The faint glow of the setting sun filtered through the blinds, streaking Dimitri's chambers with slanted bars of dim orange light. The air was heavy with the weight of the day, tinged with the faint scent of leather and steel. His desk was a mess—a chaos of maps, tactical reports, and photographs, the kind of disarray that usually set his nerves on edge. But tonight, he couldn't bring himself to care.
Photographs of the Badica attack lay scattered across the surface, their stark imagery refusing to be ignored. Tactical layouts of the estate, detailed maps of the grounds, and high-definition images of the victims. The clinical sharpness of the photographs didn't soften their brutality; if anything, it made the horror more vivid.
The shots of the Guardians hit hardest. Each one captured in their final post, their bodies slumped but their weapons untouched. They had been taken out so cleanly, so quickly, they hadn't even had a chance to defend themselves. Dimitri's eyes lingered on one photo—a Guardian barely out of his twenties, his uniform immaculate even in death, a single bullet wound at the base of his skull. The precision chilled him.
Next to it was the image of Princess Marcella Badica, her lifeless form draped in crimson-stained silk, the evidence of Strigoi savagery clear on her neck. Dimitri's jaw tightened, his teeth grinding as he forced himself to keep looking. He couldn't afford to turn away.
They need answers, he thought bitterly. And I have to give them.
Dimitri leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to push the image of her face from his mind. He had not slept in over 24 hours, and the exhaustion was beginning to seep into his bones, making every breath feel heavier. His body ached, his temples throbbed, but it was the proximity of the attack that kept his mind turning in restless circles.
Twenty miles. That was all that separated the Badica residence from the Academy. Close. Far too close.
The weight of it settled on his chest like a stone. He was responsible for every life on this campus—for the wards that protected them, for the Guardians who watched over them. And this attack, so close, so calculated, was a crack in that fragile safety. A warning, whispered in blood.
His gaze flickered to the window. The sun was almost gone now, the shadows stretching longer, deeper. Soon, the Academy would be plunged into darkness, the wards their only barrier against the horrors lurking beyond.
He glanced at the clock. Less than an hour. The weight of what he had to do pressed heavily on him, tightening the coil in his chest. Guardians relied on him to lead. Moroi trusted him to protect. He carried it all—their safety, their survival—on shoulders that hadn't rested in years.
The room was stifling, the air thick with the scent of old paper, ink, and blood. The smell still clung to him, even after the hurried shower he'd managed upon his return. It was faint, just a trace, but enough to pull him back into that house—its cold walls, the stillness that lingered long after the violence had ended. His eyes drifted to the corner of the desk where a cup of water sat forgotten. He reached for it, only to pull his hand back when he caught sight of his fingers trembling.
Get it together, he told himself, clenching his fist to still the tremor. But the exhaustion wouldn't be silenced, and neither would the gnawing anxiety clawing at his mind. The Badica attack—the clean shots, the precise entries, the organized chaos that bore none of the hallmarks of a typical Strigoi massacre. This wasn't chaos. It was control. Strategy.
A part of him wished he could unsee it, but he couldn't. He had been trained to look, to notice, to remember. It was his job to find the patterns others missed, to anticipate threats before they struck. But this… this was something else entirely.
Less than an hour. In less than an hour, he would stand before his colleagues, his charges, his responsibility. He would plaster these images onto the briefing board, laying out the grim details of the attack with all the detached professionalism expected of him. And they would listen, silent and grim, absorbing the weight of the information he delivered.
It wasn't the first time. He'd done the same months ago, after Budapest. Dimitri could still remember standing in that same briefing room months ago, breaking the news of the massacre. The photographs had been even more gruesome then, the number of victims higher, the devastation incomprehensible. He'd pinned each image to the board, the bloodstained faces and mangled bodies staring back at him as if demanding justice he couldn't provide.
His hand paused on his brow, his fingers brushing absently against the raw edge of the scar slicing through his left eyebrow, and before he could stop himself, he reached into the bottom drawer of his desk. The key turned with a soft click, and he pulled out a small stack of files. He shifted them aside until he found what he was looking for—a single photograph, its edges worn from too many moments like this.
