A sharp beam of sunlight slipped through the narrow gap between the curtains and struck my eyes, driving away the remnants of sleep. Squinting, I instinctively rolled onto my back, only to be met with a dull ache that rippled through every muscle. From my neck down to my feet, everything throbbed. I had no memory of how I'd passed out, and for a fleeting moment I wondered—had it all been nothing more than a blissful dream, too perfect ever to be real?
The unwelcome thought retreated the instant I opened my eyes and saw Stas beside me. He was lying on his side, clutching half of the snow-white blanket to his chest as though it were some priceless treasure. And I remembered it all—every moment leading up to this, including the most vivid flashes of what had happened in the shower.
Stas was here. In my bed. Sleeping soundly, with no intention of waking any time soon. His breath was steady, even. My fingers strayed of their own accord to his lips—still swollen from our endless kisses. It felt as though they had forever imprinted the taste of passion upon themselves. Passion I was certain I did not deserve.
Even in sleep, Stas looked flawless. Or was it only my lovestruck gaze that painted him so? I wanted to carve this image into memory—the slope of his shoulders, the quiet lines of his body, perfect and harmonious, and now so achingly familiar.
Then came the question, dangerous and destructive: what were we to each other now? Did it mean the same to him as it did to me?
I didn't know. And some part of me didn't want to know, too afraid of plunging headlong into the abyss of pain again, never to break the surface and breathe. How swiftly a moment of happiness could crumble into nothing but ash. All it took was a single blink, and the rose-colored haze fell away, revealing how fragile it had always been. Had he kissed me under any other circumstances, I might well have pushed him aside.
We were too different. We wanted different things.
And yet it had happened.
Not ready to face the inevitable reckoning that would soon demand its place in our complicated lives, I carefully slid out from under the blanket—my half, apparently won in an unequal battle before sleep claimed me—and tiptoed to the bathroom. On my way, I snatched up the leggings and T-shirt I'd left draped over the chair after yesterday's run. I moved as quietly as I could, but when I flicked on the light, a nervous sigh escaped me.
The bathroom floor was flooded, water pooling up to my ankles. Towels lay scattered across the surface, and in one corner, what was left of Stas's robe sat in a damp, crumpled heap. The glass shower stall had not survived the night's events—its frame was still standing, but shards glistened across the tray and along the tiles. Worst of all, the shower itself was still running full force, the drain in the center useless, its grate smothered by the thick terrycloth of what had once been pristine white towels.
Stepping gingerly through the water, I rushed to shut the shower off. On my way back, I nudged the towel aside with my foot to clear the drain, hoping to dry the place at least a little before calling someone from the staff.
But how could I possibly explain this? That I'd slipped while washing? Dropped a bottle of shampoo and shattered the glass walls? One excuse after another surfaced, but none of them sounded remotely convincing.
As I was still trying to figure out how to handle the situation, Kaandor appeared in the room. He leaned casually against the wall, shoulder pressed to the plaster, studying the claws of his right hand with exaggerated interest. He turned them this way and that, as though checking for dirt or some imperfection that needed to be scraped away at once.
"You know," I said, "I'm not going to be thrilled if you hurt any of the Smirnovs."
'I wasn't planning to,' the spirit replied in a flat, everyday tone.
"Oh really? Then what was that yesterday? You nearly exposed us in front of the entire parallel—and who knows how many athletes besides."
Realizing this was going to be a long conversation, I shut the door quietly behind me so as not to wake Stas. Then I crouched near the drain and began scooping the water toward it with my hands, hoping to speed things along. Lately I'd noticed how my thoughts calmed whenever I kept my hands busy. Especially with clay—I loved sculpting. But when there was nothing at hand, I had to improvise. The tactile focus shifted something inside me, keeping my emotions from boiling over. Right now, that was exactly what I needed if I wanted to stay in control.
'What happened yesterday?' Kaandor's voice took on a lazy purr. 'Looked to me like you had a great time. The boy figured things out quickly and came up with a solution that seemed to satisfy you both.'
At his last words, heat rushed to my cheeks.
"You…" I began awkwardly. "You saw everything?"
'I left the room when you finally dealt with the robe's belt.'
"Oh." That was all I could manage at first. But it didn't take long to realize how easily Kaandor had swerved the conversation elsewhere. "All of this—this was because of you!"
'Please. No need to thank me.'
"You wanted to drain Arthur! To drink him dry!"
'I'll say it again: I wasn't going to do anything to him.'
"How convenient. And who then?"
'You.'
"Me?"
'Don't make me repeat myself.'
"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?"
'Exactly what it sounds like. You were the one who wanted to attack Arthur.'
I gave a sharp, disbelieving laugh. Kaandor was trying to brush himself off and dump the blame onto me, but that was impossible. Everything had started when he awoke. Before him, I'd been an ordinary girl forced to dance to the tune of an ancient shapeshifting spirit who, for some reason, craved blood like a vampire. And I had accepted that this would be my burden to bear. For the most part, Kaandor behaved decently enough. Sometimes we even had interesting conversations. Back in the winter, he'd supported me, helping me come to terms with what I was. But lately he'd taken to half-truths and coy evasions, acting like a true bastard.
Only hours ago, I'd been sure I would lose control—and that mistake would cost the life of the very person for whom forbidden feelings had been taking root inside me for so long. What if I really hadn't held back? What if, instead of shards glittering across the cold, smooth tile, Stas's body lay torn apart at my feet? The thought alone sent a lump rising in my throat.
Not so long ago, I had believed Stas and I could never be together. We wanted such different things: he, the frivolity of youth, secure in the knowledge that a vampire's eternity could erase any error from memory; and I, simply to be loved—to feel desired, needed.
And Stas had given me that feeling. Even if the happiness lasted only a few hours, I would not regret it. Mine for a little while sounded far better than never mine at all.