Losing & Pulling

The problem with getting exactly what she wanted, Nadja discovered, was that it didn’t magically make her less of an unhinged, possessive nightmare.

Not that she considered herself unhinged. Not exactly. She was just… enthusiastic. Passionate. And maybe a little territorial. But in her defense, The Guide had essentially invited this behavior by being so unbearably irresistible.

It had been three nights since their confession, three nights since The Guide had melted against her with trembling hands and breathless admissions. Nadja should’ve been basking in smug satisfaction. But instead, she found herself spiraling into new, unfamiliar territory: attachment.

It was vile.

And she hated it.

Nadja wasn’t used to feeling like this—unguarded, raw, like her undead heart could be plucked straight from her chest with one wrong glance. Which was why, naturally, she overcompensated by shadowing The Guide like an overzealous familiar.

Currently, she was perched—literally perched—on the armrest of The Guide’s chair in her private office at the club, one leg draped lazily over the side, fingers idly toying with a strand of The Guide’s blond hair. They were supposed to be reviewing some tedious documents about the nightclub’s finances, but Nadja had other priorities.

“You’re not listening,” The Guide said softly, her tongue poking out,  her voice steady despite the flicker of distraction in her eyes.

Nadja hummed, leaning in until her lips nearly brushed The Guide’s ear. “Oh, but I am. I’m just more interested in you than the financials.”

The Guide’s pen faltered slightly, her hand pausing mid-sentence. Nadja didn’t miss the faint blush creeping up her neck—a detail she found utterly intoxicating.

“Nadja…” she sounded frustrated.  “You should focus,” The Guide murmured, her tone carefully neutral, though her posture had stiffened just slightly.

Nadja tilted her head, smiling like a cat who’d cornered her prey. “I am focused.” She let her fingers trail down, brushing against the curve of The Guide’s jaw, delighting in the way The Guide’s breath hitched ever so faintly, closing her tightly.

It was perfect—intense, intimate, charged with that delicious tension Nadja was craving—until the door swung open with all the subtlety of a marching band.

“Well, well, well,” came Laszlo’s unmistakable voice, echoing through the room with the smugness of someone walking in on exactly the kind of spectacle he’d hoped for.

Nadja froze mid-flirt, her hand still lingering on The Guide’s face. The Guide stiffened, her big blue eyes widening slightly, though she didn’t pull away.

Laszlo sauntered in like he owned the place, drink in hand, his grin wide enough to be classified as a weapon. “Is this a bad time, or are we having office hours now? Should I book an appointment to stand that close to someone’s face?”

Nadja scowled, yanking her hand back like she’d been caught stealing—because in a way, she had. She’d been stealing moments. Tiny, precious, private ones with her Guide. And now Laszlo was here, ruining everything with his face. She realized that she didn't want Laszlo to be seeing all of these moments. 

“What do you want?” Nadja snapped, sliding off the armrest with dramatic flair. “Can’t you see we’re—” She waved vaguely. “currently in the middle of something?”

Laszlo’s eyes flicked from Nadja to The Guide and back, his grin widening. “Oh yes, I can see how hard you’re working. All that intense focus on… The Guide’s earlobe?”

The Guide cleared her throat, attempting to regain her composure. “I was explaining the club’s revenue report.”

“Ah, yes. Riveting stuff,” Laszlo replied, flopping onto a nearby chaise like he was settling in for a show. “I’m sure that’s exactly why my darling wife was breathing down your neck like an over affectionate gargoyle.”

Nadja glared. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“Oh, I do. But this is far more entertaining.” Laszlo sipped his drink, unbothered. “Please, carry on. Pretend I’m not here.”

The Guide, ever the professional despite the chaos, straightened her papers with meticulous precision. “Mistress Nadja, perhaps we should continue—”

Before she could finish, the door creaked open again.

A new vampire entered—tall, annoyingly attractive, with sharp features and an air of effortless charm that Nadja found immediately suspicious. His clothes were too perfect, his smile too practiced.

