30. Sam

It’s late in the evening. New Year’s Eve. It’s just me and my brothers, stuck in the house, watching each other’s dull faces. Otherwise, the manor is empty. Gavriil sent everyone away. We might be miserable, but our clan deserves a bit of cheer in their lives.

I wander into the parlor, my mind still reeling from the events of the night, from the strange mix of emotions that swirl inside me like a brewing storm. And that’s when I see him, sprawled out on the couch like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Vlad is laughing, his face lit up with a joy that I haven’t seen in ages. He’s got his phone propped up on his chest, and I can hear the tinny sound of voices coming through the speaker. As I move closer, I catch a glimpse of the screen, my heart melting at the sight that greets me.

It’s Anya, her face radiant with happiness as she cradles their baby girl in her arms. Katya is babbling away, her chubby little hands reaching out towards the camera, towards her daddy. And Vlad... gods, the look on his face as he coos and makes silly faces at his daughter. It’s enough to bring tears to my eyes.

For a moment, I just stand there, watching them, drinking in the pure, unadulterated love that flows between them. It’s a beautiful thing, a reminder of the good that still exists in this world, even amidst all the darkness and chaos.

But then Katya starts to fuss, her little face scrunching up as she lets out a wail that pierces the air. Anya murmurs something soothing, bouncing the baby gently in her arms as she turns back to the camera.

“I think someone’s ready for her nap,” she says, her voice soft and apologetic. “We should probably let you go, babe.”

Vlad’s face falls, but he nods in understanding. “Give her a kiss for me, will you?” he asks, his tone wistful. “And tell her papa loves her, more than anything in this world.”

“I will,” Anya promises, blowing him a kiss of her own before ending the call.

Vlad sighs, staring down at the blank screen for a long moment before he seems to realize I’m there. He sits up, running a hand through his hair as he shoots me a sheepish grin.

“Sorry about that,” he says, tossing his phone aside. “I just... I miss them, you know? Miss seeing my little girl grow up, miss being there for all the little moments.”

I nod, my heart aching for him, for the sacrifice he’s making to be here, to support our family in this time of need. “I know,” I murmur, moving to sit beside him on the couch. “But you’re doing the right thing, Vlad. You’re being a good brother, a good son. And Anya and Katya, they understand that. They love you all the more for it.”

He gives me a grateful smile, bumping his shoulder against mine in a gesture of affection. “Thanks, Sam. I don’t know what I’d do without you, you know that? You’re the glue that holds this crazy family together.”

I snort, shaking my head. “I don’t know about that. Feels more like I’m the one who’s falling apart these days.”

Vlad frowns, his brow creasing with concern. “Hey,” he says softly, taking my hand in his. “You want to talk about it? I know things have been rough lately, with everything that’s going on. But you know I’m here for you, right? Always.”

Of course, I know. Secretly, I think I’m the reason he’s stuck around here for so long—me, not Gavriil.

I squeeze his hand, blinking back the sudden sting of tears. “I know,” I whisper, my voice thick with emotion. “And I appreciate that, more than you know. But right now... I think I just need a distraction. Something to take my mind off all the craziness, even if it’s just for a little while.”

Vlad nods, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. “Should we do something?” he asks, his tone light and casual, but I can hear the underlying warmth, the unspoken offer of companionship.

I open my mouth to respond, to tell Vlad that yes, I’d love to do something, anything, to escape the suffocating weight of my thoughts. But before I can utter a word, the sound of footsteps echoes from the hallway, heavy and measured, a cadence I’d know anywhere.

Gavriil.

I sit up straighter, my heart racing as I watch my brother enter the parlor, his face a mask of carefully controlled calm. But I can see the tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes, the way his jaw clenches as he takes in the sight of Vlad and me, huddled together on the couch like conspirators.

For a moment, he just stands there, his gaze flickering between us, and I feel a pang of unease, wondering if he’s going to say something, if he’s going to demand to know what we were talking about. But then he simply nods, a curt acknowledgment of our presence, before crossing the room to the bar cart in the corner.