Rose.
Dimitri stared down at the image, his thumb brushing against the edge of the glossy paper. In the photograph, she was sitting on the back of an ambulance, her body wrapped in a foil blanket. Her hair hung in tangled, blood-soaked strands around her face, and her clothes were shredded almost beyond recognition. She was barefoot, her feet smeared with grime and red. But it was her eyes that held him captive, the same way they had the day he found her.
They were wide, unseeing, their golden hue dulled by exhaustion and trauma. Yet, there was something else there, something feral and untamed, a spark that had refused to be extinguished despite the carnage around her.
Drakovich had called her a wolf. He wasn't wrong. She looked like someone who had clawed her way out of hell itself.
Dimitri leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk as he stared at the photograph. He had been there when the picture was taken. In fact, he had been there long before that moment—when he first found her.
The air at the outskirts of Budapest was thick with the metallic tang of blood and smoke, a miasma that clung to Dimitri's senses and refused to let go. The makeshift crisis cell, set up just beyond the village's ruins, buzzed with frantic energy. Guardians moved with grim purpose, their boots crunching over gravel and their voices sharp with urgency. It was minutes before dawn, the horizon bruised with the faintest hint of light.
Dimitri arrived with his squad, exhaustion weighing on his shoulders from the hours of travel. The reports they'd received had been vague but ominous: Strigoi attack. Unprecedented scale. Casualties unknown. Even then, nothing could have prepared him for the scene that awaited.
As he stepped out of the transport, his sharp eyes scanned the chaos around him—guardians barking orders, medics rushing between stations, and the sound of a woman's voice that cut through the din, sharp and desperate.
He didn't have to look to know it was Janine Hathaway.
"Move!" The voice was raw, filled with a mother's anguish. "Let me through! My daughter's in there!"
Janine Hathaway was a force of nature, her normally composed demeanor shattered as she shoved against two Central Command officers who tried in vain to hold her back. Dimitri had heard stories of her tenacity, her unrelenting will, but seeing it now was something else entirely.
"Janine," one of the officers tried, his voice firm but sympathetic. "We're doing everything we can. The area isn't secure yet—"
"She's in there!" Janine's voice cracked, her fists pounding against the officer's chest. "She's still in there! Let me through, damn you!"
Dimitri turned away, the scene lodging itself uncomfortably in his chest as he focused on the task ahead. They hadn't let anyone into the village yet, not until the sun broke fully over the horizon. The Strigoi were gone—they always were by morning—but protocol demanded caution. Dimitri hated the waiting, the helplessness of standing there while knowing what lay ahead. He clenched his fists, willing himself to focus.
When the order finally came, Dimitri's boots crunched against the frost-covered ground as he and the others stepped through the gates. The village, once picturesque and full of life, was unrecognizable. Homes stood as hollowed-out husks, their windows shattered and walls scorched. Bodies littered the streets, their blood pooling in the cracks of the cobblestones, the red glinting like rubies in the pale morning light.
Carnage was too small a word for what Dimitri saw. It wasn't just death; it was destruction, total and all-encompassing. Strigoi were savage, but this was methodical. Systematic. It looked more like a battlefield than an attack.
Dimitri moved quickly, his sharp eyes scanning the rubble for any signs of life. He stepped over the body of a Guardian, his throat torn out, and kept moving, his pulse thrumming in his ears. His squad fanned out, calling out names and checking the fallen, but no one responded.
And then, amidst the rubble, he saw her.
At first, he thought she was another body. She sat slumped against a crumbled stone wall, her head bowed, her dark hair matted with blood. Her clothes were in tatters, barely clinging to her frame, and her bare feet rested in a pool of crimson. But then she shifted, just slightly, and Dimitri froze.
She was alive.
His heart jumped as he stepped closer, his boots crunching against the debris. "Guardian," he called softly, keeping his weapons hidden and his hands raised. "Are you okay?"
She didn't respond. Her head lifted slowly, as though it took all the strength she had left, and her eyes—molten gold and wide as the moon—met his.
Dimitri's breath caught in his chest. Those eyes… they were unlike anything he'd ever seen. They burned through him, feral and sharp, as if she was looking straight into his soul.
