As I reached our floor, I dug the apartment keys out of my backpack. The lock clicked, and the door swung open to the sound of Kostya's voice drifting from the kitchen. He was speaking to someone about an upcoming party. Odd. Since when did the parent council report to him?
Before I could piece it together, the front door banged shut behind me. The voice in the kitchen cut off. Footsteps—quick, decisive—approached.
"Dad, I'm home!" I called, bending to unlace my shoes.
"Oh, Asya, and Stas!" Kostya emerged into the hallway with a smile that felt just a shade too bright. "I told you they'd be here soon!"
And then I saw him. Nik was standing just behind my father.
The air in the hallway seemed to crystallize—charged, brittle—as Karimov and Smirnov locked eyes in a silent standoff. Stanislav stepped forward, subtly edging me away from Nik. Kostya noticed the motion, his gaze flicking between them, puzzled.
"You said we'd talk tonight," I told Nik, searching his face for signs that he'd recovered from the outburst at school. His eyes were their usual shade again—no crimson bleeding through. He looked… himself. And yet, I couldn't shake the anxious knot in my stomach.
"That's why I came," he said, his voice sharpened with distaste as he looked at Stanislav. "I even called. You didn't answer."
I fished my phone from my pocket. Four missed calls flashed on the screen—three from him, one from Kostya.
"Maybe you didn't hear because of the music," Nik went on. "Tatiana plays it loud."
"Or maybe," he added, eyes narrowing, "you were distracted by something else. Or someone."
The accusation was a splash of ice water.
"What's gotten into you? You're not yourself."
Nik bit down on whatever words he wanted to say—whether from restraint or sheer unwillingness to argue in front of my father, I couldn't tell. The silence thickened. Even Kostya looked uneasy.
Finally, he clapped a hand on Nik's shoulder and nodded toward the kitchen. "Come on. Make us some tea. And you two—stop freezing in the hallway and join us. No need for drama at the door."
I exhaled, grateful for the reprieve, and followed Stas inside.
"Sorry," I murmured to him. "If I'd just picked up the phone, none of this—"
"You've got nothing to be sorry for," he cut in. "This is on your prince charming."
The phrase made me flinch.
"Don't call him that."
"What, your boyfriend?"
"Yes," I said, holding his gaze. "My boyfriend. And stop calling him 'buddy' like he's a dog."
"Don't like dogs?" he teased.
"I like them," I said as we entered the living room. "I just don't date them."
Stas laughed—too amused for my taste—but I didn't press.
Nik and Kostya were already seated, a polite gulf of sofa cushion between them. I chose the spot beside my father, close enough to feel anchored. Nik clicked his tongue, his displeasure palpable.
Stanislav slid between them like it was nothing, which only tightened Nik's jaw. I prayed Stas wouldn't provoke him into a slip—into those eyes I didn't want Kostya to see.
And that's when it hit me: this was how it would always be. Being with Nik meant living with the constant, coiled threat of what he was. If there was a cure, he'd have taken it long before I came along.
Kostya broke the silence, asking after our costumes. I told him about Tatiana's idea—Dracula's brides, with Stas as one of them. Nik's stare burned into me, the same unspoken disapproval as before.
We drifted into talk of old films, then folklore. Kostya mentioned that in Kserton, werewolves had always been more famous than vampires. Nik and Stas answered in unison, as if sharing some private knowledge. I tried to draw the legends out of them, but the moment slid sideways—Nik's temper sparking again when he heard Stas's family had been teaching me about the town.
He was just about to unload the reason for his strange mood when Kostya's phone rang.
The change in my father's face was immediate. He listened in silence, gaze fixed on some invisible point on the table.
"I'll call work, get time off, look at tickets. First flight we can manage. Just try to rest," he said softly into the phone.
The voice on the other end trembled with worry, and my chest tightened when I realized who it was.
"Maria… we'll handle this together," he promised.
By the time he ended the call, I was cold all over. Mom was alive—but something awful had happened.
"This can wait a few days," Kostya finally said, his tone firm. "Right now, you two stay here. This is family business."
Nik and Stas left with their father. I stayed rooted to the couch, the sense of dread pressing harder with each passing second.
Kostya returned and sat beside me, taking my hands. He hesitated before speaking, as if bracing himself.
"Asya," he said quietly, "your grandmother… she's gone."