Nikolai had always been captivated by birds. Their elegant wings, the way they soared effortlessly through the sky-it was a kind of beauty that never ceased to amaze him.
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He often watched them from his window, imagining what i...
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CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It had been hours since the incident. Hours that felt like days, each second dragging by as I sat beside Y/N. She was bandaged up now, her wounds dressed carefully by Sigma and Fyodor. Her breathing, though shallow, was steady, and the faint glow of her wings brought a little relief to the storm inside me. I held my hat tightly in my hands, twisting it between my fingers.
"Please wake up," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper. I couldn't let them hear me like this—not Fyodor, not Sigma. They couldn't see this side of me. This vulnerability was something I hid, even from myself.
The air in the room was heavy, thick with the unspoken tension that had hung over us ever since Y/N had been brought here. Fyodor had returned to his usual calm demeanor, reading one of his books, while Sigma busied himself with other tasks, the weight of the incident slowly fading for them. But for me, it hadn't faded. It gnawed at me, clawing at my insides.
This wasn't like me. I was Nikolai Gogol, the chaotic jester, the one who laughed in the face of death and destruction. The one who reveled in chaos and mayhem. But now, sitting here, staring at Y/N as her wings glowed faintly, I felt anything but laughter.
Wasn't I supposed to be the one to kill her? I had entertained the thought, hadn't I? So why, in this moment, did the very idea feel like a knife twisting in my own heart? Why was I this... attached to her? I could feel my chest tightening, my heartbeat quickening with every breath she took. The realization that I was afraid of losing her sent a wave of confusion crashing over me.
My hand gripped the edge of the chair tightly. I wasn't in love, was I? No, that was ridiculous. I couldn't be. Love wasn't something that fit into the puzzle of who I was. But this feeling—it was something, something I hadn't felt in a long time. I had felt a strange attachment to Fyodor, yes, but it had always been different. Cold, calculating, and steeped in mutual respect for each other's intellect and capabilities. But with Y/N, it wasn't like that. It was messier, more intense.
It was as if her presence had seeped into every part of my life, and now the thought of her disappearing left a hollow ache inside me.
Why wasn't I laughing this off? Normally, I'd turn a situation like this into some grand joke. I'd tease, I'd provoke. But I couldn't bring myself to laugh. Not this time.
I looked down at Y/N again, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest. She was still here. She hadn't left. But the thought of her coming that close to death, to being taken away—no, I couldn't stand it.
"I'm not in love," I muttered to myself, trying to convince myself of something I wasn't even sure of. I shook my head slightly. Love wasn't something that fit into the chaos I lived for, was it? It was supposed to be something for other people, not for me.
I'd only met her eight months ago. Eight months of our paths crossing, eight months of teasing, annoying her, playing the fool just to get a reaction from her. Eight months of watching her grow closer to the Decay of Angels, to Fyodor, to Sigma—and to me.