And then he noticed what she was holding.
In her lap lay the lifeless body of a man, his face almost unrecognizable from the violence inflicted upon him. But Dimitri knew who it was—Lord Kieran Volkov. One of their primary targets, now dead, his blood soaking into her shredded clothes.
"It's alright," Dimitri tried again, his voice gentler this time. "It's okay. You're safe now."
Her grip on Volkov's body tightened, and in an instant, she moved. Dimitri barely registered the blur of motion before she brandished a blood-slicked knife, the blade catching the morning light. She held it out in front of her, her arm trembling but her grip firm.
"Stay back," she rasped, her voice cracked and raw. Her pupils were pinpricks against the amber of her irises, her expression a mask of fury and fear.
Dimitri raised his hands higher, taking a cautious step back. "I'm here to help," he said softly, his heart pounding. "It's over now. You're safe."
But she didn't relax. Her breathing was ragged, her chest heaving as though she'd run a marathon. "Stay the fuck back!" she screamed, the sound raw and unsteady, reverberating through the empty streets.
Dimitri's training told him to wait, to give her time to assess him as a non-threat. But another part of him—a deeper, instinctive part—wanted to move closer. There was something about her, something more than the blood and the chaos surrounding her. How was she alive? How had she survived this?
She lunged before he could think, the knife slicing through the air and grazing his brow. Pain seared through him as he stumbled back, his hand flying to his face. Blood dripped into his eye, warm and sticky, but he didn't retaliate.
"I'm not here to hurt you," he said firmly, his voice steady despite the throbbing in his head. "It's over. I promise you, it's over."
She faltered, her arm trembling as the knife wavered. Her eyes darted between him and Volkov's body, and for the first time, Dimitri saw a flicker of doubt in her gaze.
"Rose," a voice called out behind him, sharp and desperate. Dimitri turned slightly to see Janine Hathaway rushing forward, her face a mask of anguish. "Rose, it's me!"
The knife dropped from Rose's hand, clattering against the cobblestones. She blinked once, her fiery gaze softening just enough for Dimitri to see the exhaustion in her. And then, before Janine reached her, Rose collapsed, her body folding into itself like a puppet with its strings cut.
Dimitri caught her before she hit the ground, his hands steady as he cradled her battered form. She was unconscious, her breathing shallow but steady, her weight a feather in his arms.
As Janine reached them, her sobs filling the air, Dimitri couldn't help but stare down at the girl in his arms. How in the world was she still alive?
The photograph trembled slightly in his grip. Dimitri blinked, the memory dissipating like smoke, though its weight lingered in his chest. Rose's unseeing eyes still stared up at him from the glossy surface, a reminder of everything she'd endured—and everything she might yet face.
The room was too quiet, the muffled tick of the clock on the wall a stark contrast to the chaos echoing in his mind. He ran his thumb over the scar cutting through his brow once again, the faint throb of phantom pain grounding him just enough to act.
With deliberate movements, he slid the photograph back into the drawer, hiding it beneath the stack of files. But his hand lingered for a moment longer, the memories refusing to be so easily stowed away.
His thought flicked to the blade hidden in his coat's pocket, and slowly, he pulled it out.
Rose's knife.
The metal gleamed faintly in the dim light, its edge dulled by time and wear, but still unmistakable. It was hers, lost in the madness of Budapest, and now inexplicably here—at the scene of another massacre. The questions it raised burned as hot as the blade itself seemed to in his mind. Who had placed it there? Was it a message? A threat? A cruel coincidence?
Dimitri exhaled sharply, turning the knife and weighing it in his hand. It felt heavier than it should, as if it carried all the unspoken truths and unasked questions he didn't yet have answers for. For a brief moment, he thought about locking it away with the photograph, keeping them both hidden where no one could find them. But hiding it wouldn't change the reality of what it meant—or what he had to do.
He leaned forward, placing the blade gently into the drawer alongside the photograph. The metal clinked softly against the wood, a sound that seemed to echo louder than it should have in the stillness. He locked the drawer with a decisive twist of the key, but the weight in his chest didn't ease.
