As the days slipped by in a hazy blur of uncertainty, I came to a firm realization: I had to physically banish the invitation from my sight. If I didn’t, I'd find myself reading it incessantly, spiraling into anxiety and gradually losing the courage to attend. Thus, I tucked it away into a dance theory book I sometimes dragged along to Knightsblood, the studio I shared with hopes and dreams. Am I genuinely losing my mind? A small corner of my consciousness acknowledged that perhaps I was; it seemed the only plausible explanation for why I was even considering stepping foot into Blackbriar Hall. Google painted a picture of the place—an old Carnegie family mansion perched atop a mighty peak in the Adirondacks, north of New York. Just the sight of the pictures had sent chills racing down my spine when I casually asked Val about it. He’d shrugged, nonchalant, rolling his eyes as he referred to it as his brother’s “evil Bond villain lair.” The flippant comment did little to quell my racing heartbeat; the mansion bore an unmistakable aura of foreboding, resembling a haunted estate straight out of a horror novel. This invitation felt like the natural consequence of all the madness preceding it—like my reckless adventure sneaking into Club Venom, which ended with my heart racing from a chilling encounter with Vaughn. Now, I was no stranger to thrillers or unexpected twists in life, but “Evelina Nikitin” and “sex clubs” existed in completely separate realms—like oil and water. Yet, looking back, I realized I didn't make a habit of slipping into clandestine places. I never donned disguises or used fake names, nor had I ever attempted to charm intoxicated strangers to gain entry into places I shouldn’t belong. That wasn’t who I am… right? Or perhaps I had spent twenty-three years comfortably cocooned in the illusion of knowing myself. The more I wrestled with these thoughts, the more I began recognizing this theory had more weight than I cared to admit. The night under the whispering trees of Griswold Hill shuddered through my memories. Sure, the circumstances that led me there were largely beyond my control, but the sheer fact that I had found myself amidst that chaos was deeply unsettling. I was acutely aware of my naivety, an innocent quality lovingly teased by those around me, yet undeniably true. Innocence, however, should not be equated with stupidity. I didn’t routinely slip into cars with strangers or allow them to drive me down isolated paths. My mind filled with dread at the thought of what could have happened had Vaughn not intervened. A frigid shiver coursed down my spine. This wasn’t the first time I had witnessed death. The first time was when I was just a child of twelve. Alone with my father, while my brother Roman was already attending Knightsblood, I had stumbled onto something dark one fateful night. The sounds of shouting had dragged me from slumber, leading me down the stairs to the depths of our basement. There, I had stood frozen, my young heart thudding against my ribs as I watched my father loom over a trembling figure—a man bound and gagged, kneeling in fear. I had turned my head away, but the deafening sound of gunfire reverberated in my ears, followed by the sickening splatter against concrete that hung in the air like a haunting specter. Four years later, at sixteen, I accompanied my father to a business engagement in Chicago. As we left the restaurant through its rear exit, the abrupt violence of a hitman—hired by one of my father's enemies—sent my heart racing again. My father had acted swiftly, overpowering the attacker, wresting the gun from his grasp and executing him in a single, brutal motion. It was experiences like these that left me entangled in conflicting emotions concerning my father’s current plight. Yes, I was aware he had attempted to murder Roman and Val, but then I recalled that night in Chicago when he had literally saved my life. And so it was that I found myself the unrelenting bearer of an invitation to an organization shrouded in mystery and danger, one of the most formidable underworld factions on the planet. Family ties, it seemed, transcended betrayal. “Oh my God, they’re just so utterly adorable!” Milena squealed, her voice a harmonious melody of joy as Selene, her tiny daughter, snugly hugged the soft stuffed monkey I had given her. Even though the little one was merely five months old, too young to snuggle the toy at bedtime safely, I had longed for her to possess it early on. Selfishly, I wanted her first treasured object to be one gifted