Private Tales The Price of Defiance

[Nikolai]

Nikolai dozed, barely tethered to sleep, his body still and heavy while his mind drifted along the edges of unconsciousness. But even in rest, he felt her.

Her scent filtered through the space between them like a breeze, subtle and sure. He could hear the delicate rhythm of her pulse. The shift of breath through her lungs. Every little flutter of movement as her body settled.

The thread in his chest, that strange invisible thing that always seemed to strain in her absence, loosened. The weight eased. His own breath deepened. She was near. Safe.

His eyes flickered open.

The room was quiet, wrapped in the hush and darkness, the fire and orb lights in his room having gone out, but Nikolai was not a creature who needed light or sound to see. He turned his head toward the bed automatically, expecting to find her curled into one of the endless pillows like some tired bird with her wings tucked in sleep.

But she wasn’t there. His brows drew together, and slowly, he rose. Barefoot and soundless, a living shadow, he moved around the edge of the massive bed. His gaze swept the room—sharp, cutting—and then landed on her.

There, beside the dais. Hidden from sight. Curled like some discarded thing on the cold floor. Like a pet.

He should have been amused by it, but the flicker of heat that passed through him wasn’t amusement. It was anger. Not the wild, vicious kind that spurred him to violence. No, this was quieter. Sharper. More precise. It twisted beneath his ribs like a blade and lodged somewhere deep in his chest.

How dare she. How dare she think herself so little. So unworthy. So beneath the comfort of a bed that would never deny her space. He dragged a hand down his face with a low, tired exhale, kneeling beside her, then, careful not to wake her, he slipped an arm beneath her knees, the other behind the nape of her neck. She was all fragile bones and sleeping warmth and weightless exhaustion wrapped in blanket and tension. Still, she didn’t stir, not even when he lifted her.

He carried her the short distance like she was made of spun glass, and when he laid her down in the bed, it was with a gentleness that surprised even him. She looked so small against the expanse of it. And still not fully relaxed.

Nikolai undressed without sound, casting off his layers until only loose linen shorts hung against the pale lines of his skin. Then he climbed in on the opposite side of the bed, careful to leave space between them, though every part of him was aware of her now—aware in a way that hummed through his blood like a second pulse.

He didn’t touch her. He didn’t speak. But his gaze lingered for a long time, before he forced himself to turn around and let his eyes close again.

 

[Sadie]

Sadie hadn't stirred when he lifted her.

Hadn't awoken when her head lulled against his chest. Not when the blankets slipped loose from her small frame. Not even when he laid her down on bedding more lavish than anything she had every known, anything she had ever deserved.

But her stillness didn't mean peace.

Even in sleep, her brows remained faintly drawn together. Her fingers curled into tight little fists clutching nothing near her chest. Her breath came in slow, but uneven. It was the kind of breathing one learned to do after weeks or months of being forced to sleep with one ear open. Ready to flee.

Nikolai would see it all. Feel it in the thread that bound them so tightly, even now while she lingered in a land of dreams.

She didn't move when the bed dipped low beneath his weight. Didn't flinch when the coldness of his body infiltrated the same space as hers. But once he turned, slowly and deliberately, adjusting how he lay to give her space...

She moved.

It wasn't a sharp movement. It wasn't coordinated or done with panic even. It was done slowly, an unconscious desperation of someone who had only ever known safety when it was fleeting.

She shifted across the bed, her body curling towards his as if she'd done it a thousand times before. One arm slipped across his ribs, delicate pale fingers resting on his torso. Her cheek pressed lightly between his shoulder blades. Breath ghosted along the bare skin of his back.

And finally, that tension that had been as taut as a bowstring ready to snap, had eased.

It wasn't gone, not completely. But her body slackened. Her jaw unclenched. The pain that had been etched between her eyebrows softened. A sigh slipped past her lips, quiet and thin. But she didn't speak. Didn't wake. But her grip on him tightened, ignoring the cold of his skin entirely. Her heartbeat slowed. And then, only then, did she sleep.

 

[Nikolai]

Nikolai lay still, the weight of the silence settling over him like frost. He hadn’t turned to look at her, hadn’t let himself indulge in the instinct to glance back when her breathing changed, when the pull of the tether between them grew taut then gradually softened, loosening like a knot unpicked by trembling fingers.

He’d felt her before he’d registered the motion. The slow shift of weight across the mattress. The faint pull of sheets. The warmth.

Then—her.

