate motion that brooks no argument.
He’s not leaving. And gods help me, I don’t want him to.
I cling to the door, my throat going dry as he steps inside, his presence filling the hallway like a physical thing. “Nik?” I whisper, my voice barely more than a breath. “What are you doing?”
He stops in the middle of the hall, turning to face me with a look that steals the air from my lungs. “Where is your brother?” he asks softly, his tone low and intimate, meant for my ears alone.
“M-My brother?” I stammer, my mind reeling. “Mybrothersare in the parlor.” Gods, Nik, take a hint! Run, before it’s too late!
But he doesn’t run. Instead, he nods, his eyebrows lifting slightly, his eyes filled with a longing so pure and undisguised it makes my heart ache. He purses his lips, and that dimple, that sinful little divot in his left cheek, winks at me, tempting me to lean in and press my mouth against it.
Focus, Samara!Nik is here, in your home, with both of your brothers just a few steps away. Is he mad? Does he have a death wish?
But as he takes a step forward, his gaze never leaving mine, I find myself moving with him, my arm lifting of its own accord to point down the hallway. He bows his head in silent acknowledgment, falling into step beside me as we make our way towards the parlor.
