CHAPTER 18
SCARLETT P.O.V.
The diamonds were cold. That was the first thing I noticed when I looked in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
A shivering, icy weight resting right against my pulse.
It was a beautiful piece of jewelry, the kind that cost more than most people would earn in three lifetimes, but let’s be real—it was a dog collar.
I traced the platinum setting with a fingertip. Nikolai had clasped it around my throat not twenty minutes ago, his eyes dark, his hands steady. It wasn't a gift. It was a receipt.
"It's beautiful," I said, my voice sounding hollow in the vast, red-draped room. "A cage should never be beautiful."
Nikolai was across the suite, buttoning a fresh shirt. He didn't look up. He was already mentally shifted into 'Warlord' mode, preparing for some late-night security briefing with Hassan. "It signifies permanence. Nothing more."
"Permanence." The word tasted like ash. "You mean ownership."
He caught my eye in the reflection. "Same thing."
I hated that the weight of it felt grounding. I hated that when the light hit the stones, scattering fractured rainbows across my collarbone, I felt precious. Stockholm syndrome is a bitch, and apparently, it wears diamonds.
Suddenly, the air in the room changed. Not magically—electronically. A low-frequency hum started vibrating through the floorboards, a sound felt more in the teeth than the ears.
Nikolai stopped buttoning his cuff. His jaw locked tight enough to snap bone.
"What is that?" I asked, turning around.
His wrist radio crackled. Violent, static-filled shouting. "Breach! North Gate! They're through the first perimeter!"
Nikolai moved. It wasn't human movement; it was a blur of predatory efficiency. He checked his watch—clinical, calm—and then grabbed the suppressed sidearm from the bedside table.
"They're here," he said, voice devoid of emotion. "Your father sent dogs."
"Already?" I stepped back, my heart hammering against my ribs. "He's fast."
"He's desperate." Nikolai racked the slide. Clack. "Get in the closet."
"I'm not hiding in a—"
He didn't argue. He crossed the room, grabbed my arm, and shoved me toward the reinforced door near the bathroom.
My silk slip, a flimsy thing that cost a fortune and covered nothing, snagged on the handle.
Nikolai didn't finesse it. He ripped the fabric free, tearing the hem, his eyes scanning the windows.
"Stay silent," he ordered, looming over me. "If you move, I will hurt you worse than they will."
"Don't get killed, Smirnov," I snapped, adrenaline making my hands shake.
"Close the door."
He disappeared into the suite. I was left in the dark, surrounded by the smell of his suits—expensive wool, stale cigarette smoke, and the faint, metallic scent of ozone.
I didn't close the door all the way. I couldn't. I needed to see.
The crash was deafening. It wasn't a polite entry. The main bedroom window exploded inward, safety glass showering the plush carpet like hail. A dark shape swung in on a line, boots slamming into the floor with a heavy thud.
I scrambled back, my hand closing around the only weapon I had—a heavy crystal decanter Nikolai kept on a low shelf.
The mercenary was big, geared up, and scanning the room with a laser sight. He spotted the closet door ajar.
"Aris wants the girl back, whole," the man shouted over the wind rushing through the broken window. "Get on the ground."
"Go to hell," I hissed, gripping the crystal neck until my knuckles turned white.
He lunged.
I swung the decanter, but he was faster. He swatted my arm aside, and as I tried to twist away, I felt a sharp, hot sting on my upper thigh. I looked down. A jagged shard of window glass, still stuck in the carpet, had sliced upward through the torn silk of my slip.
I gasped, the air seizing in my lungs. It wasn't just a scratch. It was deep.
"Got you, bitch," the merc grunted, reaching for my hair.
Then his head exploded.
Two sounds. Thwack-thwack. Dull, suppressed, final.
Nikolai stood in the doorway of the suite, his gun smoking. He didn't even look at the man crumpling to the floor. His eyes were locked on my leg.
"Mine," he snarled. It wasn't English; it was a guttural, primal sound from the bottom of his chest.
"He's—" I started, pointing at the body.
"Silence."
He slammed the suite door shut, the heavy wood vibrating in the frame, and crossed the room in three massive strides. The rage coming off him wasn't because of the breach. It was because I was bleeding.
He didn't ask if I could walk. He swept me up into his arms, crushing me against his chest. I hooked my fingers into the jagged scar on his throat, holding on as he carried me toward the bathroom.
"The guards—you need to help them, Nikolai," I said, wincing as the movement pulled at the cut.
"You are the only thing that matters right now."
He set me down on the cold marble vanity. The shock of the stone against my skin grounded me. My thigh was throbbing now, a wet, hot heat spreading down my leg.
Nikolai’s hands were shaking. I’d seen this man break fingers without blinking. I’d seen him execute people while eating dinner. But now, looking at the red stain blossoming on my thigh, he looked like he was about to lose it.
He ripped the silk the rest of the way up. No elegance, just force. He threw the ruined fabric onto the floor.
"How deep, Scarlett? Talk to me."
"It's shallow," I lied, though it stung like fire. "It stings."
His radio crackled on the counter. It was Hassan. "Smirnov! Status report! We need to know if the asset is secure! We have movement in the east wing!"
Nikolai grabbed the radio and threw it across the room. It hit the tiled wall and shattered.
"Go to hell, Hassan," he muttered.
He tore open a cabinet, ripping through supplies until he found the antiseptic and gauze. The smell of alcohol hit my nose, sharp and clinical.
