He moved into the center of the kitchen, gesturing for me to follow.
"Basic Lycan waltz," he said. "Three-count rhythm. I’ll lead."
"Obviously. I’d probably lead us into a wall."
That almost-smile again. "Probably."
He extended his hand. Palm up. Formal.
I placed my hand in his. His grip was firm. Steady.
"Other hand on my shoulder," he instructed.
I obeyed. He placed his free hand lightly on my waist—careful, professional, keeping clear distance between us.
"The rhythm is: one-two-three, one-two-three. Step back with your right foot on one. Side with your left on two. Close with your right on three. Then repeat."
"Right foot back, left foot side, right foot close," I repeated. "Got it."
"Absolutely not. But let’s do it anyway."
He began counting. "One—"
Brought my feet together.
One-two-three. One-two-three.
It was... not terrible?
"You’re tense," Dmitri said. "Relax your shoulders."
"I’m trying. This is my relaxed face."
I snorted. Almost tripped. Caught myself.
"See? This is what I mean. I’m a disaster."
"You’re learning. There’s a difference." He adjusted his grip slightly. "Again. Don’t think about it so much. Just feel the rhythm."
"Feel the rhythm. Right. Like I’m not actively concentrating on not stepping on your feet."
We went through the steps again. And again.
And slowly—very slowly—I started to get it.
The pattern. The rhythm. The way his hand on my waist guided me through the turns.
"Better," he said after the fifth round. "You’re picking it up."
"I said better, not good."
We turned. I tried to anticipate the next step and moved too quickly—
My foot caught on his.
He caught me. Steady. One arm wrapping around my waist to keep me upright.
"And THERE it is," I said against his shoulder. "The inevitable disaster."
"You were doing well until you tried to anticipate," he said, not letting go yet. Making sure I had my balance. "Stop thinking ahead. Stay in the moment."
"Easier said than done when my brain is screaming ’don’t fall don’t fall DON’T FALL.’"
He released me slowly. Stepped back.
"You asked me to teach you. I’m teaching you. Again."
I groaned but moved back into position.
His hand found my waist again. Our hands clasped.
Better this time. Smoother.
We went through it again. Then again.
And this time—this time I didn’t fall.
"There," Dmitri said when we were close to completing the sequence, his smile was wider now freer and then I froze, stiff as a statue.
We had stilled, heads snapping in the direction we both knew.
It was Vladimir---disheveled?
His almost silver hair was not tousled, it was ruffled, sticking up at odd angles, somehow longer to boot. He was clothed in a crumpled white shirt that looked like he had slept in its, a single swipe of red at its corner.
His face was darkened with the start of stubble, dark circles under his eyes, another red mark at the corner of his lip.
He looked HURT. Exhausted. Like he’d been through something terrible.
Whatever had happened, wherever he’d been—
He wasn’t okay. Content orıginally comes from novel⁂fire.net
"Vladimir," I said softly, taking a small step forward. "Are you—you don’t look well. Are you alright?"
His eyes snapped to mine. Sharp. FOCUSED now.
For a heartbeat, something flickered in them. Something raw and wounded.
"I’m fine." His voice was flat. Cold.
I took another step. "But you’re—"
Actually stepped BACK. Like I was made of fire and he’d burn if I got too close.
The movement stopped me dead. My chest constricted, the tug on it even more painful now.
"I said I’m FINE, Miss Brooks." Each word precisely clipped. Distant. "You should get some rest."
The formality hit like a slap.
Not Lilith. Not even a softening of his tone.
Just... walls. ICE walls.
"Training begins early tomorrow morning," he continued, not quite meeting my eyes now. "You’ll need your strength."
He looked so—so broken. And he wouldn’t let me NEAR him.
Something must have shown on my face because his expression shifted. Just slightly.
The harsh edges SOFTENED.
He turned away, shoulders tight. "I’m fine, Lilith. I promise."
The use of my name—quiet, almost gentle—made it worse somehow.
Dmitri cleared his throat softly. "I should—I’ll leave you both—"
"Stay," Vladimir said. Not looking at either of us. "I’m not—" He stopped. Started again. "Have you eaten, Miss Brooks?"
Back to formality. Back to DISTANCE.
"Yes," I whispered. "I—yes."
"Good." He nodded once. Still wouldn’t look at me. "Then you should go to bed. Tomorrow will be... difficult."
That’s what this was.
He was sending me AWAY.
I glanced at Dmitri. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
I swallowed hard. Started toward the stairs.
Each step felt HEAVY.
Like I was abandoning him when he clearly needed—
I stopped at the base of the stairs. Looked back.
Vladimir had turned slightly. Just enough that I caught his profile.
And he was watching me.
For just a moment, the ICE cracked.
I saw the exhaustion. The PAIN. The something else I couldn’t name.
Something that made my breath catch.
"Take care," I said softly.
His jaw tightened. He gave the barest nod.
Then turned away completely.
And I climbed the stairs.
Leaving him in the frozen kitchen with Dmitri. Leaving the scent of steel and blood and winter in the air.
Replaying how he’d just pulled away like I’d gravely offended him. Hurt him even.
I chuckled wryly to myself.
What the hell are you saying?
I held no such power over a High Alpha. It was all in my head. Because I needed an reason why he suddenly changed, how ever implausible.
I didn’t understand what was happening. Despite wanting to ask again what happened, or what I had done, I left.
Mostly because I was afraid he would recoil from me again—like I had a disease—and I doubted I could take that rejection.