The first time Aleksandr saw Mira sleep in her own bed, it was an accident.
He hadn’t meant to.
He’d meant to stay on the sofa, as agreed, eyes on the ceiling, ears on the city. The apartment had a smallness that should have felt suffocating after the crypt; instead, it felt… containing. Warm. The walls held traces of her everywhere: a scarf over a chair, a book splayed open on the arm of the couch, a mug with a coffee-ring halo on the table.
Tonight, the noise outside had a higher pitch.
Cars moved more frantically. Laughter from the street had a brittle edge. Somewhere, a siren wailed and didn’t stop.
Mira had come home from yet another meeting bone-tired, dropped her bag by the door, and face-planted briefly into the sofa cushion beside him.
“I hate everyone,” she’d mumbled into the fabric.
He’d watched her for a beat. “Specific category,” he’d said. “Or… global?”
“Developers. Bureaucrats. Men who think I should be… reasonable,” she muttered. “You.”
“Me?” he asked, amused.
“You,” she said, rolling onto her back, staring at the ceiling. “Because you make them more interested. You made my haunted house… hot property.”
“I apologize,” he said. “Next time I will stay in stone.”
She huffed. “Don’t you dare.”
The words had come out fiercer than she’d meant. She’d flushed, then pretended she hadn’t.
Now, hours later, the apartment was dark except for the faint glow of the streetlight sneaking around the edges of the curtains.
Aleksandr lay on the sofa, listening to the building.
The couple upstairs argued in muffled tones about money. A child somewhere down the hall had a brief, intense nightmare, then was soothed by a parent’s low murmur.
In the bedroom, Mira’s heart beat in a slightly faster rhythm than it had the night before.
He told himself he wasn’t keeping count.
He failed.
He tried to think of other things. The pattern of the documents on the table. Yulia’s sharp eyes. Elizaveta’s letter, folded and refolded until the creases felt like bone.
But his senses kept circling back to that soft drum in the next room.
The hunger was better now, dulled by the bagged blood. It no longer roared. But it was there, like a low growl at the base of his skull.
He thought again of the hypothetical: walking into her room. Leaning over her. The clean, terrible line of her throat in the half-light.
He turned onto his side abruptly, away from her door.
He was not that creature. Not anymore.
“Stop,” he told himself, half aloud. “Think of… anything else.”
His mind, treacherous, supplied an image of Elizaveta leaning over him in the coffin, fingers ghosting his hair. *Sleep, Aleksa. When you wake, this will be over.*
He had woken into… this.
“Perhaps,” he murmured to the ceiling, “you miscalculated, Eliza.”
A floorboard creaked.
He went still.
The sound had come not from the hall or the flat above, but from the bedroom.
The door eased open a crack.
“Mira?” he said quietly.
She stood there in the gap, backlit faintly by city glow. She wore an oversized T-shirt that reached mid-thigh, bare legs pale against the dark air.
His breath—unnecessary but stubborn—hitched.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked.
She stepped into the living room, closing the door softly behind her. “No,” she admitted. “Head won’t… stop.”
“Too many developers,” he said.
“And vampires,” she said.
He sat up, swinging his legs to the floor. “We could… talk,” he offered.
She huffed a small laugh. “That’s part of the problem,” she said. “My brain keeps… talking. Replaying the café. The tunnels. Yulia’s face when she saw those names.”
She rubbed her arms, gooseflesh rising. The apartment’s heating did what it could, but old buildings leaked warmth.
Without thinking, he rose, crossed to the radiator, and turned the dial a little. It clanked, protesting.
“You are… cold,” he said.
She shot him a look. “You’re… not.”
“That does not mean I do not remember… the sensation,” he said. “Sit.”
He gestured to the sofa.
She hesitated, then sat on one end, tucking her feet under her. He sat on the other, leaving a careful gap.
He could still feel her body heat radiating across it.
“What did you do,” she asked suddenly, “before? When you couldn’t sleep.”
“Walk,” he said. “The city. Roofs. Cemeteries. Sometimes I… read. Sometimes I… hunted.” He paused. “Sometimes I… lay very still… and listened… to the world. Waiting for a sound that meant… someone I loved was still alive.”
Her expression softened.
“And now?” she asked.
“Now…” He spread his hands. “I… sit on your sofa… and listen to upstairs neighbors argue about who forgot to buy milk.”
She smiled briefly. “Domestic immortality.”
“It has its… charms,” he said.
She chewed her lower lip. “Do you… miss it?”
“What?” he asked.
“Before,” she said. “The ballrooms. The salons. The… dinners with ten courses and too many forks.”
“Yes,” he said, surprising himself with the speed of it. “I miss… the… texture. The… rituals. I do not miss… pretending to care about men’s opinions on… poetry.”
“You chose a strange time to be nostalgic,” she said.
He smiled faintly. “I am… adjusting.”
She shifted, pulling the blanket draped over the sofa arm around her shoulders. It was thin, but she drew it close like armor.
“The more I learn,” she said quietly, “the more I realize how much I don’t know. About you. About them. About what we’ve… walked into.”