by her beloved Auntie Evie. Next to Selene, her cousin Bella gurgled happily, rolling onto her stomach on the play mat, her expressions equally adorable. Across the room, Kratos slouched on the couch, looking every bit the exhausted new parent. His chuckle resonated in the air like a soothing lullaby as he raked his tattooed hand through his messy hair. “Oh, poor kid. All her genes came from me, didn’t they?” he sighed, glancing at Selene before sending a cheeky wink toward Bianca. “Looks like we’ll have to try for a couple more so the world gets a glimpse of your good looks.” Bianca, who had once danced alongside us at Zakharova before stepping back to embrace motherhood, snorted—a sharp laugh colored with fatigue. “You want to have another one? Are you crazy?” She jabbed a finger playfully into Kratos' firm chest, her lips curling into a mischievous grin. “Listen, buddy, if you want to be the one waking up three times a night, trying to get a kid to latch onto a sore nipple, be my guest!” Milena and I erupted in laughter from the floor, caught up in the joyous scenes of motherhood unfolding around us. Kratos joined in, his laughter rumbling like distant thunder as he wrapped an arm around his wife, pulling her closer. “Babygirl, I’d attach some new boobies if that’s what it takes to make your life easier,” he declared, his earnest expression evoking more chuckles. Milena made an exaggerated puppy-dog face, her eyes twinkling with delight. “Aww, that’s just adorable!” Bianca shot her a playful glare. “It’s really not.” Then her gaze softened, twisting affectionately to meet Kratos’ eyes. “But please don’t. I adore your chest just the way it is, sans the added ‘features’.” Kratos flashed a grin that could melt ice. “And I happen to like your chest just the way it is, too. With ‘features’.” Bianca rolled her eyes, feigning annoyance while pouting. “Ugh, you mean the ones that are sore, gnawed on, and not nearly as perky as they used to be before our darling daughter arrived?” He merely smiled, lifting her chin gently, forcing her gaze to meet his. “I wouldn’t change a single thing, babygirl,” he murmured, sincerity dripping from his words. “You’ve never been hotter.” Her cheeks flushed crimson, a blend of embarrassment and delight. “You’re just saying that.” “Come into the other room, and I’ll show you how much more than ‘just saying’ I am,” he teased, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Hello? We’re right here!” I groaned, pretending to be the voice of reason amidst the revelry. Bianca dissolved into giggles, her laughter bubbling forth like effervescent champagne, while Kratos let loose a hearty roar. “Seriously!” Milena chimed in, eyes wide with faux shock. “Children are present!” She stuck out her tongue at me playfully. “And then there’s Evie! I mean, delicate ears and all?” “Ha ha ha,” I retaliated, scrunching my face in dramatic disbelief. “So, how is everyone doing, my ballet bitches?” Bianca sighed, glancing around the cozy room. “I feel like I’ve been trapped in an underground bunker, cut off from civilization for months!” I shrugged. “Nothing much is new. Everyone’s just waiting for Kir to propose to Brooklyn. It’s bound to happen any day now.” A glimmer of excitement crossed her face. “And how’s Bane and Dove’s world tour progressing? It’s incredible they can just bail from life for six months like that.” Milena sighed, admiration glazing her eyes. “Seriously, I could never muster the guts to ask Kuzmina for half a year off the company with a firm guarantee of returning.” Bianca chuckled. “I mean, it helps that Kuzmina is just… incredible.” “Oh, and don’t forget, she’s not going by Dove anymore,” Milena added. “Right, right.” Bianca nodded, amusement dancing on her features. “Honestly, I feel like I need a cheat sheet to track all the changes and drama you all have been up to at Zakharova during my absence.” We all laughed, the shared happiness echoing in the close-knit space. My attention drifted back to the two adorable babies on the mat, tickling their tiny toes and feeling a familiar pang of guilt. “I should have brought another plushie for Selene’s cousin,” I murmured, glancing between Selene and Bella, Kratos’ brother Hades’ baby whom they were babysitting for the day. “Trust me,” Karatos replied, laughter dancing in his voice. “That kid is well taken care of. Hades spoils her ridiculously.” Milena cooed at baby Bella, her affection palpable as she leaned over to tickle the infant’s soft toes. “She looks just like Hades!” She turned to Kratos and beamed. “Do