Whoever was typing on my laptop—whoever was spitting out all those gruesome possibilities—was threatening me.
But what did they want? For me to leave Mark and disappear from his life? For me to stay out of the Clan's affairs—the very thing I'd already been doing, hoping only to spend a few final years in Mark's arms before fading quietly away? Or did they want me to stop writing, to vanish from public sight altogether?
Perhaps it wasn't about Mark at all. Perhaps it wasn't even about my writing drawing human attention. Maybe someone was desperate to frighten me into silence—before the truth about my father's death could surface.
Eternals don't die by accident. Not by coincidence, nor misfortune. We are nothing like humans.
I snapped the laptop shut, unable to bear another second staring at those deranged fantasies about Mark. I needed to breathe, to calm down, to think.
Two things I knew for certain: someone was watching us here, somewhere within this glamping park—and they knew my secret. I could live with that. But I couldn't ignore the possibility that one of those so-called accidents might be staged—that someone would make them real. That Mark might be hurt… or worse.
I had to deal with this. Methodically. One step at a time.
The glamping park, despite its supposed popularity, felt strangely deserted. Other than Yesenia and the few guests I'd seen in the main hall last night, I hadn't encountered a single soul wandering the paths or strolling down the main road. Nor had I sensed anyone foreign in the forest beyond.
If another vampire were near, I would know it by scent.
If my father had taught me anything in this life, it was how to stay alert—and how to recognize one of our kind in a crowd. Not all vampires wore their nature openly: gone were the days of chalk-white skin and crimson eyes. Modern cosmetics blurred the lines further, making it nearly impossible to tell with human sight alone. Thick makeup was easy enough to spot, but surgical touch-ups—refined features, reshaped skin—could make you question everything.
That was why I learned to trust my sense of smell over my eyes. It had saved me more than once… though it came with its own inconveniences. When a human's scent turned too tempting, self-control became a quiet, exhausting battle. Every gift carries its burden. Not that I was complaining.
And yet—as soon as I thought of it—my senses caught something. A trace. The faintest whisper of another presence.
Already on edge, I cursed myself for it. I had more than enough to worry about without spiraling into paranoia. Surely I was just imagining things, letting fear twist my senses. It was easy to believe I'd simply grown careless, distracted by dreams of a quiet vacation with Mark, too content to notice the obvious.
But what if I had let my guard down? What if the laptop was only the first warning—and the real danger stood right in front of me?
I didn't believe in coincidences. Magical thinking was for mortals—those who needed excuses to lay down their burdens, to surrender to chance, or to blame their misfortunes on fate, numbers, or a passing black cat.
People who see accidents as destiny never learn from them. That's only half the tragedy. The rest comes later—when even their triumphs feel hollow, swallowed by the illusion that everything was written by some unseen hand. Why try, when the ending isn't yours to shape?
But I hated waiting. I hated relying on anyone but myself.
I needed to move. To do something. Anything that could shake off this restless dread. The urge to call Mark clawed at me for a moment, but I forced it down.
No—I'd help Yesenia finish digitizing her notes, just as I'd planned. It would look odd if she came back and found me sitting there, frozen before a closed laptop.
I wasn't obligated to help her, of course. At first, the whole idea of testing that strange "prophecy" from the file had been nothing but a distraction—a small amusement, an excuse to stall on my next novel.
But now, it had gone far too far.
From afar came the sound of footsteps and a low male voice. As the stranger drew closer, the scent of another vampire grew sharper, more distinct. My pursuer was cautious—too cautious to be wandering noisily nearby—and yet, I waited.
"There you are!"
Mark appeared in the doorway of the library, flashing his faultless smile. The moment our eyes met, his expression shifted, as if he had sensed the tension rippling through me.
Of all people, I hadn't expected him. I must have lost my mind completely. His scent I could recognize among a thousand others.
"Hi, darling," I said, softening my tone. "Don't tell me I've lost track of time again?"
Another figure stepped up beside Mark. He was a little shorter, wearing a fitted T-shirt that outlined a lean, athletic frame. His hair was neatly cropped at the sides, swept back in a coppery wave. His skin was pale—almost translucent—threaded with faint blue veins along his hands, just like mine.
