𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐬

~Malakai~

3rd Person POV

Cameron Noctifer Dark met Leo Orion Sallow at the entrance of the monstrous building. With a grim scowl, Leo urged Cameron inside, afraid to waste even a second. 

"Do you remember that time we caught a Russian on our territory?" Leo rushed, his voice strong and unwavering. 

Cameron just gave a curt nod, understanding that this was no time to question and whatever the reason for his presence was, it was serious. 

"Well, they were West Russians just as we thought. Now, how many languages did Ariella say she could speak?" Leo spoke.

How did West Russians and how many languages Ariella knew, relate to each other?

"She said she was raised with Russian and English but took Spanish in high school and college. So 3 in total," Cameron responded, matching Leo's solemness and speed. 

His head tinged with anger with his blood boiling like scorching magma as he remembered why she knew Russian in the first place. 

He would deal with that soon. 

"You're not going to believe who just showed up," Leo swallowed as they walked up to a set of double doors. He paused for a second as if he was hesitating. 

But then he opened the doors. 

~~~~~~

Aslan Ciro Volkov paced in the room. 

Back and forth and back and forth. The red bottoms of his shoes clicking against the marble floor as he ran a hand through his graying gold-stained hair for the hundredth time. His strong build like a giant constantly walking in the room. 

He was the only one in the room, he had come alone. His parents, Mila, Tobias, and Lucas had gone to her penthouse already. Just in case Noctifer wouldn't give them any information, everyone else was already on their way to get Ariella as he paced. 

But then the doors opened to reveal the red-head man he had spoken to earlier and another man at his side. 

Or more like Leo was at this other man's side. 

Strands of his ebony and full hair waved at the top of his head, neatly styled and thick. His bright tanzanite eyes were so light yet so full of darkness, contrasting to his dangerously pale skin that was inched in dark ink. His lips formed in a natural scowl and his gaze set in an automatic glare. 

The tattoos and cold eyes were like bad omens. 

Because Noctifer himself was a bad omen.

The Pakhan wasn't surprised that this was what the infamous Noctifer looked like. 

And neither was Noctifer when his eyes drifted to the Pakhan tattoo on Aslan's neck. Or when Noctifer saw the hollow cheeks, light skin, and graphite-russet eyes. Eyes like onyx stones, pitch-raven, but as Noctifer stared deeper he saw the tiniest bit of hickory and russet hues. The Pakhan's deep brown eyes held too many scars and darkness like he witnessed wars and had a battle brewing inside of his mind at this very moment.  Even the scars on his inked hands were like he'd spend days at time punching walls -just for the hell of it.  And the bits of scars on his neck, like a blade had been held against his throat every day of his life. They were light pink scars, jagged, rough, but they seemed like trophies rather than imperfections. 

The Pakhan was scarred, inside and out.

But he was not broken.

"What do I owe the pleasure?" Noctifer spoke. If he was surprised by the Russian's presence, he didn't show it. No, Noctifer's face was utterly blank and grim, his voice a little more than monotoned.