Page 22 of Veinblood
Outside my window, Chicago lies quiet under snow. Christmas morning has brought an unusual stillness to the city. There is no traffic, no people hurrying along the sidewalk. There is only silence and me, lying in bed, memorizing every detail of the man beside me, just in case he disappears when I blink.
My stomach eventually breaks the spell, and I slip out from under his arm, holding my breath when he shifts slightly. But he doesn’t wake up, still lost to sleep and whatever dreams are holding him.
In the kitchen, I move around quietly, making coffee and digging through the refrigerator. It’s full of things I bought for my sad solo Christmas dinner, and not much else. My plan had been for a quiet holiday spent alone with takeout and Netflix, maybe a bottle of wine and some self-pity about another year passing without any significant changes in my life. It seems like that plan belonged to someone else entirely, someone who worried about ordinary things like work deadlines and whether to get premium cable.
Someone who didn't know that other worlds existed, that magic was real, and that love could feel like drowning and flying at the same time.
Love?
The word stops me cold. When did I start thinking of thisas love? When did this desperate need, this protectiveness, this feeling like my chest might crack open from the weight of it, become love?
I set the mug down with shaking hands.
I love him. I don’t just care about him. I’m not just attracted to him.
I. Love. Him.
The real thing. The kind that changes everything. The kind that rewrites the story of who you are and what you want from life.
The kind that terrifies me because it means I can't pretend it's anything else. I can't minimize it or make it smaller than it is. Because this is my life now.Heis my life now.
Someone who thought the biggest adventure she'd ever have was maybe taking a vacation to Europe someday is in love with a man from another world.
I can barely remember what it’s like to live in this world, to think that this apartment, this city, this life was all there was. To not know that somewhere across dimensions, a man was waiting in a tower for someone to set him free.
I pick my coffee back up and walk toward the bedroom, where I pause in the doorway and lean against the frame. Sacha is still asleep, but he’s changed position. His arm is slightly outstretched across the space where I had been. Even in deep sleep, some part of him seems aware of my absence.
In sleep, the contradictions that define him become more obvious. The strength of his features, mix with the vulnerable softness of his mouth. The man who once manipulated me intobreaking his binding in the tower now trusts me enough to sleep in my presence.
When did that change? When did mutual necessity transform into something deeper, something that makes my chest ache just thinking about it?
Was it when I touched his familiar? Or was it when the connection between us first opened, and I felt the crushing weight of his loneliness, his decades of isolation? Or maybe it was when he sent the raven to me as he fell at River Crossing, choosing to save me even as he faced death. Or was it after Glassfall Gap when our powers combined to heal his tortured body, when I felt our magic intertwine like our souls were recognizing each other? Maybe it was later, at Thornspire, when we faced Sereven together. Or maybe it was all of those moments, a slow accumulation of trust and need over time.
Maybe it doesn't matter when it started, only that it did. Maybe the only thing that matters is that what we have now feels as essential as breathing, as inevitable as sunrise.
Whatdoesmatter is that I'm not the same person who disappeared from Chicago. I've seen another world, developed abilities I could never have imagined, and took a side in a war. The change I’ve gone through goes deeper than silver eyes, streaks in my hair, or power under my skin. It’s rewritten my understanding of what's possible, what matters, and what I'm capable of becoming.
Sacha stirs, his hand moving across the empty space to where I should be. The gesture touches something deepinside me. This man who survived alone for decades is reaching for me.
I return to the bed, setting my coffee on the nightstand before sliding beneath the covers. His body shifts toward mine, arm returning to its position across my waist. The weight feels right, natural.
“You left,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
“Just for coffee,” I whisper. “I didn't mean to disturb you.”
His eyes remain closed, but a small smile touches his lips. “It was your absence that disturbed me, not your movement.”
The words sink into me, wrap around me, their meaning extending beyond this moment to encompass everything we've experienced. From the tower to Thornspire to Chicago, separation has always been the true disturbance.
His breathing deepens again, sleep reclaiming him. I settle against him, his naked chest warm against my back. The coffee on the nightstand grows cold, forgotten as my own eyes grow heavy, and I’m pulled back into sleep.
When I wake the second time, the quality of light has changed. It’s mid-morning now. Sacha’s breathing has changed, too. Less deep, more aware. He’s surfacing from sleep, slowly and naturally, without the sharp alertness that usually marks his waking.
His hand moves up my stomach, curves over my breast, and Ifeelthe moment consciousness fully returns to him. Feel the precise instant when Sacha the man becomes Sacha thestrategist, always cataloging, always aware. But this morning, that awareness is focused entirely on me.
His lips find my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there as his hand moves down my stomach. When his fingers slide between my legs, I press back against him, my body responding to his touch.
“Turn over.”