“You could still… walk out,” he said.
“Could you?” she asked.
He thought of the crypt. Of the ice house. Of Elizaveta’s handwriting.
“No,” he admitted. “Not now.”
“Then neither can I,” she said.
Dangerous, admirable fool, he thought.
She yawned, surprising them both.
“Tired,” he observed.
“Yeah,” she said. “Body’s tired. Brain’s… high.”
He hesitated.
“There is… something… we used to do,” he said slowly. “When… someone… could not sleep. Among… ours.”
She blinked. “Count sheep?”
He huffed. “No.”
He shifted, searching for the right words.
“There is a… trick,” he said. “With… the mind. We can… soothe. A little. If you… allow it.”
She stared. “You mean… hypnotize me.”
“Nothing… so crude,” he said. “A… suggestion. A… calming. Elizaveta used to… do it. For me. When the… war… sat on my chest at night.”
Her throat moved.
“And you can… do that,” she said.
“Yes,” he said simply. “If you… want.”
She hesitated.
Every sensible part of her screamed no.
Letting an immortal predator into your head was perhaps *less* advisable than letting him near your neck.
But she was so *tired.* And the idea of letting someone—anyone—share the weight in her skull for a minute…
“What if you…” She swallowed. “What if you… push too far?”
“I will not,” he said.
“You sound… very sure,” she said.
“I know… my own strength,” he said. “And your… stubbornness. You are not… easily moved.”
That was, perversely, comforting.
She studied his face.
He was still Aleksandr—sharp lines, dark eyes, faint stubble like shadow. But there was something… gentler… in his expression now. An openness she’d seen only in fragments before.
“What does it… feel like?” she asked softly.
“Like… slipping into warm water,” he said. “If I do it… right.”
“You’ve done this… often?” she asked.
“In… other lives,” he said. “On… other sofas.”
Jealousy flared—ridiculous, quick. She tamped it down.
“Fine,” she said, before she could overthink herself out of it. “Try.”
He blinked, as if he’d half-expected her to refuse.
“Here,” he said quietly. “Lie down.”
Her heart kicked.
“Next to you,” she said dryly. “On the couch. While you… do things to my brain. That’s not loaded at all.”
He smiled faintly. “I can sit… over there,” he offered, nodding at the armchair.
She imagined him across the room, eyes locked on hers.
“No,” she said before she could stop herself. “Here is… fine.”
She stretched out, spine along the sofa, head on the cushion where his had rested earlier. He stayed seated at her hips, turned toward her. The blanket slipped; he tugged it up automatically, covering her to the chest.
The intimacy of the gesture made her throat tight.
“Close your eyes,” he said softly.
She did.
His hand hovered near her temple. “May I… touch?” he asked.
Her breath came shallow. “Yes,” she said.
Cool fingers brushed her hair back from her forehead, then rested lightly at her temples, thumbs near the corners of her eyes.
The contact was… startling. Not unpleasant. Not even cold, exactly. Just… other.
“Breathe,” he murmured. “In… out… slowly.”
She tried. Her lungs argued at first, wanting to match her racing heart, but then found a rhythm.
“In,” he said. “Hold… out.”
His voice had changed. Softer. Lower. The old accent threaded through it more strongly, like a remembered song.
“Listen,” he said. “Not to… here.” His thumb brushed her temple. “But to… here.”
He turned his head slightly; she could feel his breath near her cheek.
“The pipes,” he murmured. “Upstairs. The… click… click. The neighbor’s… TV… low. The… elevator… cables… humming… three floors down. The city… outside. Horns. Tires on… wet… asphalt.”
As he named them, the sounds separated in her mind, like strands pulled from a tangled rope.
“And under them,” he said, “your… heart. Beating. Too fast. But… steady.”
He pressed just the faintest bit more firmly with his fingers.
“Follow… that,” he said. “Down.”
She did.
She let her attention sink from the noise in her head to the drum in her chest, to the feeling of the cushion under her back, the blanket on her skin, his fingers at her temples.
His presence… shifted.
She felt—not words, not images, but… weight. A companion weight, settling lightly over the buzzing in her mind. Not crushing. Not invading. Just… counterbalancing.
“Let it… go,” he murmured. “For… now. The papers. The names. Lebedev’s… smile. The… bills. The emails. Drop them… for an hour. You can… pick them up… later. You always do.”
A laugh tried to escape her. It came out a sigh.
“You are… not made… to sleep,” he said. “You spin. You… dig. But even wheels… need… oil.”
The metaphor was clumsy, but the sentiment wasn’t.
Her body softened under his hands.
Her thoughts, which had been pinballing relentlessly between strategies and fears, began to move more slowly. Images blurred. The edge of them dulled.
“Good,” he whispered. “Yes.”
She felt something then—a… touch… deeper than skin. Not a push. More like a… stroke… along the inside of her skull.
Her breath hitched.
“Easy,” he said immediately. “Nothing… taken. Only… quieted.”
