His warmth seeped through my clothes, reaching my skin. Mark's scent—rich and lingering like a fine cologne—wrapped around me, stirring both my senses and the part of me that should never be allowed to surface. I drank in his kiss, clinging to it, trying to silence the hunger and remind myself that this wasn't some faceless vessel of blood before me—it was Mark. My Mark. Beloved. Alive. Desired.
I felt him within me, every movement sending ripples of pleasure through my body, each one tightening the sweet tension low in my belly that begged for release. My fingers tangled in his unruly hair, nails skimming his skin in a way that made me feel as though I possessed him completely.
He was here for me—body and soul. Ready, almost eager, to give himself over entirely just to keep that primal bliss alive. That was what set him apart from others, what made him different. Even in passion, he placed my pleasure above his own. He held back, patient and reverent, waiting for me to reach my peak before taking his share of ecstasy. I always needed just a little more time, a few more touches, a bit more warmth—to forget everything else, to drift away from the world and linger at its edge, where only the two of us existed.
His movements grew more forceful, more certain. The pleasure swelled, and I threw my head back, feeling how close I was to the brink. I pulled my hands from his face, reaching upward, gripping the rough bark of a nearby tree as if to anchor myself against the rising storm inside me. My fingertips pressed so hard into the wood that it cracked beneath them.
One sharp breath—then warmth flooded through me, breaking in waves that made my whole body shudder. Another thrust, a second, a third—and Mark followed me over the edge, collapsing forward to rest his forehead on my shoulder, breathless and trembling. When the world finally stilled, he eased me gently back onto my feet.
"You all right? Can you stand?" he asked softly, genuine concern in his voice as his hand steadied me at the waist. I nodded, though my head was still spinning. With his free hand, Mark smoothed the fabric of my dress, then brushed his fingers lightly over my hair, tucking a loose strand back into place. His own hair stood in wild disarray from my touch, his shirt half-hanging off one shoulder—but he didn't seem to care. I smiled faintly and tried to return the favor, fixing his collar and brushing the creases from his sleeve, both of us pretending we could restore a semblance of decency.
It was a futile effort. After what had just happened—so raw, so loud, so alive—any passerby would have known.
We made our way back through the trees the way we'd come, soon emerging by the parking lot.
"I thought we'd gone farther," Mark muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked genuinely embarrassed. "The bus driver probably got a free show."
"Don't worry about it," I said, slipping my hand under his arm and pressing close to him. "Technically, we stayed dressed."
Mark gave a small nod, as if agreeing, but his expression betrayed him. I'd never understood why people cared so much about the private lives of others. They built whole little religions out of gossip—tracking who slept with whom, who appeared at which event, who might have cheated on someone else. Online tabloids, printed magazines, endless talk shows—all orbiting around the same tired spectacle: Person A took Person B to bed. Or maybe betrayed them.
Even outside the spotlight, it was the same. Neighbors, coworkers, old classmates—all eager to whisper, to dissect someone else's intimacy over coffee. Gossip was like a team sport: it grouped people together, drawing invisible lines of loyalty, giving them safe ground to condemn everyone but themselves. It was always easier to unite against someone else than to risk turning that scrutiny inward.
"Still," Mark said after a pause, his voice carrying a hint of playful reproach, "it was pretty indecent. You know, technically, that kind of thing could get us arrested."
I cast a pointed glance around us, sweeping my arm in a slow circle.
"I doubt there's a single police station within twenty kilometers of here," I said. "And even if there were, the locals wouldn't recognize us. We're just passing strangers to them—faces they'll see once, gossip about for an hour, and forget by morning."
"And what if someone did recognize you? Took a picture, posted it online? You're still a public figure," Mark countered.
"Public figure or not," I shrugged, "most people wouldn't tell Mikhail Lermontov from Nikolai Gogol on a portrait."
"You're a modern writer," Mark reminded me gently, but I waved it off.
"Which makes it even less likely anyone cares. No one remembers what authors look like anymore—except maybe those knee-deep in book blogging or hopelessly in love with a particular writer's work. For most, the name on a cover means about as much as the fancy label on a sausage at the market. If you're in the mood for plain old hot dogs—or, say, a detective thriller like the ones I write—you glance at the blurb, maybe the first page. If it catches your interest, you buy it. That's it."
"I think you underestimate your importance."
I let out a short, nervous laugh. The myths people built around the literary world—the instant fame, the fortune from a debut novel—had little to do with the reality I lived in. Writing, to me, had always been an escape, a way to step into the skin of an ordinary human: to imagine how they thought, what they longed for, what they lived for. To measure my understanding of their world against the strange, rigid norms that so often struck my kind—vampires—as tedious, if not absurd.
Humans had such fleeting lives, and yet they wasted them on things that didn't matter—trapping themselves in cages, sacrificing pleasure just to look "right" in someone else's eyes. The only person whose judgment I was ever willing to accept was Mark's. And yet even he, when it came to the craft of writing, saw it through the same lens as everyone else—his perspective shaped by that illusory glamour that clung to all creators, as though we stood on the same pedestal as movie stars and pop idols.
"And what do you think makes a writer significant?" I asked. "The number of books they publish? The sales figures? Or maybe it's about how deeply their ideas resonate through the text?"
Mark lowered his gaze, thinking it through.
"Probably the last one," he said after a moment. "If an idea speaks to people, it stays with them. They carry it forward—discuss it, reshape it, keep it alive."
I smiled, rose onto my toes, and brushed a kiss against his cheek.
"You're such an idealist, Mark."
We walked across the asphalt of the parking lot, our footsteps echoing softly.
"You're saying I'm wrong?" he teased.
"If only it were that simple." I sighed. "Everyone has their own measure of worth. In the world of big publishing, that measure is one thing only—numbers. No profit, no promotion. A book can make headlines for scandal, controversy, or a hundred other reasons, but that doesn't mean it will touch anyone's heart. People love a spectacle, and sometimes that matters more than substance. The good fades quickly. The outrageous lives on for years."
"Yeah," Mark chuckled, "like a couple making love against a tree in full view of a tour bus driver."
I couldn't help laughing with him. When Mark was right, he was absolutely right.
"Mark, careful!"
I grabbed his arm and yanked him toward me—just as his foot landed on a manhole cover that clanked loudly and tipped sideways. Mark stumbled and disappeared into the opening.
Mark fell into the open manhole.
The line from that cursed file flashed in my mind like an echo.
Once, you could dismiss a prediction as coincidence. Twice—and you started thinking of worse possibilities. I needed to call Karina. To order her to look into this immediately.