Chapter 20
Nikolaj
The second the door clicks shut, I let the laugh loose.
It starts slowly in my throat and spills out like a goddamn secret I’ve been keeping too long. I press a hand to my mouth to muffle it, but it’s useless. I’m shaking, chest trembling with it, eyes wet—not from anything stupid like emotion, but from the sheer fucking absurdity of what just happened.
He thinks he won.
Vincenzo Vieri—Vintermoor’s golden heir, the East Wing’s marble-chiseled prince with his pressed cashmere and aristocratic wrath—honestly believes he got the upper hand tonight.
Because he flipped me over, said a few dirty things with that cut-glass voice of his, and walked out like he’d just delivered a royal decree.
But I saw it plain as fucking day.
The hunger in his eyes. The tremor in his grip when he thought I wouldn’t notice.
The way his voice dropped, not from control, but from desperation.
That wasn’t a man reclaiming power. That was a boy on the verge of collapse, holding the last thread of his mask together with clenched teeth and a prayer.
And it would have been cute if it wasn’t so pathetic.
“Fucking idiot,” I mutter, letting my gaze drift across the ceiling of his room.
Not a single frame out of place, not a single wrinkle in the curtains.
The crown prince of the East Wing wouldn’t dare live among chaos—that’s my domain.
He thinks it makes him strong. But really all it does is show me exactly where to strike.
I exhale and run my hand across his silk sheets as I stretch and let myself sprawl across the mattress, knowing I’ve done more damage in this bed than any knife ever could. I turned the Sicilian heir into something he swore he wasn’t. Wanting. Needing. Feral.
He’s so stupidly pretty when he’s pretending not to feel.
I sit up slowly, bones humming with the aftershock of adrenaline and lust. My jaw still aches from where he grabbed it, and my thigh carries the faint ghost of a bruise from when he shoved me down. I smile wider. His rage leaves marks, even when he doesn’t mean to. And those are my favorite kinds.
Sliding off the bed, I walk toward the desk near his window. I stand there for a moment, arms folded across my chest, taking in the sterile perfection of the space. It’s so fucking him. Dull, expensive, and hollow beneath the calculated polish.
But calculation only gets you so far. Eventually, desire starts to bleed through the cracks. He doesn’t know how to exist in the gray. He wants black or white. Yes or no. Obedience or war.
But me? I’m filth in human form. I exist in the wreckage between his choices.
My fingers toy with the waistband of my joggers. The fabric’s already half-hanging from my hips, dragged low by the way he grabbed me earlier. I look back at the bed, then let the grin spread.
Let him come back to a reminder. Something that’ll crawl beneath that composure and eat at him.
He wants control? He should’ve finished what he started.
“Lesson number one, Prince,” I murmur under my breath, voice thick with amusement. “You don’t get to touch fire without getting burned.”
I turn, facing the sheets that still hold the imprint of my body, then shove the joggers down in one smooth motion and imagine his face when he returns later to see the stain on his pristine sheets. He’ll remember the sounds I made under him, and how close he was to giving in.
He’ll hate himself, but he’ll hate me more.
He left me aching after not taking what he obviously wants, and now he’ll get the consequence.
I slide a hand down, wrap my fingers around my cock, and stroke myself lazily. I’m already fucking leaking for him.
I picture his face with that scowl carved from marble and shame, the way his hands trembled when they were on my throat.
The way his hips rutted forward; his instinct was screaming louder than pride.
That last look he gave me when he pulled away—like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to kill me or fall on his knees.
Both, probably.
My mouth parts around a breath, hips rocking forward into my hand. I stroke faster, thumb brushing over the slit, gathering precum and smearing it over the head, down the shaft. My thighs are tense now, muscles tight, chest heaving with every pump.
I don’t need to close my eyes to see him—he’s everywhere.
My blood on his lips, his breath in my mouth, rage in his spine, and lust in his eyes. He looked at me like I was the enemy and the fucking answer, and then he walked away.
I moan his name as I come in thick, hot ropes across his pillow—right where his face would be. I breathe through it, one hand still on my cock, the other pressed against his sheets while I’m holding myself steady. My thighs shake, my skin’s flushed, and I feel fucking high.
