The moment they stepped out of the car, Seraphina already regretted everything.
The bookstore looked deceptively charming from the outside—ivy-covered walls, warm brick, wood-framed windows with golden decals that spelled out Harper's Book Emporium. But inside, it was already bustling with far too much enthusiasm. Her fans had shown up early—some dressed as characters from her previous books, others holding tote bags and notebooks, and all of them armed with a relentless stream of questions, theories, and declarations of undying love for fictional men who didn't exist.
And of course…
Konstantin was glued to her side like some looming, glowering statue of granite and rage.
She swore she could feel him breathing behind her.
As the staff welcomed her and escorted her to the front of the store where a long, polished table had been set up with stacks of her novels, pens, and a bottle of water, Seraphina tried not to trip on the anxiety bubbling just beneath her skin.
> Smile. Nod. Sign. Repeat.
The formula hadn't failed her before. But it had also never had to compete with the fact that she was being watched, monitored, and followed by a man who made death look well-dressed.
She gave Konstantin a sideways glance as she sat down.
He stood silently to the left of the table, eyes sweeping the room, face impassive.
The staff didn't even question his presence. Maybe they thought he was her bodyguard. Or a boyfriend with boundary issues. Or both. He didn't speak. Didn't blink. Just… observed.
> Maybe he's part owl, she thought bitterly.
The line started moving. Her first fan approached, eyes wide and hands shaking as she held out a worn copy of Bloodthorns & Bonefire.
Seraphina smiled, signed the title page, and asked the girl's name. The nerves melted slightly. This part was familiar. She could do this.
"Thank you for coming," she said gently.
"Oh my God, thank you. I—just—when will Lucien kiss her? Please tell me it's in the next book."
Seraphina chuckled. "Lucien's emotionally constipated. You'll have to wait."
The girl squealed.
The next fan stepped forward. And the next.
She answered questions. Signed books. Took selfies. Laughed. The rhythm was comforting.
But something shifted.
A twinge. A flicker.
She felt it before she saw it—that crawling feeling on the back of her neck.
She looked up from signing a paperback and froze.
Across the room, tucked behind one of the tall display shelves near the windows, a man was staring at her.
He wasn't in line.
Wasn't browsing.
Wasn't talking.
He was just… there.
Staring.
Unmoving.
A storm in a black coat.
Her pen paused mid-letter.
Her breath hitched.
His eyes locked onto hers.
Cold. Flat. Amused.
Then, without warning—
He winked.
She swallowed hard.
Her stomach dropped like a stone.
She turned slightly, trying not to make it obvious, and whispered from the corner of her mouth, "Konstantin…"
"I see him," he murmured.
His voice was low. Steady. Not a hint of panic.
"Then do something," she hissed.
"Just act normal," he said.
Normal?
> How the hell was she supposed to act normal when some creep was giving her serial killer eyes and winking like they were long-lost lovers?
She forced herself to smile at the next fan. Her hands trembled slightly as she scrawled her signature.
But then she looked up again—just for a second.
The man hadn't moved.
He tilted his head.
Then mouthed the words slowly, deliberately.
"You are next."
Her blood ran cold.
And then—
Just like that—
He turned and walked away.
No rush.
No panic.
No reason.
He vanished into the crowd, slipping out the front door like smoke dissipating through a crack.
She dropped the pen.
Her fingers went numb.
Konstantin placed a firm hand on her shoulder. "You're okay."
"How can you say that?" she whispered.
"I've seen men like that before."
"Wonderful."
"Keep signing," he said under his breath. "If we cause a scene, we give him power."
"I don't care about power," she snapped quietly. "He said I'm next."
His hand didn't leave her shoulder. His grip was steady. Not reassuring—but grounding, like cold steel pressed to overheated skin.
> Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calm.
But inside, her thoughts were already racing.
Who was that man?
How did he know her?
Was he connected to her grandmother? To the letter?
To the suicide that maybe wasn't a suicide?
She blinked hard, shook the thoughts loose, and tried to breathe through the pressure building in her chest.
Another fan stepped forward.
She picked up the pen again.
> Smile. Nod. Sign. Repeat.
But this time, she knew something had changed.
This wasn't just about a missing woman anymore.
This was about her.
And someone out there wanted her to know it.
The sun had long dipped below the horizon by the time they stepped out of the bookstore.
The event had gone on for hours—signatures, forced smiles, pictures with shaky fans, and endless questions about when the next book would drop. Through it all, Seraphina had kept her spine straight, her voice calm, her hands steady.
But underneath the surface, her mind reeled.
Over and over, the same image replayed—
That man. That wink. That warning.
"You are next."
