Serpentine Desires

The prey

The roaring sound jolted me awake, and an insistent vibration sent my heart racing before my eyes even fluttered open. I clutched the sheets, disoriented, my breath uneven as I tried to place the source of the noise. It wasn't a storm or the ocean crashing against the shore—it was mechanical, rhythmic, and loud enough to rattle the walls.

A helicopter?

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I pushed off the bed and stumbled to the window, the cold floor biting against my bare feet. Pulling aside the heavy curtain, I stared out into the stark, white expanse, blinking against the brightness of the snow. And there it was—a sleek black helicopter ascending into the wintry sky.

It felt impossibly close, as though it had taken off from just above my head. My fingers gripped the windowsill, knuckles whitening. Who was inside? My stomach clenched as I leaned forward, trying to catch a glimpse of the passenger, but the reflective glass betrayed nothing.

I turned, my movements frantic now. Where was Judas? My feet carried me through the room, pulling a robe tightly around myself before I bolted into the hallway. The cold air bit at my skin as I darted past closed doors, my pulse pounding with unease.

"Judas?" I called out, though my voice barely rose above a whisper. It echoed faintly, swallowed by the vastness of the house. And it felt strangely horrifying.

The kitchen was empty, the living room was silent. Every corner I turned, every door I opened, revealed nothing but stillness. A heavy dread settled over me, weighing down my chest as realization crept in. He wasn't here. He'd left me. Alone.

My thoughts raced with a chaotic tangle of panic and disbelief. Did he leave me on this frozen island? Did he abandon me here, knowing full well I had nowhere to go? My legs felt weak as I leaned against the counter, my fingers brushing the cold marble.

The helicopter... he had a helicopter.

A humourless laugh bubbled up in my throat, bitter and raw. Of course, he had a helicopter. Judas Romanovski, the man who commanded storms and broke humans, would never be bound by something as trivial as roads. He wasn't just rich; he was untouchable, existing in a world far removed from my own.

But why leave now? And why like this?

He would've told me, or he simply didn't feel relevant to tell me. Who was I even?

The thought of running crossed my mind for a deleting second as my gaze flicked to the snow outside. It was endlessly white stretching as far as I could see. But the futility of it hit me just as quickly. Where would I go? How would I even survive? This island, this house, this cold—it was all his. Just like I was.

And yet, the idea of staying rooted here, waiting for his return, made my skin crawl.

I glanced around, and my thoughts darkened. I could explore the house. Learn some secrets. But the mere thought of it sent a shiver through me. Judas wasn't a man to forgive easily, and if he found out... punishment wasn't just a threat to him. It was a promise.

But then, he hadn't punished me earlier, had he? I frowned, chewing on the inside of my cheek. Did that mean something? Or had my hesitation disgusted him so much that he couldn't even bear to look at me?

"No," I whispered to myself, shaking my head. Men like Judas didn't feel disgusted. They didn't feel anything. He was a void, an endless darkness that consumed and destroyed. Whatever mercy I thought I'd glimpsed in him earlier—it had to have been a trick of my own broken mind.

Still, curiosity clawed at me. The silence of the house felt oppressive now and the ominous tick of the clock reminded me of my isolation. My heart hammered as I stepped toward the hallway, toward the unknown.

The question wasn't if I'd explore—it was whether I'd survive what I found.

Though this house was comparatively smaller than the one in Moscow, it held the same imposing air of cold elegance that seemed to define the Romanovski blood. Two floors of polished wood and marble, as though it was carefully curated, as though every detail had been crafted with precision rather than warmth. The high ceilings and tall windows allowed the pale winter light to spill in, illuminating the pristine surfaces that gleamed like untouched ice.

I walked slowly through the space, my hand brushing along the bannister of the grand staircase that connected the two levels. It wasn't as sprawling as the Moscow estate, but it carried the same weight of luxury, of wealth that whispered rather than screamed.

Neutral tones dominated—greys, whites, deep charcoals, and blood red—with the occasional accent of gold or silver glinting from a mirror frame or chandelier.

The living room boasted an enormous stone fireplace and the room was arranged with sleek, modern furniture. A single black leather chair sat near the window, looking out onto the expanse of snow. I paused there as the emptiness pressed down on me.

It was strange to think that this place, in the middle of nowhere, might as well have been a prison. But it didn't feel like one—not yet. It felt like a puzzle. And I, perhaps foolishly, wanted to see it all.

I wandered further, peeking into rooms as I went. It was as though no one truly lived here, as though the house existed only for appearances. What was I even expecting? Judas was a man with zero to no humanity, and it was understandable if he preferred living alone than with someone.

The second floor was more of the same. More rooms. More silence. Until I found it.

His office.

The door was partially open. I pushed it open cautiously, stepping into a space that felt hauntingly familiar yet unfamiliar.

Polished, clean, and meticulously organized, it was a near-perfect replica of his office in Moscow and even his apartment. The heavy mahogany desk stood at the centre devoid of clutter save for a sleek laptop and a single pen resting in perfect alignment. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books that looked more like they belonged in a museum than in the hands of an avid reader. A black leather chair sat behind the desk, imposing and unmoving, as though it carried Judas's very presence even in his absence.

And it did. Cause I almost skipped a breath.

A strange chill pricked me as I ran my hand over the desk. This room felt like him. Cold. Controlled. Dangerous.

And then I saw it—a drawer, slightly ajar, its contents just barely visible.

My breath hitched as I crouched, pulling it open slowly. Inside was a single folder, thick with papers. My hands trembled as I flipped it open, my curiosity warring with a deep sense of unease.

I shouldn't be a sneaky cat. But I couldn't help it.

The first page was a photograph—grainy, black and white, but unmistakable. And I frowned. It was old, already clipping but then my eyes caught the smile on the person's face.

And I lost my balance as my eyes widened.

It was of me.

Younger. Smiling. The photo had been taken from afar, the angle invasive, like I'd been caught in a moment I hadn't known was being observed. What... why did Judas have this? He had no business with my past. Why did he have my photographs? It didn't make any sense.

I flipped to the next page and my stomach churned as more photographs spilled out. They were all of me. Some candid, some during moments I thought had been private—me walking to school, me sitting in a café, me crying on a park bench. And one of them was with my father.

My heart thundered as I kept flipping and every image was more invasive than the last. But it wasn't just photographs. There were notes, detailed and chilling and something I hadn't expected. Names of my family members, dates, places I'd been, even transcripts of conversations I couldn't remember having.

And then, at the very back, a single piece of paper caught my attention. Unlike the others, it was handwritten in a scrawl that wasn't his.

Subject: Seraphina Rosewood.

We will go home, kitten. 

*************

Ta-da. Surprise. Who is it? Is it Judas?