Fragile

Chapter 2

Yakov’s penthouse apartment was a sanctuary of darkness. The walls were painted a deep charcoal, and the furniture was sleek, black leather—minimalist, yet luxurious. The only pop of color came from the crimson velvet curtains that framed the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the London skyline. He stood in the center of the living room, his green eyes scanning the space as if searching for something he couldn’t quite name. His fingers twitched at his side, a faint tremor of restlessness that he couldn’t shake.

He reached for his phone and dialed the familiar number. It rang twice before his mother’s soft voice came through the line.

“Yakov, moy synok,” she cooed, the warmth in her tone wrapping around him like a blanket. Nastya’s voice was the only thing that ever made him feel anything close to human.

“Mama,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I’m here. In the apartment. Everything is fine.”

“Good, good,” she replied, her tone soothing. “Are you eating? Sleeping? You must take care of yourself, Yasha.”

A flicker of something—nostalgia, maybe—passed through him. “I’m fine, Mama. Don’t worry.”

“I always worry,” she said with a soft laugh. “You’re my boy. But I trust you. You’re strong, like your father.”

Yakov’s jaw tightened at the mention of Nikolai. His father’s shadow loomed large, a constant reminder of the blood that ran through his veins—both literally and figuratively. “I’m not like him,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

“You’re better,” Nastya said firmly. “You have a good heart, Yakov. Don’t let the world harden it.”

He didn’t respond. There was no point in arguing with her. She would never understand the darkness that simmered beneath his surface, the cravings that gnawed at him when the world was too quiet.

“Call me soon, yes?” she asked, her voice tinged with a longing that made his chest tighten.

“I will, Mama,” he promised. “Take care.”

He ended the call and let out a slow breath, his gaze drifting to the window. The city below was alive with lights and noise, but it felt distant, almost unreal. The restlessness in his veins grew stronger, a hunger that he hadn’t been able to satisfy since arriving in London.

Blood.

The word echoed in his mind, a relentless whisper that he couldn’t ignore. He knew what he needed to do.

*

The night air was cool against his skin as Yakov stepped out of the apartment building. He moved with purpose, his dark coat blending seamlessly with the shadows. The streets of London were a labyrinth of possibilities, and he was the predator in their midst.

He found himself near a club, the bass from the music thrumming through the pavement. Outside, a man stumbled away from the entrance, clearly drunk. He was laughing loudly, his voice slurred and his movements unsteady. Yakov’s eyes locked onto him, and a slow, predatory smile spread across his face.

The man wandered down a narrow alley, and Yakov followed, his footsteps silent. When they were out of sight of the main street, he struck. It was quick, efficient, and brutal. The man barely had time to register what was happening before the life drained out of him. Yakov watched as the blood pooled on the ground, the crimson liquid glistening under the dim streetlight.

He crouched down, dipping his fingers into the warm, sticky pool. The metallic scent filled his nostrils, and he felt a surge of satisfaction. This was what he needed—what he craved. He stood, wiping his hand on a handkerchief, and disappeared into the night.

*

The next afternoon, Yakov sat on the edge of the university field, his gaze distant. The lecture had been mind-numbingly dull, and he was eager to leave. But before he could, a familiar figure approached—Amara. She was wearing a flowy sundress, her dark skin glowing in the sunlight. Her curls framed her face, and there was an innocence in her eyes that made his stomach twist in a way he didn’t understand.

“Hi, Yakov,” she said, sitting down next to him. Her voice was soft, almost tentative. “I was hoping I’d see you again.”

He didn’t respond, his attention fixed on the horizon.

“I’m Amara,” she continued, as if he didn’t already know her name. “You know, if you ever want to talk, or just hang out, I’m here. I mean, it must be hard, being in a new country and all. I’m from Nigeria, so I get it. Moving to London was a big change for me too.”

Yakov glanced at her briefly, his expression unreadable. “I’m fine,” he said curtly.

She blinked, clearly taken aback by his bluntness, but she didn’t give up. “Okay, but if you change your mind…” She trailed off, her voice faltering.

He stood abruptly, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I won’t.”

Amara watched as he walked away, her brow furrowed in confusion. There was something about him—something dark and mysterious—that intrigued her. He was cold, distant, and yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to him than he let on.

As she sat there, she couldn’t help but wonder if she was making a mistake by pursuing him. But something deep inside her whispered that she couldn’t let him go so easily.

Yakov, on the other hand, felt nothing. He walked away without a second thought, his mind already drifting to the next time the hunger would strike. The world around him was a blur, a meaningless backdrop to the darkness that consumed him.

But deep down, somewhere buried beneath layers of ice and blood, a tiny part of him stirred—a part that wondered if Amara’s innocence could ever reach the emptiness inside him.

He pushed the thought away, burying it with the rest of his emotions. He was fine. He didn’t need anyone.

Especially her.

But as he disappeared into the crowd, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted—something he couldn’t control.

And for the first time in a long time, Yakov felt a flicker of unease.

________

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