The Prince Klaus

※※※Lissa

One whole week.

Seven days of radio silence. Seven days of driving past his known haunts, of casual, fruitless questions dropped to people who might know something, of staring at my phone like it might spontaneously combust with a message from him. Nothing. It was like he’d vanished into the concrete, leaving only the echo of his words and the phantom sting of my knife in his side.

I don’t want to play this game.

Had I pushed too far? Was this another one of his tests? A more sophisticated, brutal form of the silent treatment? The uncertainty was a physical ache, a constant, low-grade nausea that soured everything. I hated this. I hated feeling like this—unmoored, reactive, waiting. It was a weakness, and the Union had beaten any tolerance for weakness out of me years ago.

So, I was going to just go on with life. The only way forward was through the motions until the feelings caught up or died.

Klaus had flown back to Moscow for a week to handle some “stuff”—which, in his world, could mean anything from a board meeting to burying a body. He was landing today. His predictable, demanding presence was suddenly a welcome anchor in the uncertainty.

Sitting in my stark, modern penthouse, the silence felt accusatory. I picked up my phone, my thumb hovering over the screen. An impulse, born of frustration and a desperate need for a different kind of noise.

Me: Booked an appointment at Salon Devereux. 2 PM. The red era is over.

I needed a change. A visible, tangible one. The red hair had been a weapon, a declaration. Now it felt like a costume I was tired of wearing. A flag for a war the other side had abandoned.

My phone buzzed almost immediately.

Klaus: Queenie. I am landing at 3.

I will go get settled.

Anything specific you want to do tonight?

I chewed my lip, thinking. The old patterns. The easy, uncomplicated rhythm we’d fallen into at the academy, before the world got so heavy.

Me: Come over to my place. Just hang out. Like we used to sneak into each other’s dorms.

A beat of silence. Then:

Klaus: Do I need to bring vodka?

A faint, real smile touched my lips for the first time in days.

Me: You always bring the best kind. Grab a New York cheese pizza and some beers.

Klaus: My kind of party. See you later. xx

I put the phone down, staring at it. I wasn’t sure why I’d invited him over. Maybe I just wanted to see what this could be, if I stopped using him as a prop and just... let it be. Maybe I just needed to feel pure, uncomplicated desire from someone who wanted me without all the tragic history and bitter games. Or maybe... fuck. I didn’t know what I wanted. I just knew I wanted to feel something other than this hollow, angry pit Enzo had left inside me.

Salon Devereux was a temple of hushed luxury, all soft lighting, minimalist decor, and the scent of expensive chemicals. My stylist, Antoine, gasped theatrically when he saw the vibrant red.

"Chérie, it is stunning! Such fire! You are sure?”

“I’m sure,” I said, my voice firm in the mirror. “Take it back. Jet black. All of it.”

The process was long and strangely cathartic. The acidic smell of color stripper, the careful application of the dark dye, the heat of the processing lamps. It felt like a ritual cleansing. As the red rinsed away in the basin, swirling down the drain in a vortex of pink-tinged water, I felt a layer of the performance slough off with it. The woman who had walked into The Crucible, who had kissed Klaus for an audience, who had stabbed a man in a dark alley... she was being washed away.

When Antoine finally spun the chair around, the reflection was a shock. My face, but sharper and paler against the inky darkness of my hair. It was severe. Elegant. It looked more like me—the me I’d become, not the character I’d been playing. The eyes that looked back were my father’s blue, but colder. Clearer.

"Magnifique," Antoine breathed, genuinely impressed. “It is a statement. A powerful one.”

I paid, leaving a hefty tip, and walked out into the afternoon light feeling lighter, yet more grounded.

My next stop was an upscale express market a few blocks from my building. I moved through the brightly lit aisles with a focused efficiency. A six-pack of imported Czech pilsner—Klaus’s favorite. A bottle of top-shelf Beluga vodka, just in case. Then, the important stuff: his favorite sour candy strips, the kind that made your jaw ache, and a giant bag of gourmet cheddar popcorn. I added some dark chocolate and fancy mixed nuts almost as an afterthought.

