Page 16

"No, Rev. You like him. Actually like him. Even with all the crazy bullshit."

The doorbell interrupts whatever protest I was forming.

We both freeze—too early for pizza, and we're not expecting anyone.

"I'll get it," I say, but Dalla's already up.

"Together," she insists. "New rule. We don't answer doors alone anymore."

It's just the pizza guy, but something's off.

He seems nervous, eyes darting around the hallway as I sign the receipt.

When I hand it back, our fingers brush and he jerks away like I've burned him.

He practically runs away once the transaction's done.

"That was weird," Dalla observes, carrying the boxes inside.

"Everything's weird lately." But something eats at me.

The way he'd looked at me, like he recognized me but was trying not to show it. "Dal, did he look familiar to you?"

"Maybe? I don't know. All pizza guys kind of blur together." She's already opening the boxes, cheese stretching as she grabs a slice. "Oh my God, I needed this."

But I can't shake the feeling.

I peek out the window at the parking lot below.

There—a black sedan idling across the street, engine running.

As I watch, the pizza guy gets in the passenger side.

They don't drive away.

"Rev?"

"We're being watched," I say quietly.

Dalla joins me at the window. "The sedan?"

"Yeah. That's not Tony's usual delivery guy either. Tony's guy is like sixty and has a limp from a motorcycle accident."

"So Doran has people watching us." She doesn't seem surprised. "Honestly? After everything with Njal, I'm kind of glad."

We eat in silence for a few minutes, both of us starving.

The familiar routine of pizza and wine on the couch makes everything feel almost normal.

Almost.

"I really don't think I want to do pre-med anymore. I keep thinking about it, and I don’t," Dalla says suddenly.

I nearly choke on my garlic knot. "What?"

"I hate it. The blood, the pressure, the competition.

I'm not cut out for it." She stares at her half-eaten slice.

"Today, during the surgery, all I could think about was the design of the surgical drapes.

The way they created this sterile field, the fabric choices, the color psychology of it all.

I'm watching them cut someone open and I'm thinking about textiles. "

"Oh, Dal."

"Greer's internship offer... I keep thinking about it. Fashion design. It's what I actually love."

"So take it."

"Just like that? Throw away three years of pre-med?"

"It's not throwing it away," I reason, refilling both our glasses. "It's good to have the training, the knowledge. Keep going with the degree but pursue the internship as a... hobby. That way you have something to fall back on."

Dalla stares at me. "Who are you and what have you done with my impulsive sister? Since when are you the voice of reason?"

"What?"

"The Revna I know would be telling me to follow my dreams, fuck the consequences. Not giving me practical advice about backup plans." She narrows her eyes. "Is this because of the sex? Did Doran somehow fuck some sense into you?"

"Oh my gods."

"He did! He literally?—"

"I'm going to murder you."

"With what? Your law degree?" She's laughing now, and it's so good to hear. "Tell me more about last night. And don't skip the good parts. I want details. All the dirty, sweaty details."

So I do.

The wine has loosened my tongue and honestly, I need to talk about it.

I tell her about the hotel bar, about Doran admitting he bought a girl a horse, about how he'd been watching me with Njal for two years and hating every second.

"That's either romantic or creepy," Dalla interjects.

"That's exactly what I said. But the way he said it... Dal, he looked destroyed. Like those two years of watching me with someone else had actually hurt him."

I tell her about going to his suite, about how he kept asking if I was sure, about how he'd mapped every inch of my skin like he was trying to memorize it.

"He has scars," I add quietly. "So many scars. Bullet wounds, knife wounds, things I couldn't even identify. Each one a story of violence. But his hands were so gentle."

"And?" she says when I pause.

"And it was amazing," I admit. "He was... attentive. Really attentive. Like he'd been thinking about it for a long time and wanted to get everything right. Like making me feel good was the most important thing in the world to him."

"How many times?"

"Dalla!"

"What? It's a valid question. Was this a one-and-done situation or did he have stamina?"

"Three times," I mumble into my wine glass.

"Three?! Damn, girl." She fans herself dramatically. "And you can still walk?"

"Barely," I admit, and we both bust out into giggles.

It feels good to laugh about it, to treat it like any other hookup instead of the life-altering decision it probably was.

But as our laughter dies down, reality creeps back in.

"He said something," I tell her quietly. "He said 'I've been yours for five years, the question is when you'll be mine.'"

"Wow."

