The night was still. The world, for once, felt like it had stopped moving, as if it, too, was holding its breath. The moon hung high above them, its silver light casting soft shadows on the ground. The faint rustling of leaves and the distant hum of the city were the only sounds that existed beyond the space between them.
Vincent stood motionless, a bouquet of white roses clutched in his hand. His fingers curled tightly around the stems, the thorns digging into his skin, though he didn't seem to notice. His green eyes, darkened by emotion, were locked onto her, as if trying to decipher a puzzle he had spent years attempting to solve.
Anastasia, as always, was unreadable.
Her icy blue gaze bore into him, sharp, calculating, and void of any unnecessary emotion. The way she held herself—shoulders straight, chin high, expression unwavering—made it clear that she was still the same Anastasia he had always known. The girl who had never bowed her head to anyone. The girl who killed without hesitation, not out of hatred, but because she simply could.
And yet, tonight, something was different.
Vincent had chased her for years. It had always been him. The one to reach out. The one to follow. The one to love.
But tonight… she was the one who moved first.
Slowly, deliberately, she stepped forward, closing the distance between them. Vincent didn't move. He didn't even breathe. He just watched her, waiting, as if afraid that any sudden movement might break whatever fragile moment had formed between them.
Her gaze flickered to the roses in his hand. The same roses he had sent her every day in the past. The same roses that had stopped coming.
Then, she looked back up at him.
And for the first time, she reached out.
Her fingers brushed against the collar of his shirt—light, fleeting, like a whisper of a touch. But even that sent a violent shudder through Vincent's body.
Then, without warning, she gripped his shirt and pulled him down.
Vincent barely had time to react before her lips pressed against his.
The world around them shattered.
The kiss wasn't soft.
It wasn't hesitant.
It was raw. Fierce. A declaration. A possession.
Vincent had imagined this moment in a thousand different ways. A soft, lingering kiss. A desperate, breathless one. A slow, teasing touch. But this—this was something entirely different.
Anastasia wasn't giving. She was taking.
This wasn't a confession of love.
It was a statement.
A silent, undeniable command: You belong to me.
And Vincent, who had spent his entire life fighting for control, let her have it.
His hands twitched at his sides, aching to pull her closer, to deepen the kiss, to take back even a fraction of the power she was seizing from him. But he didn't.
He let her take.
Because this was her choice.
And that made it more intoxicating than anything he had ever known.
Her lips were cool, smooth, and utterly addictive. The taste of her was something he knew he would never be able to forget, no matter how many lifetimes he lived.
The kiss was brief—too brief—but it burned through him like wildfire, consuming everything in its path.
When she pulled away, she lingered for a second, their faces still inches apart. Her breath was warm against his lips, but her expression remained unreadable.
Vincent was breathless.
His entire body was screaming, demanding more, but he forced himself to stay still.
Then, slowly, a smirk curled at the edges of his lips. A slow, wicked smile, filled with something dark, something knowing.
Anastasia tilted her head slightly, her gaze unwavering. But something flickered in her eyes. A moment of something—hesitation, uncertainty, a realization she wouldn't dare name.
"Don't think this means anything," she said, her voice as cool and composed as ever.
Vincent chuckled, low and dark. The sound rumbled in his chest, something between amusement and something far more dangerous.
"Then why did you do it?" he murmured.
She didn't answer.
Instead, she turned away, her movements just as graceful and composed as always, as if this moment hadn't just changed everything.
But Vincent saw it.
The faintest hesitation in her steps.
The way her fingers twitched at her sides.
The way her breath had quickened, just barely, just enough for someone like him to notice.
She had kissed him.
She had claimed him.
She could deny it all she wanted, pretend that it was nothing more than a passing whim, but Vincent knew better.
This wasn't the end.
It was only the beginning.