"I warned you not to move," he said, his voice tight.
He poured the antiseptic. I hissed, biting the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. My hand scrambled for purchase and found his shoulder. I dug my nails into his suit jacket.
"It burns, Nikolai."
"Just a moment more. Hold still." He placed his hand over my hand on the marble, pinning it down. His palm was rough, calloused, but the pressure was grounding.
He leaned in close, his forehead almost touching mine. "Don't move, cunt."
The word usually had teeth. Tonight, it sounded like a prayer. A desperate attempt to remind himself of who he was supposed to be. But the mask was slipping.
I looked at his arm. There was a scratch there, bleeding sluggishly, probably from the glass spray.
"You're bleeding too, Nikolai. Let me see." I reached out, tracing the line of red on his forearm.
"It's nothing," he snapped, focusing on taping the gauze to my leg. "Yours matters more."
He finished the bandage with the precision of a surgeon. Then, he stopped. His hand lingered on my thigh, just above the white square. He leaned down, and I felt the wet warmth of his mouth press against the bandage, then the skin right above it.
My breath hitched. "Nikolai?"
"Consider that payment for my lapse in security," he murmured against my skin.
"It wasn't your fault."
"Everything that happens to you is my responsibility." He looked up, his eyes black holes. "Everything."
I reached out, my fingers trembling, and touched the buzz cut at the nape of his neck. The bristle of hair against my skin sent a jolt through me. "Stay here. Don't go back out."
He leaned into my hand. A millimeter. "Where else would I go?"
He lifted me again, carrying me back to the bed. He kicked a piece of glass out of the way, sending it skittering across the floor, and laid me down on the side of the mattress that wasn't covered in debris. He moved the pillows, propping my leg up.
"I'm not innocent, Nikolai," I whispered, watching him.
"No," he said, straightening up and unbuckling his holster. "But you are safe now."
He stripped off the tactical gear. The gun belt hit the floor with a heavy clank. He pulled off his jacket, then his shirt, folding the blood-spattered white cotton with weird, meticulous care. He was trying to regain control. Trying to organize the chaos in his head by organizing his clothes.
"I need you to look at me, Scarlett," he said, standing by the bed, his chest heaving slightly.
"I am. I only see you."
He climbed onto the bed. He didn't just lay down; he crawled over me, hovering, keeping his weight on his forearms so he wouldn't touch my leg. The heat radiating off him was intense—musk, sweat, gunpowder.
"Be careful, Smirnov," I breathed.
"Always. With this."
He kissed me. It wasn't the bruising, punishing kiss I was used to. It tasted of salt and adrenaline, but the pressure was slow. Searching. He was checking to see if I was still here. If I was broken.
I didn't want slow. I needed to know he was still the monster who could keep the world away. I bit his lower lip, hard.
"Harder, bastard," I whispered against his mouth. "I need you to feel me."
He groaned, a low vibration against my chest. He moved his mouth to my neck, lips buzzing against the diamonds of the collar. He hooked a finger under the platinum band, tugging it slightly. Not to choke, but to remind me it was there.
"They tried to defile my property," he growled, his teeth scraping the sensitive skin below my ear. "Now I cleanse you."
"Only my mark matters," he added, his voice rough.
His hands moved down my body. They were reverent, exploring every curve, every dip, avoiding the bandage like it was a holy relic. He kissed a fading bruise on my hip—one he’d put there days ago.
"That's enough," I moaned, my hips lifting instinctively. The fear from the attack had transmuted into something else. Need.
"No. Not yet."
His hand found me. I was already slick, my body betraying me, responding to the violence and the rescue. He stroked me slowly, watching my face, his eyes dilated.
"Now, Nikolai," I demanded, gripping his wrist. "Take what you saved."
"Yes," he whispered. "I will claim it all."
He entered me slow. Agonizingly slow. He was stretching me, filling me, his eyes locked on mine to catch any flicker of pain from my wound.
"Tell me if I hurt you," he gritted out, sweat beading on his forehead.
"Only if you stop."
He found the rhythm. It was deep, heavy. He braced his injured shoulder against the headboard, taking the strain so he could drive into me with that steady, relentless friction. The bed frame creaked, a rhythmic protest against the silence of the room.
"You are mine," he said, each thrust punctuating the words. "You will always be safe here."
"Always," I gasped, wrapping my good leg around his waist, pulling him deeper.
I was screaming his name. Not in fear. In recognition. I was looking at the man who killed for me, who cleaned my blood, and realizing I didn't want to be anywhere else.
"Nikolai, harder! Don't let go!"
He broke. His composure shattered. He buried his face in my neck, his movements turning frantic, animAlistairtic. His hands gripped the sheets until I heard the fabric tear.
"Scarlett! Look at me!" he choked out.
We went over the edge together. It was a crash, a physical impact that left my ears ringing. He collapsed against me, his weight heavy and comforting, his heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"God," I whispered, staring up at the ceiling, my fingers tangled in his short hair. "Stay. Stay right here."
"Always," he mumbled into my neck.
He didn't pull out. He stayed inside me, anchoring us both to the mattress. His breathing slowed, his thumb tracing the diamonds at my throat, over and over again.
"Go to sleep, my collateral," he whispered.
I closed my eyes. I was collateral. I was a debt being paid. But as I felt the rise and fall of his chest, I knew the currency had changed. I wasn't just payment anymore. I was the only thing he had left to lose.