Damian.

Nadja hated him on sight.

“Ah, you must be Nadja,” Damian said smoothly, stepping into the room like he owned it. “I’ve heard tales of your famous nightclub.”

Nadja barely spared him a glance. “Yes, yes, I’m fabulous. What do you want?”

Damian’s grin didn’t falter. “I was hoping to discuss a potential partnership. Perhaps over a drink?”

Before Nadja could dismiss him, The Guide stood—always the diligent hostess. “Of course. I can arrange that.”

Nadja blinked. Excuse me?

Laszlo, sensing the brewing storm, raised an eyebrow and settled deeper into his chair, clearly thrilled to witness Nadja’s imminent meltdown.

Damian’s smile grew even more irritating as his eyes lingered on The Guide. “And you are?”

“The Guide” she replied simply, showing her toothy smile. 

Damian chuckled, as if the title was somehow adorable. “Charming.”

Oh, absolutely not.

Nadja stood abruptly, inserting herself between Damian and The Guide with the elegance of a vampire who was definitely not seething with jealousy.

“She’s my Guide,” Nadja announced, flashing a smile that was all fangs and no warmth. “Very busy. Too busy for drinks.”

Damian raised an eyebrow. “I was simply being polite.”

“Well, don’t be,” Nadja snapped.

Laszlo coughed into his drink to hide his laughter.

The Guide, looking both bewildered and slightly amused, tried to intervene. “Mistress Nadja—”

Nadja cut her off with a sharp glance. “No, no. I will handle this.” She turned back to Damian, her smile stretched thin. “If you have business, you’ll speak to me.”

Damian held up his hands in mock surrender. “Very well. I’ll return later.”

As he left, Nadja glared at the back of his perfectly tailored coat with enough intensity to peel paint off walls.

The moment the door closed, The Guide turned to her. “That was unnecessary.”

“Oh, was it?” Nadja crossed her arms. “Because it looked very necessary from where I was standing.”

Laszlo finally lost it, laughing so hard he nearly spilled his drink. “Jealousy is a good look on you, my dear. Very becoming.”

“I am not jealous-” Nadja snapped.

The Guide arched a delicate eyebrow.

Nadja huffed. “I. AM. NOT. JEALOUS.” She pointed dramatically at the door. “But that’s beside the point. The point is—he’s suspicious.”

“Yes,” Laszlo agreed, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Very suspicious. Imagine the audacity of being polite and handsome in public.”

Nadja ignored him, her gaze softening as she turned back to The Guide. “I just don’t like the idea of anyone… trying to steal you.”

The Guide’s expression shifted slightly, something tender flickering behind her calm facade. She stepped closer, resting a hand on Nadja’s arm. “No one’s stealing me.”

Nadja’s heart—which she firmly insisted was decorative only—did something traitorous.

“Good,” she muttered, her voice quieter now. “Because you’re mine and I don’t plan on sharing you with anybody.”

Laszlo raised his glass. “To Nadja’s subtle jealousy.”

Nadja threw a pillow at him.

_

The problem with jealousy, Nadja soon realized, was that it didn’t just exist—it grew. It festered. It seeped into everything like a particularly stubborn blood stain on velvet.

And Damian was the stain.

Over the next few nights, he made himself a recurring presence at the club, under the guise of "business discussions" with Nadja, but always finding ways to linger around The Guide. She never got the chance to have her all by herself and her patience was diminishing rapidly. His charming smile, his effortless confidence, his annoyingly symmetrical face—it was all a calculated assault on Nadja’s sanity.

Not that Nadja was bothered, of course.

She was simply… observant.

Very intensely observant.

For instance, she observed how Damian leaned a little too close when speaking to The Guide. How he laughed just a bit too loudly at her dry, barely-there jokes. How he touched her arm casually, as if he had the right.

He did not have the right.

