Chapter 12

Chapter

Twelve

"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear."

― C.S. Lewis

Caia

I braced myself, that nasty taste of dread creeping up as my dad's name flashed on the screen. Just the thought of his snarky comments or his inevitable disappointment was enough to make my stomach knot up.

I stared at the phone, wishing I could avoid his voice and the barrage of judgment he always seemed to deliver. After a beat of hesitation, I tapped decline for the third time, hoping he'd finally take the hint and leave me the hell alone.

But my hope was in vain. The damn phone kept ringing, like he was determined to chip away at the last shred of peace I had. My muscles tensed, a knot of frustration twisting in my chest as I finally answered.

"What?" I snapped, letting the irritation drip from every word.

"Is that how you greet your old man, Caia? I raised you better than that."

I took a slow, deep breath, my grip tightening around the phone. "I'm busy."

"How's Romaniev?"

Of course. Typical.

I almost laughed out loud. It was like he was more interested in Romaniev than I was. Maybe he'd like to have him in his bed. Hell, I should tell him to go ahead and do it, let him get his fix by screwing him—maybe then he'd finally stop obsessing over my life and leave me alone.

"I saw him last night. He prepared dinner and even kissed me goodnight like some cliché rom-com hero. Is that enough to satisfy your curiosity?"

"Only kissed you? I don't have much time, Caia," my father grumbled. "I want this done by the end of the week."

Of course, he doesn't. His royal schedule of being an ass must be very demanding.

He hung up abruptly, leaving me with the usual bitter taste of his demands and that lovely trapped feeling only his stupid rules could inspire.

Four days.

I had four days to seduce Lucifer and somehow get leverage over the Silas. No big deal, right?

I set my phone down, closed my eyes, and let the chilly breeze smack me in the face. Part of me wanted this mess over so I could move on. Another part wanted to run—maybe start fresh as a waitress in Spain, scrub floors in Poland, or just blend into the chaos of New York. Hell, flipping burgers sounded better than staying here.

I hadn't figured it all out yet. But all I knew was that the person I most wanted to escape from wasn't Romaniev, the Silas, or even this insane plan.

It was my biggest bully—my freaking father.

Only four days left.

I needed a plan, and fast.

I stood up from the bench where I'd been waiting for an hour, trying to photograph two majestic swans gliding over the nearly frozen Senezh Lake. The scene was a wintry masterpiece—the trees were bare, standing like sentinels around the lake. The water was half frozen, reflecting the gray sky, with patches of ice scattered about. Snow blanketed the ground, contrasting with the dark, icy water.

There weren't many around, just a few people and their pets making tracks in the snow—and me. Alone.

Only four days left, Caia.

It was too early for Alexsei to fall for my trap, but I needed something to lure him in sooner. An idea sparked in my mind.

What man with an ego the size of Russia and a god complex to match could resist a damsel in distress? It's basically catnip for arrogant assholes.

I took a deep breath and dialed the number Romaniev had given me the night before, holding my breath like this was some life-or-death mission. Which, now that I think about it, kind of was…

Please, answer. Please, Romaniev.

The phone rang three times.

Just as I was about to hang up, a rough voice answered, "Hello, Caia."

"Hey, hold still!" I said, adjusting his chin to the exact angle I needed.

He let out a rough, low groan, barely hiding his smirk as he nipped at my finger. "Caia, it's my first time as a model. I might be drop-dead gorgeous, but you still need to teach me how to pose."

As I adjusted the camera, capturing his profile against the lake, snowflakes gently settled on his nose, lips, and tousled hair. I took a moment to admire him—Alexsei Romaniev was undeniably beautiful.

An unexpected urge to touch him gripped me. I leaned in, my breath brushing his skin as I tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear. When he opened his eyes, the raw intensity in his gaze made the air between us almost unbearable.

I cleared my throat and said, "You're doing fine, but let's add a bit of edge. Light a cigarette and blow the smoke into the air. It might give you that dark aura you're so good at faking."

A muscle in his jaw twitched slightly, as if he wanted to say something but stopped himself. He stared at me, his gaze lingering just a second too long before he gave a slow, deliberate nod. He lit a cigarette, drew in a deep breath, and let the smoke curl and twist around him like an ethereal shroud.

Flustered, I snapped my focus back to the camera, desperately pretending it was a shield against the temptation creeping up on me. He was inching closer, each move pulling me further into his abyss. The shutter clicked away, each snap echoing like a mockery of my struggle to stay just out of his reach.

When I finally dropped the camera, my eyes didn't want to look away from him. Him being this close was messing with my head, making my stomachache in a way that had nothing to do with how tight he was pressing in. I could practically feel my body screaming to touch him, to let my skin meet his. The urge to close the gap between us was intense, and the heat was nearly making me lose it.

Gosh, I'd never wanted a man's hands on me this badly before, but a part of me—raw and reckless—was stripped of any sense of decency.

My mind was racing with wild thoughts, imagining tearing my clothes off right there and then. The cold was irrelevant; all I could think about was pressing my naked body against him, feeling every inch of his skin on mine.

I was consumed by the fantasy of his hands grabbing at my chest, his face buried between my?—

Caia, wake up!

"Thanks for today. You really saved me. I was struggling to find inspiration."

"Glad to help. So, who's next?"

I paused, realizing he had a point. I needed a new subject.

"I think… I want to photograph hands," I said, thinking about my grandmother. "I want to pair her hands with mine. Hands tell a story—time, love, connection. They show who I've become through her touch."

As I packed up my camera, I could feel his eyes on me, probably thinking my idea was a b

it lame. Maybe I should've come up with something more exciting. My head was already starting to throb.

"And how does a picture of my face fit into this?"

I shrugged, barely containing my smirk. "It's to capture my hatred for men and cigarettes."

His blue eyes locked onto mine, making me feel trapped. "Come on, baby. You can't hate all men. I'm not that bad, am I?"

My heart flustered. "You're the worst kind. Anyone working for the Silas is practically a soul-sucking void."

"Touché." He took a step closer, his proximity making my skin prickle. Our faces were so close I could feel his breath against mine. He leaned in, his voice a taunting whisper. "Are you as soulless as you think I am, Caia?"

Was I soulless? The question hung in the air, and I had no illusions about the answer.

Between the world's charm, a generous helping of daddy issues, a non-stop replay of traumatic memories, and an unsettling parade of faceless men leaving their venom in my blood, it's no wonder I ended up this way.

Soulless, worthless, and…broken.

Stepping closer, I licked my lips. "Wait and find out, Lucifer."