She hadn't even realized how tightly she'd been clutching her tote bag until Konstantin gently tapped her wrist. She blinked and looked up at him. They were already outside, walking along the cobbled sidewalk toward the car parked down the street.
Her knees ached. Her head throbbed. But most of all—she felt watched.
Again.
Konstantin stopped beside her car, his sharp gaze sweeping the street, every alley, every shadow. His jaw was tense. She'd seen him serious before—but this was something else. A different shade of steel.
"Wait here," he said.
"What?"
"Get in the car. Lock the doors. Don't move."
She frowned. "Why? What's going on—"
"Seraphina." His voice was quiet, but his tone left no room for argument. "Just do as I say."
She stared at him for a second, then exhaled sharply and slid into the driver's seat.
"Fine. But this is kidnapping with extra steps," she muttered.
He didn't respond. Just waited until she locked the doors. Then he turned and walked down the narrow alley that cut between the library and the bakery.
Seraphina watched him go, a coil of unease tightening in her gut.
---
Konstantin moved fast.
His steps were silent against the wet pavement as he cut through the alley, passing bins, dumpsters, and old delivery crates. The bakery's side door was closed, the lights inside dimmed for the evening. But the back entrance was cracked open—barely enough to notice unless you were trained to look.
He didn't hesitate.
He slipped through and emerged in a narrow passage that opened into a service lane behind the buildings.
And there he was.
Andrew.
Standing near a rusted dumpster, lighting a cigarette like he hadn't stared at a woman today and mouthed a threat that was practically a death sentence.
He didn't even hear him coming.
Konstantin surged forward, grabbed Andrew by the collar, and slammed him hard into the brick wall.
The cigarette fell from his lips and hit the ground with a hiss.
Andrew groaned, but didn't fight. His eyes widened in brief shock—then narrowed with recognition.
"Well, well," he said, breathless. "You're quicker than the last dog they sent."
Konstantin didn't waste time. He shoved him harder into the wall. "I thought I made it clear. Stay off her back and mind your own fucking business."
Andrew gave a wheezy laugh. "And I thought I made it clear that I'll eliminate anyone—or anything—that's a threat."
"She knows nothing," Konstantin snapped, voice low and dangerous. "Nothing about what her grandmother was involved in. Nothing about your little circle of inbred sadists. And if you even look her way again, I'll make sure your body is found in five different rivers."
Andrew's eyes gleamed. "Still pretending you're in control, Ivanov?"
Konstantin tightened his grip.
"You're on borrowed time," Andrew hissed. "We both are. Once she remembers—once she starts digging deeper—it's over. You think you can keep her blind forever? You can't bury blood with lies."
Konstantin leaned in closer, his face a mask of fury barely held in check.
"She's not your concern. She's under my protection. And unlike you, I don't take pleasure in hurting the innocent."
Andrew's lips curled into a twisted smile. "You're a fed, Konstantin. Don't pretend your hands are clean."
"I never said they were. But they're steadier than yours."
Andrew chuckled darkly. "She's marked, you know. Not just by us. By the bloodline. Her grandmother stirred things she wasn't meant to. Secrets we've buried for generations. And the moment Seraphina starts putting those pieces together—"
Konstantin's hand shot to his throat.
"You're testing my patience."
"I'm telling you the truth," Andrew rasped. "You can kill me. Fine. But another will come. And another. And another."
"That's the problem with cults," Konstantin muttered. "Too many sheep. Not enough bullets."
With one final shove, he let Andrew drop to the ground. The man coughed, staggered back to his feet, but didn't run. He simply looked up with that same infuriating calm.
"You won't save her," Andrew said. "Not from us. And not from the truth."
Konstantin straightened his jacket.
"I'm not here to save her," he said coldly. "I'm here to keep her alive. The truth? That's none of your concern."
Andrew didn't move. "You're already too close. You care."
Konstantin's jaw twitched. "I care enough to kill."
He turned and walked away.
---
Back at the car, Seraphina sat tapping her fingers against the steering wheel. The cold had crept into the air. Her phone buzzed again—another email from her agent. She didn't read it.
She looked up just as Konstantin emerged from the alley.
He was calm. Controlled. But his eyes—those cold, winter-grey eyes—were sharper now. More alert.
He got into the car and didn't speak.
Seraphina stared at him.
"Are you going to tell me what that was about?" she asked.
He fastened his seatbelt. "No."
She gritted her teeth. "Seriously?"
"You're safe."
"That wasn't my question."
He turned to her then. His expression unreadable. "Don't ask about things you're not ready to hear."
She swallowed. "What if I'm ready?"
"You're not." He looked ahead again. "Not yet."
> But one day soon, he thought, you'll be forced to be.
And when that day came, Konstantin knew…
He'd either have to tell her everything—
Or destroy the truth himself.