Bansko
1407 Words
Sonya's POV
I could take a bus to Bansko during ski season, but Marcus, it seems, has arranged a car to fetch me.
The air that assaults me the moment the airport doors slide open is a stab of cold, pristine freshness, scented with pine and distant woodsmoke—a complete, jarring opposite to the stale city air and despair I’ve left behind.
I step out of the airport bustle, and my eyes immediately lock onto a tablet held by a young man. My name is displayed clearly on its screen.
He stands at ease, yet his posture is straight. His wind-tousled blond hair and lake-blue eyes—exactly like the photos—catch my gaze instantly. A warm smile spreads across his face, which bears the high cheekbones common here.
"Miss Adeline? Welcome to Bulgaria," he says, his accent softening every syllable. "I am Georgi, your driver."
Before I can respond, his large hand already takes the handle of my oversized suitcase. "Come, I will take it."
"Thank you, Georgi."
I follow him toward the parking area, my head swiveling like a child's. The piercing cold, the rapid-fire foreign conversations, the unfamiliar airport architecture—everything is new, sharp, and shockingly real.
Georgi stops in front of a bold, black Range Rover. He opens the rear passenger door for me. Whoa. Marcus arranged this? As I slide inside, warmth envelops me. He must have started the engine and heater ahead of time.
"Get comfortable, yeah?" Georgi says as he settles into the driver's seat. He taps a tablet mounted on the dashboard, displaying a route highlighted in blue. "We go straight to Bansko."
The car rolls forward smoothly. The scenery outside the window begins its slow metamorphosis. The imposing, slightly grey Soviet-era buildings of Sofia gradually recede. In their place, slopes filled with endless rows of pine trees emerge, and in the distance, the white-crowned peaks begin to dominate the horizon.
Georgi breaks the comfortable silence, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "Sofia is... grey. Heavy. Now, we go to Bansko. To the mountains. To the white and the silence. Two hours. Maybe more if the snow comes down."
I press my forehead against the cold glass. "It's like a postcard," I murmur, forgetting for a moment I'm not alone. The view is too perfectly serene to be real.
Georgi glances briefly in the rearview mirror, a smile playing on his lips. "First time in Bulgaria?"
"First time in Europe!" I reply, unable to hide the tremor of awed excitement in my voice.ent in my voice.
Georgi gives a slow nod. His blue eyes in the mirror seem to hold a new understanding. "Ah," he says, his tone shifting into something warmer, yet layered with a meaning I can't quite grasp. "Then this will be a special journey indeed. From grey to white... it always changes a person."
He turns his focus back to the winding road, leaving me to watch the winter wonderland unfold, a seed of quiet anticipation taking root in my hollowed-out chest.
The "special journey" Georgi mentioned reveals its true nature an hour in: utter silence.
Thick pine forests press in, snow-laden branches scraping the roof like icy fingers. The air grows frigid, fogging the windows.
Then, the forest parts. The cold, crisp air of the Pirin Mountains hits me, scented with pine and snow. The view is a postcard: the small town of Bansko nestled below, a charming cluster of stone roofs against the white slopes.
But we don't stop.
The main road gives way to a narrow, unmarked track. The cheerful ski lodges vanish. The only signs of life are the occasional wisp of smoke from a remote cabin.
The car’s tablet die with a final, weak ping. No Service.
Georgi nods at the sound. "We are now on Von Valerius land. The family values their privacy... greatly."
A thin, silver mist descends. The road turns to gravel, then to a rough path carved into the mountainside. The world outside becomes a muffled, snow-blanketed void. The only sounds are the crunch of tires and the moan of the wind.
"It's so quiet," I whisper.
"The mountains have their own sounds," Georgi replies, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror.. "You will learn to hear them."
A chill, deeper than the cold, traces my spine.
Thirty more minutes of silence. Just as I wonder if we’re driving off the map, the trees clear.
"We are here," Georgi murmurs, stopping not at a villa, but at a minimalist wood-and-glass station. Behind the glass waits not a road, but a private gondola. It’s a sleek, obsidian and thick-glass capsule, suspended on cables that disappear into the gloom above.
And there he is.
Marcus stands waiting, looking even more severe in person. "Miss Adeline. Punctual. Good. Georgi will take your luggage up. Follow me. All logistics use the gondola. The road is buried six months a year."
The gondola moves with a silent, unsettling grace. The valley below shrinks into a beautiful, terrifying miniature. I’m not just being lifted physically; I’m being severed from the world I know.
On the opposite slope, grafted onto the steepest cliff, stands the estate.
It isn’t a house. It’s a modernized medieval fortress of dark stone, with sharp turrets and narrow, vertical windows. It looks less built and more grown from the mountain itself.
The ten-minute ascent feels eternal. The air that greets us at the top station is thin, bitingly cold, and carries a strange, static charge.
Marcus leads me through a glass-enclosed walkway straight into the heart of the estate.
Opulence assaults my senses. A vast living room with a soaring ceiling frescoed with gods and wolves. Dark oak panels, silk brocade, a massive fireplace. A Persian rug so thick it swallows all sound.
But beneath the staggering luxury, something feels off. The grand chandeliers cast long, distorted shadows. The high windows reveal only the oppressive dark of the mountain night.
"You will meet the patient before you rest. It is preferable to establish the dynamic immediately," Marcus states, shattering the silence.
He leads me through a series of hushed corridors into a newer, sleek wing. The air grows warmer, smelling faintly of antiseptic and something else—something earthy, feral, and wild, barely masked.
He stops at a heavy, reinforced door with a keypad and retinal scanner.
"This is the patient's suite, Andrew. You will have keycard access. Biometrics are restricted. Remember our discussion. His condition is primal. He is not always… present as we are. Do not startle him. Do not raise your voice. Move calmly. Your tasks are his comfort, his supplements, his vitals. You do not need to understand him. You only need to care for him. Clear?"
I swallow, my mouth parchment-dry. "Yes, Mr. Marcus."
He keys in a code. The door unlocks with a soft hiss.
The room is dim, lit by muted wall lamps. It feels less like a hospital and more like a luxurious, minimalist cell. One wall is entirely glass, hidden behind dark velvet drapes.
My eyes are instantly drawn to the center.
To a large, low platform that looks less like a bed and more like a dais. An altar.
And the man upon it.
He lies on his back, chest bare, wrapped in black silken sheets. His form is powerfully built—broad-shouldered, muscular. An intricate, ancient-looking tattoo glows faintly against skin as pale as marble. His hair is a wild, dark mane.
Even in repose, he radiates a potent, dangerous energy.
"Approach. Quietly."
I move forward on numb legs. Closer, details resolve.
His features are starkly, brutally handsome—all sharp angles and a strong jaw shadowed with stubble. His hands are large, his knuckles a landscape of old scars.
But it’s his breathing that freezes me. It’s too slow. Too deep. The rise and fall of his powerful chest follows a rhythm that feels… inhuman.
"Vitals are stable. He is in a deep cycle now," Marcus says, checking a sophisticated monitor. "Familiarize yourself with the room and his chart on the tablet. You have one hour alone. Then, we will discuss your schedule."
He turns to leave, pausing at the door. His final words are a low, stark warning that hangs in the charged air,
"Remember, Miss Adeline. Primal. It is not a medical term. Do not startle him."
The door hisses shut behind him.
Sealing me in.
Alone.
With him.
- Writer
