11. Katarina
KATARINA
I step into the kitchen, drawn by the scent of fresh coffee. A woman stands at the counter, her honey-blonde hair caught in the morning light. She turns at the sound of my footsteps, revealing striking green-gold eyes.
“Hello.” I keep my voice neutral, assessing this unexpected presence.
“You must be Katarina. I'm Sofia.” Her smile seems genuine, though there's a sharp intelligence behind it that puts me on guard.
“I haven't seen you around before.”
“No, you wouldn't have.” She leans against the counter. “I wanted to speak with you, actually. I feel I owe you an apology for this situation.”
My muscles tense. “An apology?”
“Yes. Nikolai had to take drastic action against your father. I know being held here isn't ideal, but there were reasons.” She runs her finger along the rim of her mug. “Important ones.”
“You're Nikolai's wife?” The pieces click into place—her expensive clothes, her presence here, the way she carries herself with such confidence in this den of wolves.
“I am.” There's no apology in her tone, just a statement of fact. “And I know this must be difficult for you. Being caught between warring families is never easy.”
She doesn't strike me as the typical mafia girlfriend—there's too much steel in her spine, too much calculation in her eyes. “You seem well-informed about my situation.”
“More than you might think.” She takes another sip of coffee. “Would you like some? It's a special Brazilian roast.”
The casual offer of coffee in this surreal situation almost makes me laugh. Here I am, a prisoner, being offered gourmet coffee by what appears to be Nikolai Ivanov's wife.
“Yes, actually. Coffee would be nice.” I move toward the counter, grateful for the female company after days of testosterone-fueled tension. “The men around here aren't exactly stellar conversationalists.”
Sofia's laugh rings genuine as she reaches for another mug. “They do tend toward the brooding and mysterious, don't they?” She pours the coffee with practiced grace. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Black is fine.” I accept the steaming mug, inhaling the rich aroma. “It's... refreshing to talk to someone who isn't guarding me.”
“Or brooding?” Her knowing look makes me wonder just how much she sees. “Erik can be particularly intense.”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “That's one word for it.”
“He's not usually assigned to protection detail.” Sofia leans against the counter, her posture relaxed but observant. “Nikolai must have his reasons.”
“Protection detail?” I can't help the sarcasm. “Is that what we're calling kidnapping now?”
“Fair point.” She doesn't argue it, which I appreciate. “Though in this world, sometimes protection and captivity look remarkably similar.”
I study her over my coffee cup. There's something comforting about her presence—maybe it's just the relief of having another woman to talk to, or maybe it's the way she doesn't try to justify or excuse the situation.
“How did you wind up with Nikolai Ivanov?” I ask, genuinely curious about how someone so refined like her got tangled up with the Ivanovs.
Sofia's lips curve into a private smile. “It's quite the story. Let's just say once Nikolai sets his sights on something—or someone—he doesn't stop until he gets what he wants.”
“He pursued you?” I ask.
“Relentlessly.” She tilts her head. “I owned an art gallery in Boston. He began attending exhibitions and purchasing pieces. Always lingering just long enough to make his presence known. At first, I had no idea who he really was.”
“And when you found out?”
“By then, it was too late.” Her eyes meet mine. “He'd already woven himself into every aspect of my life. The way he did it—it was subtle. You don't realize you're caught until the net's already closed.”
The parallel to my own situation isn't lost on me. “But you stayed. Even after knowing what he was?”
“Nikolai...” She pauses, choosing her words. “He has this way of making you see the world differently. The lines between right and wrong start to blur. And kind of power, that kind of devotion can be intoxicating.”
Her words hit too close to home, reminding me of Erik's intensity and his unwavering focus. I push the thought away.
“He sounds possessive,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral.
“All the Ivanov men are.” Sofia gives me a knowing look. “It's in their blood. They don't know how to want things halfway.”
My mind flashes to Erik—his rigid control one moment, then that explosive passion the next. The way his eyes turn molten when I push him too far. How his hands can shift from clinical distance to burning possession in a heartbeat.
“You're thinking about Erik right now, aren't you?” Sofia's knowing smile makes me flush deeper.
I stare into my coffee. “He's... unpredictable.”
“Unpredictable?” She arches an eyebrow. “Erik is many things, but unpredictable isn't one of them. He's like a powder keg—you always know it's going to explode. The only question is when.”
She's right. Erik maintains that iron discipline until something—usually me—makes him snap. Then, all that carefully contained fire erupts, consuming everything in its path. Including me. Especially me.
“He switches so fast,” I admit, surprising myself with the confession. “One minute, he's this brooding statue, barely speaking. The next...” I trail off, remembering the heat of his hands, the bruising force of his grip.
“And the next, he's all passion and intensity?” Sofia finishes. “That's what happens when someone spends so long containing themselves. When they finally let go...” She gives me a meaningful look.
I shift uncomfortably, remembering exactly what happens when Erik lets go. The raw hunger in his eyes. The way he marked me, claimed me, set every nerve ending on fire until I couldn't think straight.
“It's like he becomes a different person,” I murmur.
“Not different. Just... unleashed.” Sofia sips her coffee. “The beast was always there, lurking under that controlled exterior. You just happened to find the key to his cage.”
I set my mug down with a sharp click. “Is that why you're here? Did Erik send you to talk some sense into me?”
Sofia's laugh catches me off guard. “Erik? He'd rather cut off his own hand than admit he needs help managing a situation.” She shakes her head. “No, actually, it was Alexi who came to me.”
“Alexi?” The hacker brother. The wild card.
“We have an understanding.” Sofia's lips curve. “He's brilliant, but he sees things others miss. He was concerned about what's developing between you and Erik.”
“There's nothing?—”
“Please.” She cuts me off with a wave. “Let's not insult each other's intelligence. Alexi thought I might have some useful insight, given my experience with the Ivanovs.”
I cross my arms. “And what insight would that be?”
“That pushing Erik's buttons might get you the reaction you want, but it could have consequences you haven't considered.” She meets my eyes. “Erik isn't like his brothers. When he breaks, he doesn't just crack—he shatters. And anyone too close when that happens...” She lets the implication hang.
“I can handle myself.”
“I'm sure you can. But this isn't about handling yourself. It's about understanding what you're playing with.” Sofia's voice softens. “Erik's control isn't just for show. It's a wall he built brick by brick, and if you keep chipping away at it, you might not like what comes pouring out.”
I stare into my coffee, Sofia's words echoing in my mind.
She's right—I've been playing with fire, deliberately provoking Erik just to see that mask slip.
That first time in the gym, when he bent me over his knee.
.. I hadn't expected the rush of heat that flooded me at each stinging strike of his hand.
My thighs press together at the memory and how much I crave the way his control splinters, revealing the darkness underneath. When his fingers wrapped around my throat, squeezing just enough to make my vision blur at the edges—I came so hard I nearly blacked out.
What does it say about me that I want more? Each time he unleashes that carefully contained violence, I only push harder, desperate to see how far he'll go. The bruises on my hips barely faded before I was taunting him again, drawing out that beast that lurks behind his eyes.
My fingers trace the fading marks on my neck. No one's ever made me feel like this—so alive, so desperate, so completely owned. It terrifies me how much I want him to break me apart and put me back together the way he wants.
Sofia watches me with knowing eyes, and I wonder if she sees the truth written all over my face. How can I explain that the more sadistic Erik becomes, the more I crave him?
Every time his hands turn cruel, every time his voice drops into that dangerous register that promises pain and pleasure in equal measure—I'm lost. And the scariest part? I don't want to be found.