Ayoka's breath caught. She scrambled silently, pressing herself into the corner of the closet, trying not to make a sound.
The door creaked open.
It wasn't Viktor.
Genevieve stood at the threshold, elegant as ever, but her face was unreadable—tilted just slightly, as if she were listening to something only she could hear. Her gaze flicked toward the closet and... lingered. She inhaled deeply, slow and luxurious, then stuck out her tongue ever so slightly, tasting the air like a butterfly to a flower, savoring the texture of the shadows on her palate.
Too long.
Ayoka froze. But something was off. Genevieve's tongue—longer than it had any right to be, slick and serpentine—crept just a little too far from her lips. It slithered through the air, searching. It didn't taste like a butterfly; it hunted like a predator. And the shadows—those shadows—twitched violently, recoiling from her tongue like it burned. They shifted in panic, doing their best to dodge her taste, to shield Ayoka even as they trembled.
Ayoka noticed.
Why? Why were they protecting her? What was it about Genevieve that made even the shadows recoil? The moment stretched, tight as a held breath. She thought—no, felt—that Genevieve could see her. That she was caught, limbs curled among coats, perfume blooming at her knees. She swore she saw Genevieve's hand twitch forward, fingers curling as if to reach for the knob.
But then the shadows moved.
They didn't slide—they corrected. Like paint smearing over a flaw in the canvas. The lines of reality softened. Blurred. The closet became just a closet again.
Genevieve blinked.
She tilted her head, a half-smile on her lips, and said in a honeyed drawl that dripped with feigned affection, "Viktor… your shadows are playing tricks again." But beneath the flirtation, her gaze shimmered with hunger—not for attention, but for the shadows themselves. Her tongue flicked again, too slow to be playful, as if she longed to taste their essence, to devour what lingered just out of reach.
Viktor appeared behind her like a ghost with purpose. "If you leave now," he said calmly, though his tone carried the thrum of urgency, "I'll paint you."
As soon as Genevieve turned her back and began her retreat, Viktor moved fast. He stepped across the room and stopped in front of the open closet, his body briefly blocking the view inside. His eyes flicked down, jaw tight. He didn't say anything at first.
Instead, he stared into the dark where Ayoka crouched, and a thought flickered across his expression—raw, regretful.
What have I done? I should have been better than this. Better than hiding a woman like a secret shame. Better than dragging her into my world of painted violence and velvet cages. But seeing her there, crouched in fear, shrouded by shadows that feared her more than they feared Genevieve—he saw it all differently now. He'd lived his life speaking of honor, legacy, noble blood... but what did any of that mean when faced with her trembling breath?
He had read histories, written laws, memorized oaths. But none of them taught him how to face a woman hiding in a closet because of a guest he'd allowed too close. He opened his mouth to speak of the nobility of protection, of duty—but the words died. They sounded like excuses, shallow and inherited. And in that moment, he realized: history from her side didn't rhyme with his. It screamed.
The blood of nobility ran in his veins, thick with lineage and expectation. Men like him were meant to shield, to rise above base hungers. But he knew better than most that nobility wasn't purity—it was privilege stretched over centuries of cruelty. He'd met men from ruined houses, stripped of titles but still steeped in power—men who carved new kingdoms from vice, charm, and fear. They wore velvet over rot, and some were celebrated more in ruin than they ever were in court. Viktor had dined with them, learned from them. He had broken too many rules already, blurred too many lines—and some of those lines had teeth.
He cleared his throat and managed a crooked smirk. "They'll be gossiping about the shadows again. I swear, they act like stagehands lately."
From the floor behind him, he produced a long, narrow case and opened it just enough to reveal tubes of paint, brushes, and a folded cloth smock. "See? I wasn't lying," he muttered with a trace of humor, but the shake in his hands betrayed him.
Ayoka blinked up at him from the dark. Her breath was shallow, and the scent of perfume clung to her skin like accusation. Viktor didn't speak for a beat. He just looked at her, a flicker of something wounded behind his eyes.
"Stay still," he said lowly. "Just for another minute."
As if in defiance of his composure, one of the shadows curled upward and very deliberately formed a middle finger in the air. Viktor blinked. So did the shadow—almost smugly.
Ayoka had to bite her cheek. She hadn't meant to do that. Or maybe she had. It was hard to tell lately, with the way things bent around her presence. Either way, she couldn't help the quiet giggle that bloomed in her thoughts, even as she crouched in perfume and fear.
Viktor exhaled sharply through his nose, torn between exasperation and awe. "Really?" he muttered under his breath, eyes flicking toward where Genevieve had gone. "Even my shadows have opinions now."
Then, with a flick of his fingers, the nearest shadows curled upward, taking shape like smoke trails under command. They stretched into thin lines and curves, and began writing glowing characters in the air—Chinese script, elegant and fluid.
Genevieve peeked back into the room with narrowed eyes. She was holding one of Viktor's favorite teacups—the same porcelain vessel he had once only shared with Ayoka. Her fingers traced its rim too familiarly.
"And what do those mean?" she asked, gesturing lazily toward the drifting calligraphy with an arched brow, voice coated in curiosity and suspicion.
Viktor stiffened. His gaze caught on the cup, and a muscle ticked in his jaw. The cup wasn't just a trinket. It meant something. It had history. Ritual. But he couldn't afford to show that.