Arms laden with bags, I headed back to the penthouse. The elevator ride up was silent. The expansive space felt less like a prison and more like a stage I was preparing.

I changed into soft, black leggings and an oversized cashmere sweater. I put the beers in the fridge to chill, arranged the snacks in bowls on the low glass coffee table, and dimmed the lights, leaving only the floor lamps and the incredible view of the city’s early evening skyline to illuminate the room. I put on a playlist of low, ambient electronic music—something with a pulse but no words.

Then, I waited.

I wasn’t waiting with the frantic, anxious energy I’d had all week. This was different. This was a choice. An experiment. The black hair felt like armor. The snacks and the beer were a peace offering to normalcy. And Klaus... Klaus was a known quantity. A man who wanted me, who showed it openly, who brought pizza and didn’t speak in riddles or walk away bleeding.

Whether that was what I needed or just another kind of escape, I’d find out soon enough. The pit Enzo had left was still there, a cold void in my center. But for tonight, I was going to try to fill it with sour candy, cheap pizza, and the simple, gravitational pull of a man who always came when I called.

At 7 PM sharp, there was a firm, confident knock at the penthouse door. I’d been pacing for the last ten minutes, a nervous energy buzzing under my skin. I checked the discreet camera feed on the wall panel.

Klaus.

But a Klaus I’d rarely seen. Gone was the sharp, tailored suiting, the calculated polish. He was dressed in soft, worn-looking black sweatpants, a tight grey t-shirt that clung to the planes of his chest and shoulders, and a black hoodie zipped only halfway down. His usually immaculate wheat-blond hair was ruffled, as if he’d run his hands through it repeatedly, and there was a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. He looked... relaxed. Real. And fuck, I’d always known he was objectively handsome, but this was different. This was disarming.

I took a breath, smoothed my sweater, and opened the door.

The scent of him—that faint, expensive cologne—hit me first. Then his smile, less of a smirk and more of a genuine, tired curve.

“Are you going to let me in, queen,” he said, his voice a warm rumble, “or keep staring at me?”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. What is wrong with me? I stepped aside quickly. “You look nice,” I managed, my voice sounding strangely small.

He stepped past me, his eyes scanning the dimly lit room and the spread on the coffee table, before returning to me. “You don’t look bad yourself. I must say, I am going to miss the red hair.” He gave a small, soft chuckle, holding up the large, flat pizza box. “Where do you want this?”

I pointed to a space I’d cleared on the table. “There’s fine.”

He set it down, then his eyes landed on the bowls of snacks. A genuine, boyish grin spread across his face. “And all this, Lissa... is that my candy?” He picked up a strip of the sour candy, holding it up like a treasure.

“Yeah,” I smiled, some of the tension easing. “I know you like it with your vodka.”

“Perfection.” He pulled the bottle of Beluga from the bag he’d brought, along with a six-pack of a different local craft beer, adding to my collection. He spotted the small, stylish cooler I’d placed beside the makeshift bed of pillows and blankets on the floor in front of the huge television. “Smart. No getting up every two minutes.”

He took off his expensive sneakers, leaving them neatly by the door, and padded over to the nest of pillows in his socks. He looked at the setup, then back at me, and held his hand out. “Are you coming?”

The gesture was simple. Uncomplicated. I took his hand, his fingers warm and strong as they closed around mine, and let him pull me down onto the cushions beside him.

We started slow. We ate greasy, delicious pizza straight from the box, our fingers shiny with oil. We cracked open the beers, the crisp, cold fizz a perfect contrast. He mixed a small vodka for himself, dipping the sour candy into it with a contented sigh. We talked about his trip (vague, as always), a funny story about his pilot, and a new bike he was looking at. The conversation was easy, flowing without the usual undercurrent of performance or provocation.

