The moon hangs heavy outside the reinforced balcony doors, casting long, pale shadows across the room. It’s the night before the wedding. The house is silent, holding its breath before the chaos of vows and blood oaths begins tomorrow.
Tradition says the groom shouldn't see the bride. Tradition says we should be sleeping in separate wings, contemplating our future.
But tradition doesn't apply to Stavros Nikolaides.
The door creaks open. I don't jump. I don't reach for a weapon. I know that tread.
"It's bad luck," I whisper, not turning away from the window.
"I make my own luck," he replies.
He walks in, the darkness clinging to him like a cloak. He’s dressed in black, blending into the shadows, his face a grim mask of resolve. He stops a few feet away, respecting the space for once,