She pressed herself into his back with all the hesitant certainty of someone whose body remembered things her mind had never been taught. An arm slid over his side, not possessive, not even searching. Just there. Quietly anchoring.

His breath caught, not enough to stir the air, not enough to wake her. He remained still, uncertain. When had he ever in his life been so fucking uncertain?

She shouldn’t have done it. Shouldn’t have drawn so close to something like him—cold as he was, barely clinging to the edge of what still resembled mercy. Her skin should’ve flinched from his. Should’ve recoiled from the chill that clung to him like a second skin, ancient and cruel. But she didn’t. She just.. nuzzled against him.

And gods, he felt it. All of it.

The magic in her blood, laced through with grief—unfolded around him like mist, brushing against the edges of his senses. Her scent curled through the air, that maddening blend of blood and power that danced and thrummed just beneath her skin, sweet and sharp like crushed fruit on a blade’s edge. He shouldn’t have wanted it. Should’ve turned away. But her breath ghosted along his spine and something in him—something ancient, something broken—shuddered.

Still, he didn’t move.

Because what would he even say, if he did? What would he do, if she woke to find herself curled against the very thing she despised? If she realised what she’d reached for wasn’t safety, but a storm?

He swallowed, slow and dry, his hand halfway to reaching back—maybe to touch her, maybe to still her fingers where they gripped so gently at his side. But he stopped himself. Let it fall to the mattress again. If he touched her, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to let go.

She was asleep, truly asleep now. He could feel it, the soft unfurling of her mind, the slow quieting of her pulse. The tension she carried like armour had eased, if only a little, and that should have been enough for him.

It wasn’t.

He lay there, eyes open in the dark, staring into nothing as her presence wrapped around him like something sacred. Something stolen. The bond between them eased into something quieter, something that didn’t pull quite so hard at the root of him. He didn’t want to need this. Didn’t want to want the warmth of her trust or the shape of her small body nestled against his like a secret.

But he did. And so he let her stay. Let himself stay. He let himself breathe again.

And then, despite every rule, every brutal instinct that said this was wrong—he let himself rest.

 

[Sadie]

Somewhere deep in her dream, she ran barefoot through fields of white trees, the sky stained purple and violet of the dusk. She wasn't afraid there. Wasn't hunted. Something did follow her, though. Not dark, not cruel. Just.. steady. A presence constantly at her back, watching over her.

She nuzzled in closer to it, the cold skin beneath her cheek startling even in sleep, but not enough to make her move away. Instead, she only shifted with a quiet sigh, her arm tightening a little more around the body she had curled herself around. Her brow furrowed briefly, a flicker of something surfacing on her otherwise peaceful, slumbering face. Was it guilt? Sorrow? Whatever it was, it faded quickly back into the quiet.

But then she woke.

It was all wrong.

Her lashes fluttered open, the haze of sleep still clinging to her and she felt it. The weight of his arm near her hip. The cold of his body pressed along hers. Her hand was still wrapped tightly around his torso, held closer where his own arm rested atop. Her breath caught. No.

Her heart surged and the peace of her dream filled slumber evaporated. What was left behind was the shocking and suffocating truth of reality. She had fallen asleep beside him. With him. Like a pet curling up against its owner. She didn't even remember crawling into his bed. Didn't remember the moment she chose ice over safety.

Panic was swift, her throat tightening and her chest following suit. She tensed instantly, stiffening against his back like she had been caught doing something shameful. Something wrong. Her lips parted but she didn't break the silence as she looked up only to find him still asleep, faced turned from her.

Gods. She just looked at him. But before he could wake, before he could say anything, before he could look at her and punish her for what she had done...

She moved. Slow and careful. Her breath was held tightly in her lungs as she began the delicate process of withdrawing her arm from beneath him. Her fingers trembled as she slipped free, moving inch by inch slowly, terrified the movement would disturb his slumber.

The moment she was free, she didn't look back. She grabbed that thin blanket she'd stolen off his bed the night before and fled.

Up and up the stairs. The sun was already rising outside. Its golden light stretched across the marble floors and through the walls of glass, chasing away the chill and the dark and everything cold enough to hurt her. She didn't stop until she reached the greenhouse and locked the doors behind her with a shaking hand.

It was warm in here. Bright. Maybe too bright after months in the dark halls of Nikolai's manor. It stung her eyes as she sank to the floor beneath the hanging flowers she had strung up the night before. Her hands pressed into the warm stone floor, steadying herself. She was safe. He couldn't hurt her here.

