Chasing The Lost Winter Heiress

CH 8 - Helena

HELENA POV

The twins had turned the bedroom into a battlefield of discarded toys, overturned cushions, and suspiciously damp socks, and for some reason Trish still insisted we get ready in here instead of locking ourselves in the bathroom where no toddler feet could reach us. She stood behind me with a curling wand in one hand and a mug of tea in the other, her eyes narrowed as she attempted to tame my hair into something reasonably presentable for a date night.

I sat on the little vanity stool, trying not to flinch each time one of my sons launched himself across the bed like he believed gravity was optional. Trish’s eyebrows pulled together in concentration while she twisted a strand into place.

"Hold still," she muttered. "If you move again I am shaving your head and telling Maxwell it is a cultural tradition from the North."

"That sounds believable," I answered, shifting slightly as Stephan collided with my leg. "The cultural tradition of losing your mind when two small dragons disguised as toddlers live in your house."

"They are chaotic blessings," Trish said while dodging Sebastian’s attempt to climb into her lap. "You forget the blessings part often, but they are still blessings."

Stephan tugged at the hem of my dress, face smeared with chocolate from whatever forbidden snack Trish had bribed them with earlier. I bent down and wiped his mouth with a tissue before he darted off, shrieking in laughter as he chased his brother around the dresser.

They were happy. Loud and messy and relentlessly energetic. They filled our home with life and noise and everything warm, and most days I felt lucky to be the one who got to raise them, even if the guilt sometimes crept in like a cold hand closing around my throat.

Three years. Three years since I had run. Three years since the forest and the snow and the mistletoe and the mistake that wasn’t a mistake at all, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself otherwise.

Trish finished the last curl and spun me toward the mirror. She rested her chin on my shoulder, examining her handiwork with a satisfied nod.

"You look gorgeous," she said. "Maxwell is going to faint. Should we bring smelling salts?"

I swatted her lightly. "He’s not going to faint. He sees me every day."

"Yes, but tonight he is seeing the version of you that actually sleeps at a reasonable hour and remembers to brush her hair before noon."

I rolled my eyes but smiled anyway. The boys crashed into my legs again, demanding attention, and I crouched down to kiss the tops of their heads before redirecting them toward Trish with a stern look that never worked.

A knock sounded at the door.

Trish lifted her eyebrows knowingly. "Your prince of spreadsheets has arrived."

My heart tightened even though I forced a smile. I walked toward the door, smoothing my dress, adjusting the bracelets on my wrist, trying to breathe like this was normal and easy.

Maxwell stood there holding the largest bouquet of roses I had ever seen. Deep red, perfectly arranged, wrapped in white paper tied with gold ribbon. His face lit up when he saw me.

"You didn’t need to bring flowers," I said as I stepped aside to let him in. "I already agreed to marry you."

He leaned in and brushed a gentle kiss against my lips. "I know," he murmured, lowering his voice as he placed the bouquet in my arms. "But I know you love roses."

I smiled back at him, soft and grateful, and felt my heart twist in a way I wished it would not. I didn’t love roses. I didn’t even like them. But he believed I did, and I had never corrected him, because roses were just flowers and it seemed harmless to let him think so. Peonies were the ones that made me breathe differently, but that memory belonged to a life I refused to revisit.

"Thank you," I said quietly.

He offered his arm, and I slipped my hand through it, steady and composed as I blew a kiss toward my sons who were already trying to wriggle free from Trish’s grasp. She clamped an arm around each boy and gave me a mock salute.

"Go," she said. "I have the gremlins tonight. We shall build a pillow fort and dine upon popcorn and destruction."

Maxwell laughed as he guided me outside, locking the door behind us before opening the passenger side of his car. He always did that. Small gestures, careful and thoughtful, like he had memorized every rule of how to treat someone gently.

Once we were buckled in, I asked, "Where are we going for dinner?"

He reached across the console and took my hand, lifting it to his lips with an easy confidence. "It is a surprise, my love."

Maxwell thrived on surprises. He liked planning, arranging, leading in that quiet human way. I appreciated that about him, the steady rhythm he offered when everything else in my life felt like shifting sand. His patience, his warm smile, the way he always listened. He would be a good father figure for the twins. He already was, in many ways.

I swallowed the voice inside my head that whispered about the boys’ real father. I shoved that thought so far down I almost felt it burn on the way down. Tonight was not a night for ghosts.

Maxwell parked in front of a beautiful Italian restaurant with warm lighting glowing through the windows. He rushed to my side to open the door for me before handing the keys to the valet. His hand rested at the small of my back as he guided me inside, speaking softly in my ear about his day and the surprise he had planned for dessert.

The waiter led us to a small corner booth framed by warm lights and ivy draped over wooden beams. Maxwell kept talking, excited about the new project at work, a software launch he had been planning for months. I nodded, listening, half-paying attention, half-admiring how at ease he always seemed with me. No tension. No fear of hurting me. No memories of snow and heartbreak between us.

Then the scent hit me.

Sharp. Metallic. Old. Thick like syrup and rot.

Blood.

My spine stiffened before my brain registered it, and every hair on my arms rose. I tried to breathe it away, to convince myself it was nothing, but the scent grew stronger, crawling up my lungs until it choked me.

Not just blood.

Vampire blood.

No. No, no. This was not happening. Not here. Not tonight.

Maxwell was still talking, completely unaware. Humans never sensed danger until it was on top of them. My pulse thundered in my throat as I scanned the room with what little instincts I had. The scent came from the bar. Three stools down. A tall figure in a dark coat, unmoving, too still to be human.

My fingers tightened around the edge of the table.

This was supposed to be a normal night.

A safe night.

A beginning.

Instead it felt like something ancient had slipped back into my world, uninvited, watching.

Waiting.

Every muscle in my body went rigid. I lifted my head slowly, scanning the restaurant, the doorways, the shadows lingering near the bar. Maxwell was still talking, smiling, brushing his thumb over the back of my hand in a gesture meant to soothe.

I could not breathe.

Because they were hunting.

My pulse thundered in my ears. My fingers tightened around the edge of my chair. The air shifted around us, or maybe it was just my instinct waking up from three years of pretending to be human.

Maxwell noticed the change in my posture. “Are you alright?” he asked, leaning in.

I forced a smile that felt like it might crack my skin. “Yeah. I just think I need a little fresh air.”

But I already knew one thing for certain.

Fresh air would not help.

Because whatever had just walked into this restaurant came for dinner. a different one.

And I wasn't letting a bloodbath happen on my date night.