The Academy briefing loomed ahead, a gathering of tired guardians, wary teachers, and nervous administrators. He could handle that; it was part of the job. What he wasn't ready for was facing Rose.
How would she react to the news of the Badica attack? The last thing she needed was to be dragged into another nightmare. And yet, the knife in his drawer felt like a tether, tying her to a web he couldn't yet see.
Dimitri ran a hand down his face, the stubble on his jaw scraping against his palm. He hadn't slept in over a day, and the exhaustion weighed heavily on him, but it wasn't just the lack of rest. It was the choices he had to make—choices that didn't have clear answers.
The knife burned a hole in his thoughts. Should he tell her? Show her? Keep it hidden until he understood more? Every option felt like a betrayal in some way—of her trust, of his duty, of the fragile balance he was trying to maintain.
He stood, the chair scraping against the floor as he pushed it back. His reflection in the small mirror on the wall startled him; his face was drawn, his eyes shadowed with fatigue. He straightened his shoulders, forcing the weariness into submission. Whatever he felt, whatever doubts gnawed at him, would have to wait. The Academy was his responsibility, and so was she.
Sliding his coat over his shoulders, Dimitri glanced at the locked drawer one last time before heading for the door. The knife was safe there for now, but it wouldn't stay hidden forever. He would have to decide what to do soon—before the decision was taken from him.
The walls of the briefing room seemed to close in on Rose, the dull hum of murmured voices fading into static. She sat stiffly in one of the chairs at the back, her fingers curled tightly around the edge of the seat. The room was dimly lit, the flickering fluorescents casting harsh shadows that did nothing to soften the weight pressing down on her.
Belikov's voice droned on at the front of the room, calm and measured as he relayed the details of the attack. His words were sharp, precise, but Rose heard them as if through a fog, muffled and distorted. The images projected on the board behind him barely registered in her mind, though she could feel the others around her recoiling at the sight of the carnage.
"…guardians shot at their posts. Precision strikes," Dimitri was saying. "Moroi found in their beds. No sign of struggle. The wards were intact but weakened."
The words struck like blows, but Rose didn't flinch. Her training held her steady, her posture straight and her expression carefully blank. She stared at the floor, at the scuffed toes of her boots, willing herself to focus on something tangible, something safe.
Her breathing was shallow, her chest tight as if the air itself had turned against her. She couldn't look at the board, couldn't see the images. But they were there, burning into her peripheral vision, dragging her back.
Precision strikes. Moroi in their beds.
Budapest.
Her pulse quickened, a sharp, painful thrum in her ears. She could still hear the crunch of glass beneath her boots, the wet, sickly sound of blood pooling in the streets. The smell of it—coppery and thick—clung to her skin, no matter how many times she'd scrubbed it away. Her fingers twitched, ghosting over the knife she no longer carried, and her throat tightened with the memory of screaming.
"Hathaway."
The sound of her name cut through the haze, and her head jerked up, her eyes snapping to the front of the room. Belikov's gaze found hers, steady and unreadable, but she quickly looked away, pretending to adjust the sleeve of her jacket. She could feel the weight of his attention, the way it lingered for just a moment too long before he turned back to the room.
She wasn't the only one struggling. The other guardians around her were grim-faced, their shoulders heavy with the weight of what they were hearing. Even the younger Moroi teachers, who rarely attended these briefings, looked pale and shaken. But none of them carried the burden she did, the memories clawing at the edges of her mind.
Belikov continued, his voice low but commanding. "This wasn't a random attack. The precision, the coordination—it's unlike anything we've seen before. Whoever orchestrated this knew what they were doing. This was calculated."
Calculated. The word hung in the air, cold and sharp. Rose's nails dug into the soft fabric of her jeans, her jaw tightening as she fought to keep her composure. Her body screamed to move, to do something, anything, but she was trapped—by the room, by the memories, by the eyes that occasionally flicked in her direction.
"…Princess Marcella Badica was among the victims." Dimitri's voice softened, but it didn't lose its edge. "Her death leaves a vacancy in the royal council, and tensions among the families will undoubtedly escalate in the days to come."
