Chapter 1: The Mark of Fate

Chapter 1: The Mark of Fate

The scent of rain-slicked asphalt and his own indecision clung to Tom Vance like a second skin. He stood before her apartment door, number 4B, the brass numerals tarnished with age. For ten solid minutes, his fist had hovered, a pendulum swinging between the magnetic pull of the woman inside and the screeching alarm bells of his own well-ordered mind.

Last night had been a blur of whiskey, whispered confessions, and the intoxicating, terrifying feeling of losing control. He’d woken up in his own bed, alone, the scent of her—something like cinnamon, turpentine, and wild, warm skin—a ghost in his sheets. His first coherent thought was a desperate, primal need to see her again. His second was a cold wave of panic.

He was a man built on blueprints and safe choices. A graphic designer who thrived on grids, alignment, and the predictable outcome of a well-executed plan. His last relationship had been a nine-year sentence of comfortable numbness, a beige existence he’d mistaken for stability. Nina Rostova was the opposite of beige. She was a supernova of impulse and color, a chaotic masterpiece that threatened to shatter his carefully constructed world. And God, how he craved that destruction.

He finally knocked. The sound was too loud in the quiet hallway.

The door swung open instantly, as if she’d been waiting on the other side. Nina stood there, a tiny whirlwind wrapped in an oversized grey hoodie, her face a constellation of freckles and her wild auburn hair a halo of glorious chaos. Her dark brown eyes, wide and expressive, drank him in with an intensity that stole the air from his lungs.

“You came,” she breathed, a universe of relief in those two words.

Before he could form a reply, she stepped forward, wrapped her arms around his waist, and buried her face in his chest. He was a tall man, and she fit against him perfectly, her small frame a warm, soft counterpoint to his lean, tense build. His own arms, acting on some instinct older than reason, came up to hold her. He inhaled, and there it was again—that scent. Home. Danger. Everything.

“Of course I came,” he murmured into her hair, the words feeling foreign and yet profoundly true.

She pulled him inside, her hand laced in his, and the door clicked shut behind them, sealing them in her world. It was exactly as he’d imagined. A vibrant, cluttered sanctuary. Canvases leaned against walls, some blank, others exploding with textures and hues he couldn’t name. Jars of pigments and brushes crowded every surface not occupied by sprawling green plants or stacks of art books. The air was thick with the smells of oil paint and brewed chai tea. It was messy, alive, and utterly, completely her. In his minimalist grey-and-white apartment, he controlled the environment. Here, the environment controlled him.

Her couch was a deep plum velvet, piled high with embroidered pillows. She guided him to it, and they sank into the cushions, their bodies naturally turning toward each other. An innocent cuddle, he told himself. Just a moment to catch his breath, to anchor himself.

But there was nothing innocent about the way Nina looked at him. Her thumb drew lazy circles on the back of his hand, sending sparks up his arm.

“I was worried,” she whispered, her voice a low thrum that vibrated through him. “When I woke up and you were gone… I thought maybe I’d scared you.”

“You do scare me,” he admitted, the honesty surprising even himself. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm against the steady beat of his designer’s logic. “You’re… a lot, Nina.”

A flicker of hurt crossed her face before being replaced by a look of fierce determination. “Is ‘a lot’ a bad thing?”

He couldn’t answer. Instead, he leaned in, capturing her mouth with his. It was meant to be a simple kiss, a reassurance. It wasn’t. The moment their lips met, the dam of his restraint cracked. The hunger from last night, banked but not extinguished, roared back to life. It was a desperate, searching kiss, a conversation their hesitant words couldn’t have. He poured all his fear and confusion and overwhelming desire into it, and she met him with equal force, her fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer.

He was losing the battle, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t care. His hands slid from her back, down to her waist, tracing the soft curve of her hip beneath the thick cotton of her hoodie. She moaned into his mouth, a sound of pure surrender that was his undoing.

Her own hand began a journey. It slid from his shoulder, across the hard plane of his chest, and then lower, over his stomach. A jolt went through him. His entire body tensed. He should stop this. It was too fast, too intense. This was how you got burned.

But his protest died in his throat as her fingers brushed against the button of his jeans. Her touch was feather-light, inquisitive. Then, with the impulsiveness that was so uniquely Nina, her hand slipped beneath the waistband.

He froze. She froze.

Her fingers were still, resting flat against the heated skin of his abdomen. He could feel the frantic pulse in his veins, could feel her feeling it. The kiss broke, and they stared at each other, breathing hard. Her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with something he couldn’t decipher.

With a trembling, resolute slowness, her fingers moved again, not with seduction, but with a strange, searching purpose. He was too stunned, too caught in the gravity of her gaze, to move. Her hand skimmed lower, her touch tracing something on his skin just below his navel, something he’d had his entire life.

She made a small, choked sound.

With a focus that was almost reverent, she unfastened the button of his jeans. The metallic rasp was deafening in the charged silence. She tugged the zipper down just a few inches, peeling the denim back.

And then she gasped. A sharp, audible intake of breath that was not about lust, but sheer, unadulterated shock.

He looked down. There, stark against his pale skin, was the birthmark he’d carried since the day he was born. A perfectly formed, deep brown mark in the unmistakable shape of a cursive letter ‘N’. He’d always been vaguely self-conscious of it, a random quirk of genetics.

But the look on Nina’s face was not one of mild curiosity. It was awe. It was the look of a pilgrim finding a holy relic. Her eyes filled with tears as she gently, so gently, traced the shape with the tip of her index finger. The touch was electric, a brand of ownership.

“No,” she whispered, her voice cracking with disbelief. “It can’t be.”

He watched, mesmerized, as his own lifelong quirk transformed into a sacred symbol under her gaze. His mortification evaporated, replaced by a tidal wave of powerful, possessive arousal. The way she looked at him, at this mark—it was as if she were seeing the hand of God, and it was pointed directly at him. He saw it then, in the depths of her worshipful stare: this wasn't just desire for her. This was destiny.

He was still reeling, his mind struggling to process the impossible brand he carried and the cataclysmic meaning she had just given it, when she finally lifted her gaze to his. Her dark eyes were blazing with a new and terrifying fire, an intensity that promised to consume him whole.

She licked her lips, her voice barely a whisper, but it landed like a thunderclap in the small apartment.

“Tom… about last night… there’s something I have to tell you.”