We ended up scrolling through funny animal videos on his phone, shoulders pressed together, laughing until our stomachs hurt. The sound of my laughter felt foreign, but good. Then, we decided on a movie. Oppenheimer. I hadn’t seen it.

“It’s long. And heavy,” he warned, already pulling it up on the streaming service.

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

As the sprawling, intense film began to fill the screen with its stark imagery and dense dialogue, the world outside the penthouse windows faded to insignificance. The initial space between us on the pillows gradually vanished. I found myself shifting, leaning more into his side. Then, partway through a tense congressional hearing scene, he gently pulled us both down further into the pillows, until I was lying on my side, my head resting on his chest, my body curled against his. One of his arms came around me, his hand settling on my waist. The other hand came up, and his fingers began to slowly, absently, play with the ends of my hair, twisting the short strands around his fingers.

The combination of the film’s gravity, the warmth of his body, the steady, solid beat of his heart under my ear, and the gentle, repetitive motion of his fingers was hypnotic. A deep, contented hum vibrated in my throat.

“Mhhh...”

I felt him shift slightly beneath me. I looked up, my chin resting on his chest. The movie’s light played over his features, highlighting the frown on his face and the intensity in his grey eyes as he looked down at me, not at the screen.

“I don’t want to get my hopes up here,” he said quietly, his voice barely above the film’s score. “I really do like this. Us, like this. But I don’t want to give in... if you’re just going to go back to him.”

The words were a bucket of cold reality. I pushed myself up, breaking the contact, and sat cross-legged facing him. The movie continued, a distant drama we were no longer part of.

“Klaus,” I started, my voice earnest. “I don’t know what I want. And I don’t want to lead you on. I know that. I know that I still... care about him. And I’m not sure if it’s closure I want, or...” I trailed off, rubbing my brow, a headache of confusion starting to form. “But this. Right now. This feels real. I don’t want complicated shit. I don’t want games in dark alleys. I just...” I sighed, the fight going out of me. “I just want to be a girl having a fun night with someone she cares about. Is that so pathetic?”

He watched me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, it softened. He reached out and took my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. “It’s not pathetic. It’s human.” He gave my hand a squeeze. “I will not push you, babe. You know that. But I am a man with needs. And a man who sees your worth.” He paused, his thumb stroking my knuckles. “But I get it. I’ll let you figure it out. So... use me as you please. I like this. Whatever this is.”

The honesty in his words, the lack of pressure, and the simple acceptance were a balm on the raw, confused mess inside me. It was the polar opposite of Enzo’s punishing silence, his devastating withdrawal.

Before I could overthink it, before I could pull away, he leaned forward, closing the distance between us. His free hand came up to cup my cheek, his touch firm yet tender. He looked into my eyes, a question in his, and when I didn’t look away, he closed the final inch.

The kiss was nothing like the others. It wasn’t a public provocation or an adrenaline-fueled claim. It was slow. Deliberate. Cool from the beer and sweet from the candy. It was an exploration, a gentle pressure that asked for permission and gave comfort all at once. His lips were soft, moving against mine with a patience that felt infinitely precious. I kissed him back, my hand coming up to rest on his wrist, feeling the steady pulse there. It was a kiss that existed only in this bubble, on this nest of pillows, far away from red hair and bloody knives and cold, walking-away silences.

When he finally pulled back, just far enough to rest his forehead against mine, his breath was warm on my skin. “The movie’s still on,” he murmured, a smile in his voice.

“I don’t care,” I whispered back, and let him pull me back down against his chest, his arms wrapping around me securely. I closed my eyes, listening to the complicated history of the atomic bomb and the simple, strong rhythm of his heart, and for the first time in a very long time, I allowed myself to just... be. To be held. To be wanted without condition. To exist in a moment that wasn’t a move in a game but a quiet, shared breath in the dark.

※※※

Klaus knows what he wants and he is not scared to show it...🖤🖤🖤