"Nothing," he replied, voice cool as glass. "Just a bit of poetry. Private inspiration."
He blew gently across the characters in the air, dispersing them before she could inspect further—but the look in his eyes flicked toward Ayoka in the shadows, sharp and apologetic. The message had already been sent.
But the truth shimmered in Ayoka's gaze as she read the fleeting message he had written just for her: Safe. Hidden. I am sorry.
His voice was calm, but it cracked slightly at the end—like he was holding back a thousand years of inherited failure.
He glanced toward the hallway, fingers tightening slightly on the lid of the paint case. His calm was thin. Strained. Urging her forward before the shadows lost their nerve.
Genevieve turned toward him, amused. "Still bribing me with brushstrokes?"
"You always said you wanted to be remembered," he said with quiet confidence. "Let me do that. But only if you walk out of here. Right now."
She chuckled, stepping closer to him, tracing a slow finger along the edge of his collar. "So dramatic," she cooed. "You remember Antoine DuFevre? That mortal painter you once adored? The one who painted whores as they were—brazen, bruised, honest. I miss him."
Viktor's eyes narrowed. "You miss him? Genevieve, you broke half his muses. Drove them out of their minds. One claimed her veins were whispering brushstrokes until she clawed her own skin raw. Don't rewrite what you wrecked."
Genevieve's smile deepened. "I can't help it. Baba Yaga's blood runs thick in me. We're not makers. We're eaters. Inspiration isn't gentle in my line. The fae of my kind don't gift beauty—we strip it bare. It was never about art. It was about what they became trying to survive it."
She did a little twirl then, arms up, shoulders swaying, a mockery of a celebratory dance—graceful in a way only something uncanny could be. The kind of jig a fae would do in a ring of teeth instead of flowers. "Makers dance like this," she said with a wink, "before they get eaten by something worse."
She twirled a lock of his hair between her fingers. "Besides, they always begged to be seen. And he saw them. Too well, maybe. Pity he went mad from the colors. I always warned him that red wasn't just a pigment—it was hunger. Shame he tried to drink turpentine to quiet the whispers."
Viktor flinched, but only slightly. Her dark humor never missed a beat. She could make death sound like a party anecdote.
He wondered again why her father, a being older than borders and colder than folklore, ever wanted Viktor to consider her as a potential fiancée. A political alignment? A cruel joke? Or something deeper—something Viktor still hadn't uncovered.
And yet, part of him feared the truth might be: she was one of the rare few who could survive standing next to him for more than a century without losing herself—or without him losing control. The thought soured in his gut. She thrived in chaos, found poetry in ruin, and laughed at the things that broke most others. Maybe that's why her father offered her like a poisoned gift—because she fit into Viktor's world too well. But there was also Ayoka.
Something about her unsettled and enchanted him all at once. Her presence bent shadows, and her silence left echoes. And the scales—those delicate, iridescent hints that shimmered just beneath her skin when she was furious or afraid—they drove him wild. Not with lust, but with something deeper. Something that felt like longing and danger woven into one.
She was untrained, untouched by courts or covens, and yet she had the kind of presence that legends got built around. Viktor wasn't sure if that made her a threat, a hope, or both.
Most of her people—those descended from the forgotten bloodlines that crossed oceans in chains—were taught to forget who they were. Just like in human history, the supernatural kin of the Black American slave legacy had their stories buried deep, their gifts dulled through generations of enforced silence. But not Ayoka. Something clung to her. Something that refused to die. Her scales weren't just beautiful; they were defiant. A shimmer of memory that refused to be erased.
And maybe that was why she was dangerous. Because she remembered without knowing.
Viktor exhaled through his nose, hard. He said nothing more.
"You owe me a full sitting," she reminded.
"Oils. And something scandalous," he echoed, thinly.
He nodded once, smile ghosted and bitter. "Done."
He nodded once, smile thin. "Done."
But Genevieve wasn't done with him. She spun around him like a storm caught in a music box, arms gliding through the air, skirts brushing dangerously close. A dance—not meant for beauty but for binding. Viktor recognized it at once. The Spiral Waltz. A fae courting gesture as old as forgotten rivers and teeth beneath roots.
Each step she made shimmered slightly, like her feet kissed the edge of another realm. And as she danced, her eyes never left him. Testing. Teasing. Threatening.
Viktor didn't move. Didn't flinch. He'd seen this dance before, once in the Court of Hollow Pines where a fae lord bled through his smile while a girl in antlers danced him into madness.
This was no flirtation. This was folklore with teeth.
He let her circle. Let her spin. But the smile never reached his eyes.
Genevieve turned away from the closet without another glance. Her heels clicked against the floor like punctuation marks in a flirtation that had outlived its meaning.
"I should love to taste thy shadows and make sport of them," she called back over her shoulder with a wicked grin, her voice laced in silk and old mischief. "But alas, duties beckon, and time hath no patience for play."
And just like that, she left. Laughing.
The door clicked shut behind her.
The silence that followed was thick—relieved and electric.
Then the closet creaked open for a third time.
Viktor stood there, eyes sharp, shirt half-buttoned, a flicker of pride and danger at the edge of his smirk.
He offered his hand. "Come on," he said. "The show's over."