Nadja’s patience—never abundant to begin with—was wearing thinner than Laszlo’s excuses for avoiding chores.

On the fourth night of Damian’s “business” visits, Nadja found herself at the bar, swirling a glass of blood wine and glaring daggers across the room where The Guide and Damian were speaking near the stage.

Laszlo sauntered over, entirely too pleased with himself.

“Ah, the proud huntress, stalking her prey from afar,” he mused, sipping his drink with exaggerated elegance. “Tell me, my love, have you considered using your words instead of your death glare?”

Nadja didn’t even look at him. “My glare is perfectly effective.”

Laszlo peered at Damian and The Guide, then back at Nadja. “Hmm. Yes. I can see how well it’s working. She looks absolutely unbothered.”

Nadja’s jaw clenched.

She couldn’t stand the way Damian made The Guide smile—small, polite, professional, but still a smile.

Her smile.

Without another word, Nadja downed her drink, slammed the glass on the bar, and stalked across the room.

Laszlo called after her, “Do try to not commit murder in the middle of the club. It’s bad for business!”

Nadja ignored him.

She reached The Guide and Damian in record time, inserting herself between them with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball.

“Darling,” she purred, wrapping an arm around her, her claws dipping deliciously around The Guide’s waist with casual possessiveness, “isn’t this conversation utterly boring?”

The Guide slightly jerked, clearly caught off guard. “We were discussing the upcoming event—”

“Yes, yes, events,” Nadja interrupted, waving her hand dismissively. “How dreadfully dull. You’ve been working so hard, my darling Guide. Perhaps you need a break. With me.”

Damian arched an eyebrow, clearly amused. “We weren’t finished—”

“Oh, but I am,” Nadja snapped, her smile sharp enough to cut glass. “Run along. I’m sure there’s a mirror somewhere desperately missing your reflection.”

The Guide coughed, poorly disguising a laugh.

Damian held up his hands in mock surrender. “Very well. Another time, then.”

As he walked away, Nadja turned to The Guide, her possessive grip loosening slightly but not disappearing.

“That was unnecessary,” The Guide said softly, though there was a hint of amusement in her eyes.

Nadja huffed. “Oh, I suppose next you’ll tell me I overreacted?”

“Well…” The Guide trailed off, clearly choosing her words carefully. “It was a bit… dramatic.”

Nadja’s eyes narrowed. “Dramatic?.”

The Guide gently disentangled herself, her touch lingering just a second too long for Nadja’s comfort. “Nadja, you don’t need to do this.”

Nadja blinked. “Do what?”

“This,” The Guide gestured vaguely. “Whatever this is. Damian doesn’t matter.”

“Well, he certainly seems to think he does,” Nadja muttered, crossing her arms.

The Guide sighed, stepping closer until there was barely an inch between them. Her hand came up, resting lightly on Nadja’s arm.

“Listen to me,” she said softly, her gaze steady. “I’m not interested in him.”

Nadja’s heart, which was decorative only, thank you very much—did that annoying little flutter again.

She tried to hold on to her indignation, but it was slipping through her fingers like sand.

“Oh,” she mumbled, deflating slightly.

The Guide smiled, small and genuine. “You don’t need to be jealous.”

Nadja scowled, though it lacked any real heat. “I wasn’t jealous. I was… vigilant.”

The Guide arched an eyebrow. “Vigilant?”

“Yes,” Nadja said firmly. “For your safety. He could’ve been… a con artist. Or an assassin. Or—” she searched for something convincing, “—a vampire pyramid scheme recruiter.”

“Well,” The Guide said, sobering slightly, “thank you. For being… vigilant.”

Nadja preened a little, satisfied.

“Though,” The Guide continued, her voice dropping to a softer note, “you don’t need to fight for my attention.”

Nadja tilted her head. “No?”

“No,” The Guide whispered, leaning in just enough to make Nadja’s breath catch. “Because I’ve always been yours.”

The words hit harder than any grand declaration.