I watch as he pours himself a drink, the amber liquid sloshing against the sides of the glass as he lifts it to his lips. He downs it in one gulp, grimacing slightly at the burn, before setting the glass back down with a decisive clink.

And then he’s moving again, striding towards us with a purposeful air that sets my nerves on edge. He sinks down onto the couch beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body, the coiled power that thrums just beneath the surface of his skin.

The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy, and I find myself holding my breath, waiting for the inevitable explosion, the outpouring of anger and grief and bitter recrimination that I know is coming.

But it never does.

Instead, Gavriil just sits there, his eyes fixed on some distant point, his expression inscrutable. And slowly, gradually, I feel the tension begin to drain from the room, replaced by a strange sense of calm, of shared understanding.

At least as we sit here in the parlor, we bear no masks. There’s no pretense. No politics. It reminds me of the times we had when the three of us lived under the same roof in Saint Petersburg, before the world went to hell and took our happiness with it.

Back then, we were just siblings, bound by love and loyalty and the unshakable knowledge that we would always have each other’s backs, no matter what. And for a moment, as I sit there sandwiched between my brothers, I can almost believe that nothing has changed, that we’re still those same people, still capable of weathering any storm as long as we’re together.

Oh, how I long to go home, to return to the familiar comfort of Saint Petersburg and the life we had before everything fell apart. But now that Gavriil has branded Cassandra, we’re stuck in Paris for the foreseeable future, trapped in a gilded cage of duty and obligation.

There was a time when I would have given anything to live here, to immerse myself in the glittering world of art and fashion and endless possibility. But now... now it all feels hollow, a shiny veneer hiding the rot and decay beneath.

I release a long, weary sigh, sinking deeper into the plush leather sofa as I run my fingers back and forth over my gown, the repetitive motion soothing in its mindlessness.

“Any plans for tonight, brother?” Vlad asks, breaking the heavy silence that hangs over the room.

“None,” Gavriil replies, his tone curt and dismissive. Lazily, he picks up a WIRED magazine from the coffee table, his glazed eyes barely registering the words on the page. I know he’s not really reading, just going through the motions, his mind no doubt whirring with plans and schemes, always three steps ahead of the rest of us.

“What about you, Sam?” Vlad turns to me, his eyebrows arching softly, his expression gentle and inviting. He’s always been like this with me, all heart and warmth, the wolf to Gavriil’s bear.

“No plans tonight,” I mutter, the words tasting sour on my tongue. Gods, when did I become so bitter, so jaded? I’m moping and brooding just like Gavriil, a realization that sends a shudder of disgust through me. Have I really sunk so low?

“Then I’m sure we must come up with something,” Vlad says, his smile bright and hopeful, a valiant attempt to lighten the oppressive atmosphere. But it’s futile, a band-aid on a gaping wound. Everything feels bleak and pointless these days, a never-ending cycle of misery and frustration.

A knock on the door shatters the stillness, and Gavriil grunts in annoyance, rolling his eyes as he folds the magazine and tosses it aside. He slumps back on the sofa, his posture the very picture of royal ennui.

I scowl, turning to Vlad with a silent plea, but he just leans back, his stormy eyes meeting mine with a knowing look. The corner of his mouth twitches, a hint of a smirk that says, “You know I’m not getting that, right?”

Another knock, more insistent this time, and I feel my patience snap like a frayed thread.

I suck at my teeth, rising from my seat with a huff of irritation. “A little chivalry would be nice now and then,” I grumble under my breath as I march towards the door, my footsteps heavy with resentment.

It’s infuriating, the way they treat me. “Too mighty and kingly to open a door? Ugh!” I mutter, my hand closing around the lock with more force than necessary.

But as I turn the key and pull the door open, all thoughts of annoyance and frustration flee my mind, replaced by a shock so profound it steals the breath from my lungs.

Because there, standing on the other side of the threshold, is Nik.

My Nik.