I turned—and for a heartbeat, my mind refused to believe what my eyes told me.
Stanislav stood there as if nothing had happened, a backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder. His copper hair, damp and unruly, clung to his forehead, as though he'd just stepped in from the rain.
Across the table, Tatiana seized my hand like an actress taking center stage. "We could all go as Dracula's brides!" she exclaimed, her eyes darting between me and Dasha. "We even match in hair color—no wigs required!"
Stanislav slid into an empty chair, as if the tension around the table didn't exist. Most of the guys stiffened. Tatiana, however, leaned forward, practically glowing with the opportunity to perform.
"Verona, Marishka, and Aleera," she recited, savoring each name. "I'll be Marishka—obviously—because of my hair, Dasha will be Verona… and Aleera will be you, Asya. You could be our Dracula." She rested her chin in her palm, smiling at Stanislav with syrupy sweetness that made my stomach knot.
Stanislav played along, trading lazy banter with her about the best film adaptation, their voices laced with a flirtation so deliberate it might have been scripted.
"I can't be Aleera," I cut in, loud enough to slice through their conversation.
Tatiana blinked. "Why not?"
"I'm not a redhead."
She gave a dismissive flick of her wrist. "Maybe not, but your shade's close enough."
The heat rose in me. I could feel myself bristling as she turned back to Stanislav, laughing—too loudly, too sweetly—at something he'd said. I wasn't going to let her erase me from my own presence.
"I don't like the character," I said firmly. "So I won't dress as her."
Tatiana gave me a slow once-over, as if measuring the challenge. Before the air could sharpen further, Dasha leaned in hesitantly. "We could switch," she offered. "You can be Verona, I'll take Aleera."
Stanislav's lips curved. "Asya—the main bride of Dracula?" he teased. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tatiana's smile falter, the smallest crack in her performance. The sight was strangely satisfying.
And before I could think better of it, the words tumbled out. "We could even plan something for the contest. A… joint dance." I paused deliberately, locking eyes with Stanislav. "Yours and mine."
Smirnov's gaze didn't waver. There was a depth to it, like he was rifling through the backrooms of his mind in search of a plan. He didn't back down—not in front of me, not in front of the others.
"I agree," he said simply.
The table fell silent. Only Tatiana dared to break it, her tongue clicking with irritation.
And then—I felt it. Nik's arm slipping from my waist. The weight of what I'd done landed like a stone in my chest. Why had I said that? Why had I challenged Stanislav in front of everyone—when I was with Nik?
Every gaze shifted toward us. I turned to him. His features had dimmed, his shoulders drawn in. He wouldn't meet my eyes; his stare drifted as if searching for a lifeline in open water.
"I should go," he said abruptly, snatching his backpack. "Big test coming up. Need to review." The words came too quickly, and he was already halfway to the door.
"Nik, wait!" I stumbled out from behind the table, my pulse pounding, knowing even before I spoke that apologies might be useless.
Behind me, laughter rippled through the cafeteria. My face burned.
I caught up to him on the stairs, calling his name again and again. He didn't turn. Finally, I reached for his shoulder—only for him to jerk away, and something inside me splintered.
"It was a joke," I said, breathless. "I didn't mean—"
"But you did." His voice was low, flat.
I tried to step in front of him, but he turned away again. "You'd better go."
"Nik, please—"
"Leave."
His back was rigid, trembling faintly. The air between us vibrated with it.
"At least listen. I'm new to this—being with someone. I speak without thinking sometimes. Stanislav's been avoiding me, even sent his sister this morning to sing praises about their family. I just… I wanted to get under his skin."
"But you got under mine." The sudden flare in his voice was like a spark to dry tinder. "And Stanislav looked like he enjoyed every second of it!"
His fist struck the railing. The metal groaned under the blow. I gasped—more from the shock than the sound.
"What's going on here?" The voice came from behind.
Nik turned, and my breath caught. His deep blue eyes had burned to crimson—predatory, wrong.
"Not your business," he growled at Stanislav.
"Oh, it's very much my business when your eyes look like that." Stanislav ascended the stairs with deliberate calm, placing himself between us.
Nik's hand grazed his own cheek, then he fumbled for his phone, flipping to the front camera. One glance, and he swore. "Damn it. Guess I'm missing that test."
"Go home," Stanislav ordered.
"I don't need you to tell me." Nik shoved past him, but not before meeting my gaze. "We'll talk tonight."
Relief and unease tangled in my chest—grateful the tension had broken, but chilled by what I'd just seen.
"I didn't know vampires could change their eyes," I murmured.
"You don't know much about us," Stanislav replied.
"If you keep avoiding me, I never will."
He sighed, the sound heavy as stone. "Do you really want to know?"
The question lodged in my throat. I shook my head slightly, trying to scatter the thoughts buzzing like wasps in my mind. When had everything become so tangled? We were supposed to be ordinary seniors—worrying about exams, dancing at parties—not… this. Not peeling back the veil on creatures out of myth.
"Then why send your sister?" I asked finally.
"Because your father asked me to," he said, weariness sharpening into annoyance. "I knew you wouldn't leave me alone—that you'd keep digging. But, Asya… you don't need the answers. Live your life. Forget what you saw. Be grateful, and let's end this here."
The fervor in his voice stunned me. "Thank you," I murmured, unsure if I meant it.
We stood there, alone on the landing. The school was nearly empty now; distant echoes from the cafeteria were the only sounds. Stanislav studied me with quiet intensity, biting his lip as if restraining more words.
From one step below, I looked up at him—tall, solid, unyielding. Like Atlas, bearing a weight only he understood.
"Thank you," I repeated softly. "For yesterday. For today."
Only then did I notice the warmth in his gaze. His skin was pale as carved marble, smooth and flawless, almost unreal. My fingers ached to touch it, to test whether it was truly flesh or the polished mask of something far older.
"You'll keep digging," he said—not a question, but a truth.
"I can't help it."
He raked a hand through his copper hair, already turning to go. "Then remember—forgetting would be better."