 

[Nikolai]

He hadn’t meant to sleep. Not really.

It had crept up on him in the quiet, in the unfamiliar stillness of not needing to watch his back or guard his throat. And maybe it was her fault. Her warmth, her heartbeat, the fragile, living thing that had curled so trustingly against him. Or maybe it was his own weakness. The ancient, aching kind that wore a face like hunger and a name like loneliness.

But sleep had come. Heavy. Deep. Until it wasn’t.

The moment her body shifted away, he felt it. Not with his eyes, not even with his senses—those remained dulled by the remnants of rest, but with something deeper. That gossamer thread, crimson and ever-there, that tugged softly from his core like a string being drawn taut.

And then, cold. The warmth that had been wrapped around him, the arm that had rested lightly across his ribs, the delicate weight of her breath against his back was gone. Replaced by the empty press of air, the soft shuffle of sheets, the sound of bare feet slapping against marble and stairs.

His eyes snapped open. His heart, the useless, long-silent thing, stumbled hard in his chest, gripped by a panic he hadn’t felt in centuries. He sat up fast, blinking against the sudden loss. Scanning the room with sharp eyes, searching for whatever she had run from.

He realised quietly what it was however. Him.

He moved before he could think better of it, feet striking the cold floor as he bolted for the stairs, chasing the fading echo of her flight. “Wait—”

The moment he hit the sunlit threshold, the pain tore through him like fire.

He staggered back with a snarl, one arm thrown up to shield his face as the morning light spilled across the hall in golden waves, cruel and bright. His skin hissed beneath it, blooming with the sharp sting of heat. He clutched at his chest, fingers curling over the blistered mark where the light had kissed too long.

And gods, the scent of her was still there.

Something soft and faintly floral—like crushed petals in moonlight. It lingered in the wake of her steps, clinging to the banister, the air, the memory of the space she had fled from.

He slunk back into the shadows, teeth bared in a soundless growl, and leaned against the wall, letting his head fall back with a dull thud. His breaths came shallow, ragged. Not from the pain, not really.

What had he been thinking?

She didn’t belong in his bed, or his home, or his arms. She had only clung to him because of that cursed thread—the bond that tangled their fates like thorns around a rose. It told her lies. Whispered safety where there was none. Painted comfort over the face of a monster.

And she’d believed it enough to want to be close to him. But now she realised her mistake. Now she remembered. He dragged his eyes down to his chest, ignoring the scorch mark blooming there like spoiled fruit. It was nothing. Would heal in day or so. But beneath the skin, the ink stirred. That shifting, restless ink that never stayed still. Never settled. Never would.

He shoved the thought aside and padded silently back down into the gloom of his chambers, he crossed the room in long, quiet strides. His fingers closed around a bottle of fae wine from the shelf, and he sank onto the low couch, uncorking it with a fang before bringing it to his lips.

The room was too quiet now. Her absence a weight in the air, more suffocating than her presence had ever been. He could still feel the ghost of her touch against his ribs. The memory of her breath on his back. Her heartbeat, once steady beside his, now pulsing somewhere too far to feel.

He tilted the bottle back again, wiping a smear of blood-wine from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes, dark and violet and tired, fixed on the far wall. On nothing.

It had been so simple for her to leave. And yet, gods help him… he hadn’t wanted her to. He would wait out the sun of the day, and the moment it set, he would do the sensible thing and leave her in peace.

 

[Sadie]

Sadie remained on the greenhouse floor long after the sounds of his agony faded. They had scraped through the silence of the house, snarls that were of raw pain. Not rage or hunger. Just hurt. He had tried to brave the sun and lost. And still, she hadn't moved.

She had known he would follow. Known he would try. Even as she slipped away like a coward into sunlight and silence.

She pulled her knees in close and rested her cheek on one of them, breathing deep the warm air thick with the scent of soil, stems, and sunlit blooming flowers. Here, in the heart of light, her couldn't touch. She was safe. At least that was what she told herself. But had she ever not been safe with him?

She pushed that thought aside. It didn't matter anyway. He was still him. Still a creature carved of shadow and blood and secrets and ink. Still the figure in prophecies she wanted no part in. And still... Her gaze lifted to the ceiling of glass, watching how it fractured the light into golden sheets. The rays touched her arms, her cheeks. It was not the morning sun she had believed it to be at all. No, she had slept straight through that. It was midday at least. She had been allowed to rest, really rest, for the first time in gods knew how long.

And she had run from it.

