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The Romanians climbed the stairs in silence, their heavy steps fading into the distance as the echo vanished into the old wood. Alice and Nate stood still, face to face, as if something invisible held them in place. The world seemed to have stopped around them. Neither wanted to take that final step that would mean separation.
What they had lived through in D.C. hadn't just been a pause in the storm. It had been a breath of calm, a space where a deep, wordless intimacy grew. They hadn't just shared a bed: they had held each other up without needing to speak.
Alice stepped forward, intending to speak, but Nate was faster. He pulled her into his arms with strength, but without urgency. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, letting Alice's scent wrap around him.
"I want you to come back safe from Seattle," he murmured, voice heavy with restrained emotion. "Don't take your time."
She wrapped her arms around him and held on as tightly as he did, as if that might stop the world from dragging them in different directions.
"Just promise me something, Nate... when you know the truth, come back. To Forks. To home. I'll make sure Victoria is no longer a threat. My family will help. You just need to settle this, and then we can have something quiet. Real. For us."
Nate lowered his head, resting his chin on her hair.
"I like the sound of that."
"Yeah?" Alice replied, nestling deeper into his chest.
"It scares me how easy it is to imagine," Nate admitted, then pulled back enough to look into her eyes with a smile. "We could find a place just for us in Forks. Because honestly... I don't think I can sleep alone anymore."
Alice gave a smile that was part tender, part amused.
"Really?"
"I got used to having you beside me every night. Hearing you move, feeling you there. Even when everything was falling apart, I slept soundly... because you were with me."
Alice looked down, touched by his words.
"That sounds really nice. Though... living together in Forks would be quite the scandal."
Nate shrugged with a half-smile.
"I don't think the Cullens would mind. And my grandmother... she'd be happy, as long as we visit often."
Alice laughed softly.
"That would be sweet."
They looked at each other in silence for a few seconds, holding each other's gaze as if they wished to stay in that moment forever. Nate leaned down a little more, just enough for his face to meet hers. She closed the distance. They kissed without haste, slowly, as if they both knew that the kiss needed to last beyond the moment that it had to be kept as a promise.
When they pulled apart, Alice looked at him with a mix of firmness and tenderness.
"I know everything will be fine, that we'll see each other soon."
"I'll make sure of it," he said softly.
Alice watched him a moment longer. There was nothing left to say. She stepped back, letting the embrace end. She walked away, taking one last breath of his scent before putting on a reluctant expression and disappearing like a breath of wind through the door.
Nate remained there, staring at the doorway where Alice had exited, taking a deep breath before climbing the stairs to end all of this.
He climbed in silence, the echo of his own breathing marking the rhythm of his steps. The room was dimly lit by the light filtering through the half-open blinds. Vladimir stood next to a shelf, flipping through one of Nate's books with apparent disinterest; Stefan was seated, one leg crossed over the other, reading his father's journal as if it were a forgotten novel.
It was Stefan who broke the silence, without lifting his gaze from the notebook:
"Now that your companion is gone... do you truly feel ready for what comes next?"
His tone wasn't inquisitive, almost casual like someone asking out of politeness, already knowing the answer.
Nate took a couple of seconds to respond.
"Yes," he said finally, without much conviction. "I am."
Vladimir, without turning, spoke in his usual soft and slightly mocking voice:
"Curious. Even among our kind, those who have survived wars and centuries, facing a newborn directly is considered... unwise."
He dropped the book and turned slowly, one eyebrow barely raised.
"And yet you, so attached and full of promises, decide to let her go. Just like that. Calmly."
Nate raised his eyes, a flicker of irritation crossing his face.
"She's not alone. She'll be with her family. I trust them."
He said "trust" as if he were trying to convince himself more than them.
Stefan closed the journal with a soft snap and looked at him with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Such a dangerous word, that. Trust."
He stood slowly, as if every movement was calculated to impose presence.
"Allow me to offer you a piece of advice, Nathaniel. Inaction—that sweet temptation not to interfere—is almost always the first step toward defeat."
"And trusting others to give their all," added Vladimir, crossing his arms, "is a polite way to gamble your fate on chance."
His tone was courteous, even polite, but the intent was as sharp as a hidden blade.
Stefan walked slowly to the window, gazing outside without really seeing.
"You'll understand with time. Only the power that resides within you can be trusted, especially when wielded with determination. The power you delegate... fades when you need it most."
The silence that followed wasn't comfortable. It was the kind of pause extended on purpose, to let discomfort do its work.