A low murmur rippled through the room, but Rose barely registered it. Her chest ached with the effort of holding herself together, her breaths shallow and uneven. Her vision blurred at the edges, and she blinked hard, forcing herself to stay grounded. The sharp scent of the briefing room—the faint trace of polish and sweat—was a far cry from the iron tang of Budapest, but it still wasn't enough.
She forced her focus to Dimitri, his presence at the front of the room the only thing anchoring her. His movements were precise, controlled, as he adjusted the photographs on the board and gestured to the map of the Badica estate. The lines of his face were drawn tight, exhaustion evident in the set of his jaw, but his voice didn't waver.
How could he stand there, so steady, so calm, when everything inside her felt like it was breaking?
The briefing dragged on, every word a hammer blow against her fragile armor. Rose kept her head down, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her nails biting into her palms. She didn't dare move, didn't dare blink for fear of losing the tenuous grip she had on herself.
"…and until we know more, we'll be increasing patrols around the Academy," Dimitri finished, his gaze sweeping the room. "This attack was close—too close. I expect everyone to remain vigilant. Dismissed."
The room stirred as people began to rise, their movements slow and heavy, the weight of the briefing hanging over them. Rose stayed seated, her legs feeling as though they'd been turned to lead. The quiet murmurs of conversation around her—snippets of concern and disbelief—were distant, muffled like a voice through water. She stared ahead, unblinking, her fingers gripping the edges of her seat.
The scrape of a chair drew her attention, subtle but insistent. She turned slightly, her pulse quickening as Belikov took the seat next to hers. He didn't speak, didn't demand her attention—he simply sat there, his presence steady and grounding. For a long moment, neither of them said anything. He didn't push, and she couldn't find the words to begin.
Finally, she broke the silence, her voice low and frayed. "So it's happening again."
Dimitri didn't answer right away. His dark eyes studied her, quiet and calculating, before he hummed softly, an acknowledgment rather than confirmation. The sound carried a weight that made her chest tighten.
He shifted slightly, leaning closer, and Rose froze as his hand reached up toward her. She felt the ghost of his touch before his fingers brushed against her hair, carefully tucking it aside. His movements were deliberate, unhurried, and the tension coiling in her chest became something else entirely.
"Let me see," he murmured, his voice low enough to send a ripple of something unfamiliar down her spine. His fingertips grazed the skin at the nape of her neck, feather-light but sure, and she shivered despite herself.
Her breath hitched as he leaned closer, his focus entirely on the mark that had been searing into her skin since the attack at Budapest. The heat of his presence was palpable, his closeness both comforting and unsettling. She held still, every nerve alight as his careful fingers traced the edges of the mark, examining the fevered skin with an intensity that made her pulse quicken.
"It's still not started to heal properly," he said finally, his voice a soft rumble. There was a frown in his tone, though she couldn't see his face. "We should take a closer look at it."
Rose shifted uncomfortably, pulling away slightly. "I'm fine," she said, a little too quickly. Her fingers twitched, brushing against the edge of the table. "What's the point? It's not going anywhere."
"It could be infected," Dimitri countered, his voice calm but insistent. "Or worse, it could mean something we don't understand yet."
Rose didn't have a response to that. She stared at the table for a long moment before finally turning her head to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark and steady, filled with a quiet intensity that made her want to look away—but she didn't.
"What aren't you telling us?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended. "About the attack."
Dimitri leaned back slightly, his arms resting on his thighs. "We don't know much yet," he said carefully. "The attack was… unusual. The precision, the coordination. It wasn't random."
"Strigoi used guns," she stated, her voice flat.
"Yes." His jaw tightened. "And they knew exactly where to strike."
Rose's lips pressed into a thin line, her mind racing. "The wards," she said. "You mentioned they were tampered with. What does that mean?"
Dimitri hesitated for the briefest of moments, his eyes flicking to hers. "They weren't broken," he admitted. "But they were weakened. Deliberately."
Rose's jaw tightened, the memory of Budapest clawing at the edges of her mind. She inhaled slowly, forcing herself to stay grounded. "You think someone let them in."