A vampire.
"I found us some company for lunch," Mark said, nodding toward the newcomer. "This is Ildar. He and his girlfriend have been staying here a bit longer than we have—and they've got the friendliest dog you've ever met!"
His voice was bright with enthusiasm. Trust Mark to make friends so easily— and, of all possible people, with a vampire. I could only hope this one wasn't planning to serve him up for dinner.
Ildar saluted me with two fingers at his temple. To my surprise, he looked genuinely relaxed beside Mark—friendly, composed, not the slightest hint of hunger in his expression. But I knew our kind too well to be fooled by a predator's polished mask.
He leaned slightly into the doorway, as though looking for someone.
"Has another girl been in here? Long chestnut hair, gray-blue eyes, probably juggling a few books?"
The description fit Yesenia perfectly. So—he was here with his human, too.
"You mean Yesenia?" I asked. "She went to get us some coffee."
"Yesenia and coffee?" Ildar sounded amused. "Guess you two have been hard at work all morning."
"Something like that," I replied, studying his face, trying to discern whether he'd recognized one of his own—or was simply pretending not to.
"So, what do you think?" Mark interrupted, crossing the room toward me. His hands came to rest on my shoulders, warm and familiar. His scent enveloped me like a blanket, stirring a dangerous thirst in my throat, and I forced myself to slow my breathing.
He bent down, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek. Every nerve in me trembled at the tenderness of it.
"Think about what?" I murmured, closing my eyes, surrendering to his touch for just a moment. The thought of losing him again made my heart seize, even though he was right here—alive, real, mine.
"Lunch," he whispered against my ear. "Come with us?"
"That sounds wonderful," I said, placing my hand over his. My fingers traced idle patterns on his skin, feeling the pulse beneath. "But where? I haven't seen a single restaurant for miles."
"The owners serve breakfast and dinner buffet-style," Ildar explained. "But lunch is… not included. You might be able to convince the hostess, if you're desperate—but personally, I'd rather head out somewhere else."
I was so caught up in the familiar warmth of Mark's presence that I didn't notice Ildar wandering off toward the back shelves, running his fingers along the spines of the books.
"Got a place in mind?" Mark asked, his tone casual. "Preferably something better than the gas station takeout counter."
The last remark made me smile.
"Funny," I murmured, lowering my voice conspiratorially, "last night you would've sold your soul for a gas-station hot dog."
Our fingers intertwined, and the sweet rush of memory—of the night before—swept away the lingering fog of uneasy thoughts. As long as Mark was beside me, nothing could touch him. I would protect him no matter the cost. I would stop an eight-ton truck if I had to, freeze the sun mid-sky, or bend the wind to change its course. I could do anything, as long as he stayed alive. Weakness only takes root where you've already decided you've lost.
"There's a farmhouse restaurant about fifteen minutes from here," Ildar said from across the room, still half-turned toward the shelves. "Right on the way to that old church route they do for tourists. Yessenia and I have been there a few times—it's nice. Cozy, sort of homely, you know? Lace curtains, wildflowers in vases. You don't find places like that in Moscow, not at lunchtime anyway—everything's crammed with office workers and students."
"Of course," Mark said lightly. "People need to eat somewhere, and most have the same break hour. It takes nearly an hour to get home on the metro or the bus, and dragging containers with you is hardly convenient when discount programs exist for a reason."
I looked at him in surprise. If anyone wasn't the office type, it was Mark. He worked from home whenever possible, summoned taxis instead of taking the metro, and avoided noisy gatherings—holiday parties, office birthdays, anything that required mingling.
So why the sudden chivalrous defense of the nine-to-five crowd?
Perhaps something in Ildar's casual remark had struck a nerve, stirring the version of Mark that had once scraped through long study hours and side jobs, clawing his way toward something better. It was as if he were trying to convince himself that there was still beauty in that chaos, still meaning in the mundane. Though, truthfully, Ildar hadn't been arguing—just describing the place.
"Sounds like a solid endorsement," I said quickly, before their conversation could spiral into a debate about Moscow life. "My car's parked just outside. Once Yesenia gets back, we can—"
A faint aroma of coffee drifted in from the hall. That had to be her.