Then Vladimir smiled slowly, like someone recalling a private memory that no longer hurt, but hadn't been forgiven either.
"Of course, it took us a millennium to learn that."
"A thousand years of losses," added Stefan, without turning. "Of mistakes. Of paying the price for trusting."
Vladimir tilted his head toward Nate, almost gently.
"With luck, you won't need that long."
Nate didn't reply. He couldn't. He shook his head with a sharp gesture, lips tight, jaw clenched. There was something in their words, the way they wrapped each phrase in half-truths and courtesy that only served to hide the blade. The most irritating part was that, despite everything, he couldn't help but admit they had a point.
"This isn't your concern," he said finally, his voice barely containing its edge.
Vladimir raised his eyebrows, his mocking smile unwavering. Stefan placed a hand on his chest, as if Nate's words had wounded him.
"Not our concern? And here we were, simply worried about you," Stefan said with false sweetness.
"It's true," murmured Vladimir, slowly pacing the room. "We're only concerned for your companion. Anyone willing to threaten us on your behalf... well, they must be worth something."
"And that ability to have visions," added Stefan in a lower voice, casting a fleeting glance at his companion, "sounds interesting. Very interesting."
Nate didn't bite. He wouldn't give them more than they already knew.
"Tonight there will be people gathering at a bar, a few minutes from here," he said coldly, changing the subject. "I have reasons to believe the wolf will be there."
That was all it took for the Romanians to turn to him with new smiles, sharp and satisfied.
"Perfect," Vladimir said. "Then all you have to do is make sure he's there... and get him out, even just a little, from the bar."
"To a nearby alley, away from interruptions," Stefan added with a calm that bordered on pleasure.
Nate nodded slowly.
"I can do that. But you'll keep your distance. If he senses you too soon, he'll leave."
"Of course," Vladimir replied with a slight tilt of his head. "We're not amateurs. We'll only approach when we think you've had enough time."
"Don't disappoint us," Stefan added.
With that, they moved toward the window, almost soundlessly, as if the house had already grown used to their presence. But before disappearing, Vladimir turned one last time, his mocking gaze and voice wrapped in a venomous lightness.
"We suggest you get different clothes."
"Everything about you," Stefan added, smiling like someone sharing a secret, "smells like that vampire."
Nate didn't respond. He just watched them leave, mentally noting the advice as his hand slowly curled into a fist.
..................................
The following hours before nightfall, Nate spent tying up loose ends. He returned the black car he had rented with the same impersonal air with which he had picked it up. Then he walked through several streets until he found a discreet shop, far enough from the bustle to avoid drawing questions.
He chose new clothes: simple, dark garments, nothing that would attract attention. He also bought a different shampoo, a neutral-scented soap, and a small bottle of barely noticeable cologne. He knew it wouldn't be enough to just dress differently; he had to rid himself of anything that could give him away. Anything that might smell like her.
When he returned to the house, Alice's absence became more tangible. The place, which had once shared moments of calm, now felt incomplete. Silent in a disturbing way. As if even the walls were holding their breath.
Nate forced himself not to dwell on it. He showered, letting the hot water run down his body while his thoughts arranged themselves in silence. He had a task ahead, and there was no room for distractions. Still, the discomfort lingered, a dull throb beneath his skin. He wondered, just for a second, how Alice might be doing. But he didn't allow himself to follow that path.
When he stepped out, he dressed in the new clothes. Dark jeans, a plain shirt, and a jacket with no logos or brands. Nothing recognizable. He applied a bit of the newly purchased cologne, adjusted the jacket collar in the mirror, and checked his face. He didn't expect to see anything different. He just wanted to make sure his anxiety didn't show.
He called a cab. The driver said nothing, and Nate was grateful. During the ride, he watched the streets of D.C. cast in the shadows of night. The artificial lights flickered like coded signals, the sidewalks gradually emptied, and the air grew heavier, as if the city itself was preparing for something.
Finally, the car stopped in front of a discreet bar, with a nondescript facade and no flashy signs. Just a wooden door, a dim light, unpopular music, and the muffled murmur of conversations inside.
Nate paid, stepped out without looking back, and walked toward the bar.
As he approached the entrance, he paused for a moment at the curb. He looked up. The moon hung high, but it looked small that night, distant, almost indifferent. As if it too were watching from afar, with no intention of intervening. Nate took a deep breath and swallowed the last trace of doubt lingering inside him. He couldn't afford to waver. Not now.
He straightened his shoulders and walked with confidence toward the entrance.