Dimitri didn't answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful, measured. "It's possible."
The words hung in the air, unspoken accusations lurking beneath them. Rose's fingers tightened around the edge of the table, her knuckles white. "So it wasn't just the Strigoi," she said, her voice low. "There was someone else."
"We don't know that for sure," Dimitri said, his tone neutral.
Her frustration flared, and she pushed her chair back slightly, the legs scraping against the floor. "You don't want to know it," she accused. "Because if you admit it, it changes everything."
Belikov reached out, his hand closing gently over her wrist before she could pull away. The contact froze her, the warmth of his skin seeping into hers and rooting her in place. She looked down at his hand, then back up at him, her eyes blazing.
"Rose," he said softly, his voice low and steady. "We're doing everything we can. You don't have to—"
"Don't." She cut him off, her voice trembling with restrained fury. "Don't tell me what I have to do."
His grip loosened, but he didn't let go, his thumb brushing against the inside of her wrist in a gesture so uncharacteristic it stole the breath from her lungs. His expression softened, the harsh lines of his face easing just enough to show something she didn't know how to name.
"I'm not your enemy," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
Her throat tightened, and for a moment, she couldn't look away. His presence was overwhelming, but it wasn't unwelcome, and that terrified her more than anything.
"You'll tell me if you find something," she said finally, her voice quieter now, the edge gone. It wasn't a question.
Something flickered in Dimitri's eyes, so quick it was like a shadow passing over the sun. For a heartbeat, she wondered if she'd imagined it, but the weight of it lingered, unsettling and undeniable. His lips pressed into a thin line, his usual mask of control slipping just enough to reveal the conflict beneath.
"You promise me?" she pressed, her voice firmer, sharper.
He hesitated—a moment too long, too charged. The pause struck her like a warning, subtle but impossible to ignore. When he finally nodded, it was with the careful deliberation of a man making a promise he wasn't sure he could keep.
"I'll tell you," he said, his voice steady, but the words felt hollow, as though something unspoken lurked beneath them.
She pulled her hand away, the absence of his touch jarring. The cool air between them bit at her skin, but it wasn't the cold that made her insides twist—it was the nagging sense that something was off. She stood quickly, her movements clipped, deliberate, as though the act of leaving could chase away the storm gathering in her chest.
"Good," she said, her tone clipped, as though the single word could sever whatever thread had tied them in that moment. "Because I'm not sitting this out."
She turned before he could answer, her boots scuffing against the floor as she strode toward the door. Her heart pounded a rapid, uneven rhythm, but it wasn't anger fueling it—not entirely. It was something darker, more insidious.
She didn't trust him.
The realization hit her like a punch to the gut, so sudden and undeniable that her steps faltered for a fraction of a second. She masked it quickly, but the thought clung to her like smoke, curling into every crevice of her mind. Why had he hesitated?
The question echoed in her thoughts, louder with each step she took. Belikov wasn't a man who hesitated, not when it mattered. His certainty, his unwavering steadiness, was as much a part of him as the way he carried himself. But tonight, something had cracked, just for a moment, and it had set her instincts on edge.
She reached the hallway, the cooler air doing little to calm the fire beneath her skin. Her breath came in shallow bursts, her hands curling into fists at her sides as she tried to shake the weight of his gaze, the way it had lingered on her, as though he was searching for something. What was he holding back?
Rose's jaw tightened, her mind racing through the possibilities. He hadn't told her everything about the Badica attack—she knew that much. The guarded way he'd spoken during the briefing, the deliberate phrasing, the shadows that darkened his eyes when she pressed too hard—it all pointed to something he wasn't saying.
And then there was the way he'd touched her, his fingers lingering just a second too long, the heat of his presence like a flame brushing against her skin. It wasn't just concern; it was something else, something that made her chest ache and her pulse race in ways she didn't want to name.
She stopped at the end of the hall, her shoulders stiff as she tried to pull herself together. The edges of her thoughts felt sharp, dangerous, like a blade turned inward. She didn't have the luxury of unraveling, not now, not ever. But the doubt had taken root, burrowing into her mind like a splinter she couldn't remove.