The Quiet Between Heartbeats

I had faced trained mercenaries, rogue agents, and at least two double-crossing clients who thought "platinum rank" was just a sticker on a file. But none of them made my palms sweat the way a single look from Ivan did.

It wasn’t nerves. I don’t do nerves.

It was the mark.

Every time our eyes met, it pulsed. Not like a wound—more like… a tether. Invisible and unwanted.

And this morning, Ivan wouldn’t stop looking.

Not in a creepy, stalk-you-from-the-curtains way. More like he was waiting for something. Watching me like I was a ticking clock he’d heard before, just waiting for the chime.

I had questions. So many questions. But I needed facts first.

Step one: Confirm the impossible.

I slipped back into the library when no one was around. I brought a small camera, gloves, and enough paranoia to power a surveillance van.

The old photo I found yesterday? Still there. Still wrong.

Same faces. Same agelessness. Still no explanation.

I scanned the room, looking for clues—books left open, family records, anything. My fingers trailed over leather-bound volumes until one stopped me cold.

A journal. No name. The handwriting inside was precise, almost surgically neat.

“Spring. Ivan says the villagers are restless again. He won't move. Always refuses to leave this place, even as it eats him. The others follow him out of loyalty—or fear.”

I flipped forward.

“Summer. Merlin warned him again. Said the mark is showing signs. Said we should watch her closely. She dreams too much.”

My heart thumped. The mark. She.

Coincidence? Could be. But if there’s one thing I don’t trust, it’s coincidence wrapped in mystery and dipped in vague metaphors.

I took photos of the pages. My phone glitched again. The screen shimmered and turned blue for a second before returning to normal.

“Just peachy,” I muttered, sliding the journal back.

Then I heard it—footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.

Ivan entered, wearing a dark button-down that somehow made him look both aristocratic and dangerous. I stood still, like a kid caught snooping through the cookie jar, except the cookies were family secrets and probable cult journals.

“You spend a lot of time here,” he said, voice calm.

“Books are less annoying than people.”

His gaze flicked to the photo on the wall. Then back to me.

“I like the quiet,” I added.

“And yet, your mind never stops making noise.”

I blinked. “That supposed to sound poetic or threatening?”

His lips curved. “Observation.”

“Well, maybe try observing less. Some of us get twitchy.”

He stepped closer.

Too close.

The mark on my shoulder surged like lightning crawling down my spine. I stiffened, trying to mask it as irritation.

“You don’t believe in fate, do you?” he asked suddenly.

“I believe in free will, sharp knives, and people who talk too much.”

“Noted.”

We locked eyes again.

There it was. That damn hum inside me. The mark felt like it was waiting—like something inside me was… reaching.

I looked away first. I never look away first.

“Do you always interrogate your staff like this?” I snapped.

He took a breath, and for a second, something changed in him. His posture softened. His voice was lower when he spoke again.

“You remind me of someone.”

I didn’t like the way he said it. Like it wasn’t a compliment.

“Hope she was prettier,” I muttered, turning toward the shelves to break the tension.

“She was stronger than she believed. But she died.”

I froze.

Died.

Before I could reply, Ivan stepped away, his presence retreating like a tide. “Don’t linger too long in this room,” he said. “It remembers.”

And then he was gone.

The silence that followed was worse than his words.

Step two: Shake the mansion until something falls out.

I started making rounds again, asking too many questions with just the right amount of charm.

To Merlin, I said:

“Ever notice how Ivan never eats with us?”

To James, I asked:

“Do you ever age? You’ve got a great skincare routine.”

To the cook:

“Is there a reason the cellar’s locked like it’s guarding national secrets?”

Most answers were shrugs or polite misdirections. But people were slipping. Nervous glances. Hesitations.

They were hiding something. All of them.

And I wasn’t about to let it go.

That night, I couldn’t sleep again.

I didn’t even try.

Instead, I sat on the edge of my bed with my knife under the pillow, mark aching softly, the silence heavy around me.

Outside, something howled.

Long. Low. It echoed through the stone walls and slid down my spine like a whisper wrapped in claws.

Wolves don’t howl like that.

But I brushed it off. I had to. Because if I didn’t, the next thing I’d be admitting is that something else was going on here—something beyond logic.

I cracked my knuckles and whispered to myself, “You’re not losing it, Lea. Just severely surrounded by weirdos.”

The next day, Ivan was back to his usual distant self, acting like we hadn’t almost shared an emotional moment in the library.

Good. It made things easier.

Until it didn’t.

Because we crossed paths in the hallway, and just as I brushed past him, our arms barely touching, he turned to face me.

And something happened.

The mark didn’t just pulse—it flared. I gasped.

He didn’t say a word, just looked at me like he heard it.

I stammered, “Do you… feel that too?”

He didn’t answer.

He just raised his hand, gently tucked a strand of hair behind my ear—and walked away.

I stood frozen, heart pounding like it was trying to write Morse code against my ribs.

What. The. Hell.

That night, I wrote another report to the High Table:

Subject: Ivan - Psychological Profile Updated

Observations:

High emotional restraint. Rare slips.

Unusual physiological effect when in proximity (non-contact).

Increasing evidence of internal conflict or suppressed emotional state.

Note:

He touched me today. Not in a compromising way—but the mark reacted. Stronger than ever. Possibly resonance-based trigger? Unconfirmed.

Further study required.

I didn’t send the file. Not yet.

Something about it felt… too personal.