A man waited at the door, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. When he saw Nate approach, he watched him for a few seconds with a curious expression... until a wide grin spread across his face.
"Hey, kid. Looks like you made it after all," he said with a hint of mockery in his voice.
Nate recognized him instantly. One of the bald man's companions from the other night. Nate's smile was faint but convincing enough.
"Of course. Tonight's my revenge," he replied with a spark of controlled humor.
The man let out a short laugh and shook his head. "I doubt it, kid. Tonight, a lot of people are playing... and not all of them are as friendly as we are. Hope you brought enough money to lose," he added as he stepped aside, making way.
Nate didn't respond. He just gave a dry chuckle and stepped through the door.
The bar was full. Not to the point of suffocation, but enough that each table had a life of its own. The music was low, a faint rasp of rock that allowed conversations to float in the air like threads of smoke. The scent of alcohol, old leather, tobacco, and sweat. A place where the night felt heavy and time seemed to slow down.
Nate moved slowly, hands in his pockets, scanning the place with his eyes. He was looking for something. Or someone. A face that stood out. A gaze too sharp. A reaction to his presence.
And then he saw him.
The bald man was there, exactly where he imagined he'd be: at a table near the back, drinking beer and chatting with two of the same men from the other night. They were laughing, relaxed, as if in no hurry. Until the bald man saw him.
For a second, the conversation seemed to pause. The man lifted his gaze and locked eyes with Nate. A slow smile formed on his lips, crooked, as if celebrating the punctuality of an old friend.
He raised a hand, signaling him over with a slight gesture.
Nate didn't hesitate. He walked toward them without altering his pace. If he felt anything, he left it outside his body. That night, every word, every gesture, was part of the game.
The bald man greeted him enthusiastically as he approached, his smile wide, almost exaggerated, as if genuinely glad to see him. Nate wasn't sure if it was sincere or part of the theatrics that always seemed to surround men like him, but he smiled too and shook his hand with matching energy.
"Well, well! Look who decided to show up!" the bald man exclaimed, giving him a loud slap on the shoulder. "This place'll be packed soon. You'll see, the bets get real tonight."
Without missing a beat, he gestured to the bar. The bartender, who had apparently been waiting for the cue, nodded silently and quickly began pouring a cold beer. In seconds, he handed it to Nate with almost choreographed efficiency.
"For you. On the house," said the bald man with a lopsided grin, as if he knew nothing in this place was ever truly free.
Nate accepted the beer and offered a discreet toast, masking his constant tension under a veil of fake cheer. He slipped into the conversation with the three men, laughing at the right moments, throwing sharp remarks when appropriate, watching every word as if walking a tightrope.
The place began to fill little by little. There wasn't a clear shift, just a gradual rise in voices, cigarette smoke, the smell of alcohol, and sweat. New people trickled in, some alone, others in groups. Nate watched them out of the corner of his eye while pretending to listen to one of the bald man's companions tell a story. He was meticulous, trying to spot any sign, any face that didn't quite belong.
But he found none.
All the newcomers shared the same aura: rough men, some with visible tattoos and clenched jaws, others with glassy eyes and the sluggishness of heavy drinkers. Some laughed like hyenas; others slipped into dark corners and melted into silence.
Nate felt a twinge of disappointment. He forced himself to maintain the smile as time passed and drinks changed hands. The stories grew louder, the tones more intense.
That was when he felt the buzz in his pocket.
With practiced discretion, he pulled out his phone and glanced down. It was a message from Alice. Just reading her name loosened something inside him.
"I'm in Seattle. Met with my family. All good. Keep me updated. I miss you."
Nate couldn't help but smile. There was something warm and reassuring in those few words, like an anchor tossed into a sea just beginning to stir. He began typing a quick reply, but just then, the bald man's voice rose above the general murmur.
"Well, well!" he said in a tone that wasn't exactly festive but enough to grab everyone's attention. Even the bartender turned down the music with a quick twist of a knob, letting a brief, expectant silence settle over the place.
The bald man stood up, lifting his half-empty glass. His smile widened, though now his eyes held something colder, as if the mask of camaraderie was slipping.
"Time for what we really came here to do tonight," he announced, his voice somewhere between celebration and warning. "Cards, cash... and luck. Let the first bet roll, gentlemen."
A wave of excitement rippled through the bar. People began gathering, forming a semicircle around the main table, where a couple of chairs were already waiting. The air shifted, as if every particle knew something important was about to start.
Nate slid the phone back into his pocket without replying to the message, focusing instead on what was about to happen.