Sadie let out a soft, humorless breath. Her eyes burned. Eventually, she did move. The flowers she'd strung up to dry had begun to curl and tighten. Not ready yet. Drying would take time and patience she wasn't sure she could have anymore. But she did have time, didn't she?


When the house finally settled back into true quiet without footsteps, growls, or groans of pain, she rose and carefully stashed the bag with her books in the corner of the greenhouse. Underneath a bench that was overflowing with potted plants whose leaves touched the ground. Just in case. Then, she ventured back into the main house.

The sun lit every surface it touched in gold and the air was warm with it. It smelled of spices and wood- and something floral she had no name for. She'd never smelled it before. She wandered the corridors again, her feet were nearly silent on the marble, and the quiet of the house was a little less suffocating this time around.

The library was as grand as it had been the day prior. Bookshelves lined the room, from the floor all the way up to the high ceilings. A ladder waited at the end of the aisles. There were books in every language she didn't recognize lining the walls, but many she did recognize too. She thanked the heavens and reached for one bound in leather. Wild Remedies for the Healer's Path. She cracked it open at one of the tables near a window and sat.

Hours passed. She hadn't noticed until her stomach clenched painfully, demanding her attention. A low growl echoed in her stomach and made her wince. With the book tucked into her armpit, she slipped quietly from the library and into the kitchen. It was absurdly stocked. More food than she'd seen in her entire life. Spices in crystal vials climbed one wall. Cheese wheels bigger than her torso sat on a wooden workbench. Vegetables of all sorts were in jars of wildly colored brines. There was a bowl of fruit- fruits in shapes like stars and spikes that she had never known existed- sat inside.

Her plate had become a chaotic tower of texture and color and impossible flavors. A hideous disaster of things that probably didn't go together, but Sadie didn't care. She wanted to try them all. And try she would. She sat at the table, spearing some sort of tiny fruit with her fork and paused as it reached her mouth. A passing worry filtered through her mind. Was Nikolai hungry? Did he have anything down in his cave? She hadn't spent any time exploring when she had the opportunity...

She should have stopped the thoughts right there. But she didn't.

Without thinking, she added a few pieces of raw meat from a chilled drawer- disgustingly bloody- and arranged them on a second plate with more of the exotic fruits and a slice of golden bread with cheese.

What the hell am I doing?

She didn't know. Not really. But before her brain could catch up with her hands, she had both plates balanced in her arms with that book still tucked beneath one, her feet finding their way down the staircase into the only shadowed place left in the house.

A bottle of some sort of wine was still open from where Nikolai had left it. She froze in the doorway, contemplating her stupid decisions, and spoke after a moment of staring. She held out the plate of food like a peace offering. "I...didn't know if you had eaten..." Her voice was quiet. She couldn't look directly at him, but she didn't run this time either. "I brought you something."

She sucked in a breath and forced her feet to move, to carry her to a table with chairs arranged as though Nikolai would have company in this place. Her plate was on one side of the table, his on the other. She took a seat and began devouring every beautiful flavor and texture she had selected.

 

[Nikolai]

Nikolai barely stirred at first. He’d sprawled himself across the length of the sofa, an almost-empty bottle of fae wine dangling from his fingers.. The fire had burned low, casting a restless amber glow over the stone walls, and shadows clung to the edges of the room.

His eyes were hooded, glassy. He’d sunk deep into that peculiar stillness that only centuries of solitude and silence could teach a male. But the sound of her footsteps reached him. Light. Hesitant.

The scent of blood and fruit struck his senses before her voice did, and something in him roused, uneasy and alert. He sat up slightly, the bottle clinking as it found the floor, and blinked sluggishly at her.

I...didn’t know if you had eaten...

Her voice tugged at something unfamiliar in him. He stared. Not at the plate, but at her. Then, slowly, his gaze dropped to the offering in her hands. Fresh blood. Fruit. Bread. A meal he hadn't asked for. A meal he didn’t need. His jaw worked slightly, tension flickering in the cut of his cheekbones as he tried to make sense of it.

After a pause, he let out a low, ambiguous grunt, something between amusement and dismissal. Maybe even guilt. He didn’t thank her. Of course he didn’t. What would that even sound like, from a mouth that had long forgotten how to say it?

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers clasped loosely between them as she moved to the table. His eyes followed her. Not cold, not cruel. Just… cautious.

“I don't need food,” he muttered eventually. His voice was hoarse, slurred slightly from the wine. “And I don't need company. You have a whole fucking house upstairs." he rumbled.