Nadja, for once in her long, dramatic existence, was speechless.

The Guide smiled—her smile, the real one—and gently brushed a strand of Nadja’s hair behind her ear.

Then she turned and walked away, leaving Nadja standing there, stunned, heart aching to race.

From the bar, Laszlo’s voice drifted over.

“Well, that backfired beautifully.”

Nadja flipped him off without looking.

Nadja stood rooted in place long after The Guide had walked away, her undead heart doing something completely unacceptable—fluttering. She hated that word. Fluttering was for fragile things, for insects and weak-willed romantics, not for Nadja of Antipaxos, vampire queen and terror of the night.

Yet here she was, unable to move, unable to think beyond the echo of The Guide’s soft voice: “Because I’ve always been yours.”

The audacity.

The absolute fucking audacity of The Guide to drop a line like that and then just… leave. As if she hadn’t casually dismantled Nadja’s entire sense of superiority with one sentence and a smile.

Nadja finally forced her legs to move, stalking after her with the single-minded determination of someone who had questions.

She found The Guide in her usual spot—a small, tucked-away office near the back of the club, filled with dusty ledgers, meticulously organized papers, and an air of calm that Nadja despised solely because it contrasted with the chaos currently storming inside her.

Without knocking, Nadja burst in, slamming the door behind her.

The Guide barely flinched. She was seated at her desk, writing something with maddening focus, as if she hadn’t just emotionally sabotaged Nadja in the middle of the club.

“Excuse me,” Nadja snapped, stalking across the room. “You can’t just—say things—and then walk away like that!”

The Guide paused, setting her pen down with deliberate care before looking up, her expression maddeningly composed. “Say what, exactly?”

Nadja threw her hands in the air. “You know what!”

The Guide tilted her head slightly, her lips twitching as if she was suppressing a smile. “You mean the part where I said I’ve always been yours?”

Nadja sputtered, pointing an accusatory finger. “Yes! That! You can’t just—ugh!”

The Guide stood slowly, stepping out from behind the desk. She moved with that infuriating grace, calm and measured, while Nadja felt like her brain had been set on fire.

“Why not?” The Guide asked softly, closing the distance between them.

Nadja opened her mouth to respond—something clever, something cutting—but no words came out.

Because now The Guide was right there, close enough that Nadja could smell her faint, familiar scent—old parchment, dust, and something subtly sweet.

Nadja’s indignation evaporated like mist under sunlight.

She hated that.

The Guide took another step closer, her voice dropping to a low, velvety murmur. “Does it bother you?”

Nadja’s pride screamed yes, but the truth tangled in her throat.

So instead of answering, she did what Nadja always did when faced with feelings she didn’t want to unpack—she deflected.

“Oh, I’m not bothered,” she lied poorly, waving her hand dramatically. “I simply think it’s rude to drop emotionally compromising statements without proper warning. There should be a system. A—a signal, perhaps.”

The Guide’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “A signal?”

“Yes,” Nadja huffed. “Like a bell. Or a dramatic drumroll. Something to prepare me.”

The Guide stepped even closer now, her gaze soft but piercing. “Would it have made a difference?”

Nadja’s mouth went dry.

“No,” she whispered, almost against her will.

The Guide’s hand lifted slowly, hesitating for the briefest second before brushing a stray curl from Nadja’s face, her fingers lingering just long enough to make Nadja’s undead heart do that thing again.

Nadja’s breath hitched.

It was ridiculous. She’d been around for centuries, seen things that would make mortals weep, seduced royals and monsters alike—but nothing had ever unraveled her like this.

Like her.

She hated it.

And she loved it.

But mostly, she hated it.

With a frustrated growl, Nadja grabbed The Guide by the collar and pulled her in for a kiss—fierce, claiming, desperate to regain some semblance of control.

The Guide didn’t resist.