The games began with a subdued enthusiasm. At first, they played cards, gathering around the main table as if it were some sort of ritual. Laughter was scarce, replaced by grunts, tongue clicks, and the occasional sharp thump on the table when someone lost badly. Nate stayed on the sidelines, watching the game and sharing the occasional laugh.
Then came the darts. Two players stood in front of a dartboard hanging on the wall, and the bartender brought out a scoreboard with metal hooks to jot down names and allow the others to bet quickly. Coins and bills exchanged hands without order or decorum. The air had grown thicker, filled with smoke and harsh murmurs. Nate used the breaks between games to observe and identify everyone who approached.
At some point, someone dragged a table into the center of the room, pushing chairs aside on either side. Arm wrestling had begun.
The first ones to step up did so with rough enthusiasm, rolling up their sleeves, rubbing their hands together, as if simply pushing with their arms could release weeks of pent-up frustration. Nate watched from a corner with his half-empty glass between his fingers. One man, in particular, caught his attention. He was short, lean, with dark skin and black curly hair that fell in messy little spirals. At first glance, he wasn't impressive—he didn't have muscular arms like some of the others, nor the body of someone used to lifting weights. But he was one of the first to approach the table and, without fanfare, bet a significant amount of money on himself.
Nate narrowed his eyes.
It wasn't common for someone like that to bet big on a brute strength game. Even less so to seem so confident about it. When it was his turn, the man dispatched his opponents one after the other with disconcerting speed. He didn't look excited or annoyed—just rushed, as if he had more important things to do. Each victory of his was clean, without celebration or mockery, and as soon as he stood up from his seat, he was ready for the next one.
Nate decided to join in.
He sat across from him when his turn came, and the two exchanged a brief glance in greeting. Their hands met in the center of the table: Nate's, firm and rough; the other's, smaller but strangely solid.
The match began.
Nate pressed. He felt the tension in his arm, neck, and jaw. The other man closed his eyes and furrowed his brow as if he were on the brink of collapse. He panted slightly, as if his body were resisting with everything it had. But his arm didn't move. Not a millimeter.
That's what alerted Nate.
The expression of strain was convincing… but it didn't match what his arm showed. There were no tremors, no pushback, not a hint of weakness. It was as if all that exhaustion was just a mask.
The struggle lasted longer than usual. For a moment, it seemed like the other would give in, that his wrist would buckle. But it didn't. On the contrary, with calculated pressure, he slowly pushed Nate's arm down to the table, winning the match as if he had given it everything he had.
Nate pulled his hand back silently, his breathing a bit quicker.
The dark-skinned man stood without a word. He headed to the bar and, with a quick gesture to the bartender, ordered another beer. He received it with the same neutral expression he'd had while playing. He sat at the counter without much interest, watching as the other competitions unfolded.
Nate watched him for a few minutes. After witnessing the man's strength, he had no doubt. That was him. Now he just needed to confirm it.
While some men continued with the arm wrestling matches, placing bets, laughing, and slamming fists on the table, Nate made his way through the crowd, pretending to be more drunk than he really was. He approached the bald man—one of the loudest in the group—and, with a crooked smile, placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Oooh, come on, really? I thought the games would be more exciting!"
The bald man glanced at him, thinking he was just another drunk making noise. He shook his head and raised his voice, trying to get the rest to join in.
"HAAHAAAH! What do you say, guys? Look at the kid!" he shouted toward the whole bar.
Laughter erupted from the corners, some raising their glasses, others slapping the tables in approval.
The bald man turned to Nate, raising an eyebrow and giving him a crooked half-smile. "So tell me… what's exciting to you?"
Nate pretended to think, tilting his head with an exaggerated expression. Then, as if he'd just had a brilliant revelation, he grinned from ear to ear and raised his voice.
"I know! How about five-finger fillet? That's a bar game, right?"
There was a brief silence, like a collective held breath. The bald man's eyes widened slightly in surprise. Then a fierce smile, almost childlike in his excitement, spread across his weathered face.
"You wanna see blood, huh? Perfect…"
He turned to the bar and shouted:
"Hey! Bring out some knives to play!"
The bartender, already used to these things, nodded without saying a word and crouched down behind the counter. Some men clapped, others whistled in excitement. The air grew heavier.
But before the bartender could pull anything out, Nate raised his voice again, still swaying, a smile still on his face.
"What do you need more for? I've got one right here!"
With a quick motion, he reached into his jacket and raised his father's knife high, letting the metallic gleam catch the artificial light of the room and draw everyone's attention.