your family’s kids ever inherit any trace of the parent who isn’t a Drakos?” Bianca rolled her eyes, a smirk gracing her lips as she jabbed a thumb toward Kratos. “You should see Ares and Neve's kid; it’s like they cloned Ares.” Kratos swelled with pride. “Achilles is going to be a heartbreaker, I swear. And if the Drakos genes extend beyond looks, that little lady,” he pointed at Bella with a grin, “is going to be nothing short of trouble, just like her father.” Bianca giggled. “That’s where it stops. Deimos and Dahlia’s little girl Noor is pure Dahlia—oh my God, that hair! Absolutely stunning. And Calliope’s boys—Lachlan and Ronan—are total miniatures of her husband, Castle.” I didn’t know Kratos’ family super well; I’d met some of them only a handful of times. But the fact that he and his siblings—and now at least one child of the next generation—were named after ancient Greek deities and muses remained an amusing curiosity to me. Bianca turned to Milena, an inquisitive glint in her eye. “Hey, do you and Nero know what you’re having yet? I can never keep up with the baby brain fog!” Milena glanced down at her still flat belly, a shy smile creeping onto her lips. “We decided to wait for a surprise.” Bianca burst into laughter. “Since when do you like surprises?” Milena’s grin widened. “Nero’s… altered my perspective on surprises,” she admitted, her cheeks shading with a gentle blush. “Aww, that’s adorable!” I piped up, sharing in the warmth of the moment. “Yeah,” Bianca echoed, humor lighting up her features. “Kratos and I might need to take notes on how to remodel our lives to include surprises.” “Wait, why is that funny?” I asked, a frown forming as curiosity bubbled beneath the surface of my confusion. Bianca's laughter burst forth uncontrollably. “She means Nero has revolutionized her view on surprises with little games involving him jumping out and chasing her down before…” My cheeks burned deep crimson as realization dawned. “Oh,” I stammered awkwardly, mortification settling over me like a heavy cloak. “I… understand now.” “Sorry, Evie,” Milena giggled, wrapping her arm around my shoulders. “Your poor, innocent ears!” Innocent. Naive. Undeniably ignorant about the complexities of adult intimacy. While I knew they were merely teasing, their barbs carried a weight I recognized in their laughter. Perhaps they were right in some ways, but it wasn’t entirely accurate. I possessed knowledge that seemed to elude them. Late nights spent exploring the web had opened my eyes to adventurous ideas. I knew of spicy BookTok recommendations that stirred a thrill within me. And I held onto the memory of the one time I had almost taken an exhilarating leap into the unknown. It had happened months prior—an inexplicable urge beckoning me toward adventure. Caught up in whims of curiosity and maybe even a whisper of desire, I stumbled across an app associated with Club Venom—the same venue where I had unexpectedly crashed Vaughn’s secretive party. It promised to connect similar-minded individuals for encounters outside the club, a kind of Tinder for the underground. I hesitated but ultimately created a profile, realizing the necessity of a vetting process for such a delicate space. Absolute discretion was promised, and I understood the importance; after all, the people mingling in such circles were influential figures in the underworld of New York. Then, out of the blue—a match. That was as far as it went, though. I had no intention of meeting the mysterious stranger; it felt more like a personal experiment than a genuine desire. Yet, when he requested to meet, our conversation vanished without a trace; my profile was unexpectedly flagged, and my account fell under scrutiny. Roman, my brother, loomed large in my mind as the shadow behind that lurking doubt, my intuition suspecting his influence. Yet, he never broached the subject, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I could hardly bear the thought of my brother interrogating me about my online exploits and discussions, exploring the dark, wild fantasies that danced on the edges of my curiosity. “Sweet, innocent Evie,” Bianca chimed, her grin vast and teasing. I groaned, protest rising in my chest. “Come on! I just haven’t had enough coffee yet; my mind is slow.” Milena shot me a knowing look. “Right, sure,” her expression said in unspoken whispers. We both knew my bewilderment stemmed from my seemingly clueless state regarding intimate subjects. A different question wormed its way into my curiosity. What on earth was primal play?