Nikolai
Aleksei finds them just after lunch.
He calls it in like it’s nothing. Like dragging two terrified, piss-stained men into our basement is just another Sunday morning on the estate.
And maybe it is.
I take the call in the kitchen. He says they matched the car to a low-rent crew, the kind that hunts drunk women on club nights like sport. Not traffickers. Not professionals. Just predators with too much confidence and not enough brains.
They weren’t expecting someone to jump from their moving car. They weren’t expecting her to have any fight.
And they sure as fuck weren’t expecting the Vailiev’s.
By the time I reach the basement, they’re already chained to opposite walls. Bare-chested. Shaking. One of them has a busted lip from Aleksei’s greeting. The other stinks of fear.
Good.
I stand in the middle of the room and say nothing. Just stare. Let them stew in it.
“You know who I am?” I ask after a minute.
They nod. One of them starts to ramble about their being a mix up.
I let him Let him beg and whimper and offer apologies. I don’t need their words. I need their blood.
But not yet.
Not until she sees them.
Not until she understands.
I leave them down there and head upstairs, my footsteps echoing with purpose.
She’s curled up on the chaise near the window, sunlight painting her skin gold as she watches the garden sway in the breeze. She turns and offers me a small smile, and my fucking heart lurches at the sight of her like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest.
There’s a flicker of something soft in her gaze. Something she tries to tuck away before I see it. But I always see it.
“Hey,” she says, setting the empty teacup aside.
I reach into my jacket pocket and hold out the box. Small. Black. Velvet.
Her brows knit, curious. She accepts it with both hands like she already knows it’s more than it looks.
“What is it?”
“A gift,” I murmur. “I know it’s not your birthday anymore, but I wanted to mark it with something, since it was also the night we…met.”
When she lifts the lid, her lips part. Nestled inside, on a fine gold chain, is a delicate charm shaped like a rabbit mid sprint. Delicate but powerful. Unmistakably her.
Her fingers hover over it, then trace the curve of its ears, the stretch of its legs. “It’s beautiful,” she whispers.
I take it from the box and motion for her to turn. She does so without hesitation. I fasten the clasp, letting my fingers linger at the nape of her neck before dropping a kiss there and turning her back around.
“It’s not just for show,” I say quietly. “It means something.”
She angles her face back toward me. “What does it mean?”
“That you ran for me, not from me. And I caught you. And now you’ll never have to run from anyone again.”
A flush rises in her cheeks. Her hand lifts to touch the charm where it rests just above her sternum. “You called me ‘little rabbit.’”
There’s silence between us, but it isn’t uncomfortable. It’s charged. Thick with something electric that neither of us wants to name yet.
Then I step back.
“I have something else for you.”
Her brow furrows, but I don’t give her time to question it. I offer my hand. She hesitates only a second before slipping hers into mine.
“This way.”
We descend the hallway in silence, past the gilded frames and cold stone. Deeper. Below.
I don’t speak again until we’re outside the heavy door.
“What you see down there,” I warn softly, “might scare you. But I want you to know, nothing happens without your say so. You can leave at any time. I won’t stop you. You are safe.”
She looks up at me, eyes wide and unblinking. “Why are you showing me?”
“Because they took something from you,” I say. “And I want you to have it back.”
She doesn’t ask what. She already knows.
I open the door.
The scent hits first. Damp concrete, sweat, the metallic edge of fear. The two men are still chained where I left them. Pathetic. Slumped. One lifts his head as we step inside and goes pale.
“It’s her,” he says. His voice edged with breathless fear.
Rachel doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t scream. She steps forward, just once, and stares them down.
“Do you recognize them?” I ask.
Her jaw tightens. “The one with the scar. He was in the passenger seat.”
The man with the tattoo tries to speak, but I cut him off with a single look.
Rachel’s voice is low. Controlled. “They were laughing when I begged them to stop the car.”
I watch her. Not them. Because this is about her now. Not punishment or justice.
Restoration.
Her shoulders rise and square. Then she turns to me.
“What happens to them?”
“Whatever you want.”
She doesn’t speak right away. She just walks toward me and places her hand flat against my chest, right over my heart.