"Yeah." I pick at the pizza crust. "What kind of person waits five years? Who has that kind of patience?"

"Someone who's either deeply romantic or deeply obsessed."

"Maybe both?"

"Probably both." Dalla reaches for my hand. "So what happens now? With you two?"

"I don't know. The wedding's still happening, obviously. I'll be Revna Volkolv whether I like him or not."

"But you do like him."

"I think I do." I pull at a loose thread on the pillow. "Is that fucked up? To like the man who's been stalking me for five years?"

"Everything about this situation is fucked up. Might as well find the silver lining." She squeezes my hand. "What about Njal though? Him disappearing... that can't be good."

"No," I agree quietly. "It's not."

I think about Njal, about the desperation in his texts, the way he'd looked that last time I saw him.

There's something familiar about it, something that makes my stomach clench with worry.

The wild eyes, the things he’s saying, the absolute certainty that he could fix everything if I just gave him a chance.

"Do you think he's having an episode?" I ask carefully.

Dalla knows immediately what I mean. "Like Bjorn?"

"The family history is there. And the behavior—the drinking, the mood swings, the plans to win me back..."

"Shit." My sister sets down her pizza. "If he's manic and off his meds—if he's even on meds?—"

"He could do something stupid. Something dangerous."

We sit with that for a moment, the weight of it settling over us like a blanket.

I remember Bjorn before his diagnosis, the way he'd swing from depression so deep he couldn't get out of bed to mania so intense he thought he could fight the gods.

The way he'd been so sure Ingrid was the enemy, that pushing her away would save them both.

"It's not your fault," Dalla says firmly. "Whatever he does, it's not on you."

"I know. But I still feel..."

"Guilty? Because you have a heart. Because you cared about him." She refills my glass. "But Rev, he knew this was coming. We all did. And if he is bipolar, that's not something you could have fixed by choosing him. That's brain chemistry, not romance."

She's right, logically.

But logic doesn't stop the twist in my gut when I think about Njal out there somewhere, potentially spiraling.

I remember the good times—lazy Sunday mornings in his apartment, teaching him to play chess, the way he'd laugh at my terrible jokes.

He wasn't always desperate and possessive.

Once upon a time, he was just a guy who made me feel normal.

"I should tell Doran," I realize. "About the possibility of him being bipolar. It might help them find him. Might make them more careful."

"Or it might make Doran more likely to just eliminate the problem permanently."

The casual way she says it—eliminate, like Njal's a bug instead of someone I spent two years with—makes me flinch.

"He wouldn't," I say, but I'm not sure I believe it.

"Wouldn't he? Rev, the man took care of thirteen guys just for asking you out. You think he'd hesitate to take out your actual ex?"

"That's different?—"

"Is it though?"

My phone buzzes before I can answer.

Speak of the devil.

Doran:

How was your day?

Such a normal text from such an abnormal situation.

Me:

Good. Eating pizza with Dalla

Doran:

The place on University Ave?

I freeze.

Of course he knows our pizza place.

Me:

Lucky guess?

Doran:

Something like that. Can I see you tomorrow?

I glance at Dalla, who's reading over my shoulder even with my attempts to angle the phone away.

"Say yes," she whispers.

Me:

I have class until 3

Doran:

Dinner then? I'll pick you up at 6

Me:

Okay

Doran:

Sleep well, little wolf

"Little wolf?" Dalla snorts. "That's actually kind of cute."

"Shut up."

"Make me." She steals my phone, scrolling up through the conversation. "Aw, he asked how your day was. How domestic."

I snatch it back. "Don't you have studying to do?"

"Don't you have a future husband to moon over?"

"I'm not mooning."

"You're totally mooning. You got that soft look when he called you little wolf."

"I did not?—"

"Did too. Face it, Rev. You're falling for your stalker."

"Arranged husband," I correct.

"Tomato, to-mah-to." She stretches out on the couch, putting her feet in my lap. "So what happens to this place after the wedding?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, are you moving in with him? Am I supposed to find a new roommate? Get my own place?"

There's vulnerability in her voice now. "I know you'll be married, but... we've never lived apart. Not really. Even when we went to different schools, we were still in the same city."

"We’ll figure something out," I say firmly. "You're my twin sister, and twins don’t separate, ever."

"Rev, I can't be the third wheel in your marriage?—"

"You're not a third wheel. You're my sister." I squeeze her ankle. "Doran knows we're a package deal. I already told him—where I go, you go. He agreed."

"He did?"