Rachel
The first thing I feel is the warmth.
Not the soft heat of the water or the firelight from the night before, but the warmth of the sheets wrapped around me. Thick, expensive sheets. Nothing like the scratchy cheap ones I usually sleep in. These smell like jasmine, cedar, and something that is unmistakably him.
Nikolai.
I blink against the soft morning light seeping through half-closed curtains. The room is too elegant to belong to someone like me. Dark wood furniture, marble surfaces, soft golden accents. It feels like old money. Heavy with history. Dangerous.
And I’m naked beneath the covers.
My heart stutters.
But when I shift, my body aches all over. A dull, delicious soreness lingers between my legs. My skin tingles with the memory of his hands, his mouth, his voice growling mine like a vow. But jumping out of the car has definitely left a trail of pain, too.
It wasn’t a dream.
I lie still for a moment, trying to piece everything together. The club. The car. The chase. The way he caught me, touched me, ruined me. The way I let him.
I don’t feel scared. I should, but I don’t.
I feel claimed.
The door opens softly and I bolt upright, yanking the sheet up over my chest like that’ll somehow make a difference.
But it isn’t Nikolai.
It’s a woman.
She’s stunning. Small and elegant, with blond hair pulled into a braid over one shoulder. She wears a pale green dress that hugs her swollen belly, and her presence is calm but commanding, like someone who’s seen more than her share of storms and learned to walk through them.
She doesn’t flinch when she sees me clutching the sheet. Doesn’t hesitate. Just walks in like she belongs here.
“Good morning,” she says, voice warm but clear. “I’m Clara.”
I blink. It takes me a second. Clara. Nikolai’s sister-in-law.
She sets a folded bundle of clothes on the armchair and glances around the room like she’s inspecting it for danger.
“I brought you something to wear. You’ll be more comfortable.” Her eyes flick to my dress from last night, what’s left of it hangs over the back a chair. “You’ve been through a lot.”
I’m not sure what to say. My throat is dry. My thoughts feel scrambled, like someone took my brain out, shook it, and put it back in sideways.
“Thanks,” I manage.
She nods once, satisfied. “There’s coffee and breakfast downstairs in the kitchen. You’ll want to eat something.”
My stomach growls in agreement, even if the rest of me is unsure.
Clara turns to go, then pauses at the door. She looks over her shoulder, her expression unreadable.
“It’s going to feel strange, being in this house,” she says. “But you are safe here.”
She leaves before I can respond.
I stare at the closed door for a long moment, then drag myself out of bed.
The clothes she brought are soft and clean. Leggings and a long, loose T-shirt that smells faintly of lemons. I dress slowly, carefully, still not sure if this is real or some elaborate dream conjured up by adrenaline and lust.
But when I walk barefoot down the hallway and find Clara waiting for me at the top of a winding staircase, it feels real.
She smiles faintly. “Better?”
I nod. “A little.”
We walk together in silence for a few steps. I glance sideways at her. “So… this is your life?”
She lets out a soft, wry laugh. “It is now. I didn’t plan for it to be. But I stopped fighting it the day Maksim looked at me like I was something worth keeping.”
That makes my stomach twist in a way I don’t expect. Not with fear. With recognition .
Because that’s exactly how Nikolai looked at me last night.
Like I was more than just a woman who ran into his woods.
Like I was already his. Like he wanted to keep me.
Clara leads me into a huge kitchen. The table is too big for just the two of us, but that doesn’t stop her from pouring coffee and sliding a plate of fresh pastries my way like we’re old friends.
“I know you probably have a thousand questions,” she says.
“I do,” I admit.
She nods. “And they’ll be answered. But maybe not all at once. Things here move at their own pace.”
I take a sip of coffee and let the heat settle in my chest.
Clara’s watching me closely. “You’re not afraid.”
It’s not a question.
I shake my head. “Not of him.”
That gets me a small, knowing smile.