She melted into it, her hands finding Nadja’s waist and back, gripping with a strength that belied her usually reserved demeanor. The kiss was less about tenderness and more about defiance—against fear, against vulnerability, against the absurdity of wanting someone so much it hurt.

Nadja broke the kiss first, panting slightly, her forehead resting against The Guide’s.

“This is your fault,” she muttered, her voice breathless with frustration. “You’re very annoying, did you know that?”

The Guide’s lips curved into a soft smile. “I’ve been told.”

Nadja pulled back just enough to glare at her. “By me. I tell you that all the time.”

The Guide chuckled softly, and Nadja hated how much she adored the sound.

“Are you still mad?” The Guide asked quietly.

Nadja thought about it.

“Yes,” she decided, but it came out more like a pout than the fierce declaration she’d intended.

The Guide’s smile grew, warm and infuriating. “Good.”

Nadja groaned, burying her face in The Guide’s neck, mumbling, “I hate you.”

“Mm-hmm.” The Guide’s arms wrapped around her, holding her close. “I hate you too.”

They stayed like that for a while, wrapped in a silence that was strangely comfortable.

Eventually, Nadja pulled back slightly, her fingers still clutching The Guide’s blouse.

“Don’t think this means you’ve won,” she grumbled.

The Guide’s expression softened, her thumb gently brushing over Nadja’s cheek. “I wasn’t trying to win.”

Nadja hated how those words settled in her chest—warm and unbearable.

She leaned in again, this time slower, softer. The kiss was less frantic, more deliberate, as if acknowledging that whatever this was—it wasn’t just about power or control.

It was something else.

Something terrifying.

When they finally pulled apart, Nadja whispered, “I’m still going to murder Damian.”

The Guide laughed softly. “Nadja…” she grunted.

Nadja sighed dramatically, resting her head on The Guide’s shoulder.

“Ugh,” she groaned. “I feel… feelings. It’s disgusting.”

The Guide’s hand rubbed soothing circles on her back. “You’ll survive.”

“Doubtful,” Nadja muttered.

After a moment of silence, The Guide added, “You’re not as terrifying as you think, you know.”

Nadja’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

The Guide’s smile was maddeningly calm. “If you were truly terrifying, you wouldn’t be blushing right now.”

“I am not blushing,” Nadja snapped, even though she absolutely was.

The Guide leaned in, her voice a soft whisper against Nadja’s ear. “It’s adorable.”

Nadja made an offended noise, pulling away dramatically. “I will not stand here and be insulted in my own club!”

The Guide arched an eyebrow. “You literally burst into my office.”

“Details,” Nadja waved her hand dismissively, pacing the room like she was plotting a coup. “Irrelevant details.”

The Guide crossed her arms, watching her with an amused expression. “You’re very dramatic.”

Nadja spun around, pointing a finger. “I am passionate. There’s a difference.”

The Guide took a slow step forward. “Mm-hmm. Passionate.”

Another step.

Nadja backed up instinctively until she hit the edge of the desk.

The Guide leaned in, resting her hands on either side of Nadja, effectively trapping her.

“Passionate,” she repeated softly, her face inches from Nadja’s.

Nadja swallowed hard, her bravado crumbling.

“Yes,” she croaked. “Very.”

The Guide leaned in even closer, her lips brushing softy against Nadja’s.

Nadja’s breath hitched.

But instead of kissing her, The Guide whispered, “Adorable.”

Nadja let out an offended squawk and yanked her in for another kiss, just to prove a point.

(What that point was, she wasn’t entirely sure.)

When they finally pulled apart, both breathless and flushed, Nadja muttered, “You’re infuriating.”

The Guide smiled sweetly. “And you’re mine.”

Nadja’s heart—decorative only, she reminded herself—fluttered again.

She groaned, burying her face in The Guide’s shoulder.

“Ugh,” she repeated. “I hate you.”

“Mm-hmm,” The Guide murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head. “I hate you too.”

And Nadja decided that maybe—just maybe—she didn’t mind feeling like this after all.