“For someone who doesn’t… sleep,” she mumbled, words slurring, “you’re… good at this.”
He made a small, amused sound.
“I have had… practice,” he said. “When your… prey… is at peace… the blood… tastes… different.”
“Gross,” she muttered.
“Honest,” he said.
Silence stretched.
Her limbs felt heavy now, pleasantly so. The blanket grew warmer. The sounds of the building blurred to a low hum.
And under all of it—closer now, because he’d leaned in without quite meaning to—was the faint, impossible whisper of his non-breath.
She opened her eyes a slit.
He was closer than she’d realized. His face hovered above hers, concentration pinched between his brows. In this nearness, she saw details she’d missed before: a tiny white scar at his jawline, the faintest dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose that daylight rarely revealed.
His eyes were very dark.
“Almost,” he murmured, not realizing she’d opened her eyes. “Let go.”
The command was gentle. Dangerous.
She let her eyelids fall fully, trusting, for a reckless moment, that he would not use this to slip deeper.
He didn’t.
He simply held her at that edge between waking and sleep, where things softened but did not break.
“Sleep, Mira,” he whispered, and something in the way he said her name wrapped around her like a second blanket.
She slid under.
He felt it the instant her mind tipped over: the subtle slackening, the way her pulse slowed, the tiny sigh that escaped her.
He removed his fingers slowly, as if disentangling them from cobwebs.
For a moment, he stayed where he was, leaning over her, drinking in the sight: her lashes resting on her cheeks, the faint parting of her lips, the line of her throat no longer held in unconscious tension.
He could have—
He didn’t.
He sat back carefully, tucking the blanket higher over her chest.
“Good girl,” he murmured without thinking.
Her lips twitched faintly in sleep, as if some part of her heard.
He froze, startled by his own words.
No. Not girl. Not child. He of all creatures knew the danger of that dynamic, the ease with which power turned to ownership.
“Stubborn woman,” he corrected under his breath. “Terrifying historian. Dangerous ally.”
He stayed awake the rest of the night, not because he had to, but because he wanted someone conscious while she was vulnerable. Someone who knew what might come through her door.
When dawn lightened the edges of the curtains, her alarm chirped.
She woke slowly, blinking up at the ceiling, momentarily disoriented.
Then memory returned.
She sat up too fast, making her head spin.
“Did you…?” she began, turning toward him.
He sat in the armchair now, elbows on his knees, watching her.
“You slept,” he said. “Almost… five hours.”
Her eyes widened. “Five? That’s… nearly… restful.”
“You are welcome,” he said, a touch smug.
She narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t… poke around?”
“Only… as much as necessary,” he said. “You twitch in your sleep when someone mentions budgets.”
“That’s not funny,” she said, fighting a smile.
“You also muttered something about… licking… Kalugin’s… something,” he added.
Her jaw dropped. “I did not.”
His mouth twitched. “You did not. But your face is… very expressive… in outrage.”
She threw a cushion at him.
He caught it easily, laughing.
The lightness between them lasted exactly as long as it took her phone to buzz.
Yulia: Check the site.
Mira’s stomach dropped.
She scrambled for her laptop, fingers clumsy on the keyboard.
The investigative site’s homepage loaded, simple and unadorned. Yulia’s article sat in the top slot, headline stark:
UNDER THE ICE: SECRET PAYMENTS AND QUIET KILLINGS IN THE MOROZOV CASE
Mira clicked.
The story was sharp, relentless. It did not name Mira or Aleksandr, but it laid out the timeline, the payments, the connections. It named Kalugin. It named three sitting officials. It named the “closure” of the Morozov file in the nineties and asked, pointedly, what “special resolution” had required such large “consulting fees.”
At the bottom, a single line:
“The documents referenced in this article are available for review by any independent investigative body not currently under the influence of the parties named.”
Mira’s heart hammered.
“She just… declared war,” she whispered.
Aleksandr’s gaze lingered on the old black-and-white photograph Yulia had used at the top: the Morozov house in 1905, lit for a ball.
“She did,” he said quietly. “Good.”
Her phone buzzed again.
Unknown: Bold.
Lebedev.
Her screen filled with new notifications: emails from colleagues, missed calls from unknown numbers, a string of messages from Dima.
Dima: They’re going to come down on us like a building. Get dressed. Office. Now.
She shut the laptop with more force than necessary.
“Shower,” she said, already moving. “Coffee. Then we go put out fires.”
“Or start them,” Aleksandr said.
She shot him a look. “Try not to start any without me.”
He stood as she passed him, and for a moment they were too close again in the narrow living room, the ghost of his hands on her temples lingering in her skin.
“Last night,” she blurted. “Thank you.”
He inclined his head. “Any time you… need.”
She snorted. “Careful. I might take you up on that.”
He smiled, slow. “I hope you do.”
She fled to the bathroom, heart doing things she refused to examine.
Behind her, he sat back down, eyes lingering on the door she’d just closed.
He had promised her no biting.
He had not promised no… entanglement.
The thought unsettled him in a way bullets never had.
***