I wipe the last of it across the soft part of his pillow, fix my joggers, and run a hand through my hair, fluffing it back into that careless mess he always pretends not to stare at. Then I walk to the vent and twist the casing, retrieving the camera with a flick of my wrist.
Small. Discreet. Enough to catch the moment when his eyes went wide and his lips parted like he couldn’t decide whether to hit me or fuck me. The part where he touched me like he wanted to break me and bury himself inside me in the same breath.
I’m going to watch it later, probably with a drink in one hand and my other already down my pants. Then I’m going to decide what to do with it.
I slip on my shoes, leaving them untied, tug my hoodie back down over my hips and glance around his room once more. It’s so clean. So curated. Like his fucking wardrobe—silks, glass decanters, aged leather, everything designed to project control.
But tonight, I saw the cracks; he looked messy, disheveled, desperate. And that’s more satisfying than anything else I’ve done at this school.
When I open the door, the hall is empty. Of course it is. No one walks this corridor without his permission. I make it a point to step over the Vieri family crest carved into the floorboards, dragging my heel right across the middle like a knife across flesh.
I stride out of the East Wing with my head high and my hoodie half unzipped, the ends of my joggers tucked into combat boots still crusted with someone else’s blood.
Untouched.
Unbothered.
And completely, utterly victorious.
I cut through the stone corridor toward the North quad, catching the flicker of security lights and shadowed columns, my mind already buzzing with what comes next.
Poor little prince. He thought he was punishing me by walking away, but all he did was give me proof.
The mark I left under his ear wasn’t for him; it was for me. For all his spit-polished control and king-in-training posturing, he still let me in. He still let me get close enough to cut. That’s the only truth I care about.
My grin stretches as I descend the last stair to the North Wing. Maksim is leaning against the pillar just inside the corridor, arms folded, expression unreadable. I raise a brow at him but keep walking, because I already know that look and tonight I’m not in the mood for a lecture.
He falls into step beside me anyway, silent for a beat before he mutters, “He’s going to retaliate.”
“I hope he does,” I say without missing a step. “Wouldn’t be fun if he didn’t.”
“He’s still a Vieri.”
“And I’m still a Dragovich.”
Maksim sighs like he’s tired of both of us, but he doesn’t push. He’s never been the one to discipline. That task always belonged to someone else. Someone meaner. The one man in our bloodline no one crosses twice.
As if summoned by the fucking devil himself, I turn into my room to find Arseniy waiting.
He stands in the center of my room, shirtless and calm, arms coated in dried blood and streaks of ink. His eyes, pale like mine but colder, flick up when I enter. “Kolya,” he says by way of greeting.
Maksim stops behind me like he wants no part of this. Smart.
I close the door without looking back, the sound of it clicking into place somehow louder than the slam it should’ve been.
“You look like shit,” I mutter, slipping the camera discreetly out of my pocket.
“I came from work.” He gestures to his arms like that explains everything. And in a way, it does. Arseniy doesn’t have hobbies; he has assignments. And when our father sends him to fix something, it never comes back whole.
I hum and walk over to my dresser, slipping the device inside. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s not my blood.”
“Of course not,” I say as I turn back to face him.
His gaze drags over me, slow and calculating. “You smell like him.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t owe you explanations.”
“You owe me everything,” Arseniy growls, voice a blade now.
“You wouldn’t be standing here if I hadn’t broken the bones you were too soft to crack.
You think I enjoy being your fucking leash?
I do it because you have to survive, Kolya.
Because Pappa put his legacy in your spine instead of mine, and someone has to make sure you don’t snap in half under it. ”
He’ll forever hold it over my head that the eldest in the family becomes the protector of the Dragovich name instead of the heir. That he got trained harder, because he would have to be harder.
I breathe through my teeth, chest tight. “I’m not weak.”
“You’re emotional, and emotions are a liability. You want to fuck Vieri? Fine. But don’t mistake your obsession for strategy.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
He moves so fast I barely register the swing. His fist slams into my face, hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs. I stagger back, hit the wall with a grunt, eyes wide as he follows through without pause. Another hit lands in my ribs, and this one drops me to my knees.
I cough, spit blood, and look up at him through the blur. “You done?” I rasp.
He doesn’t answer as he crouches in front of me, grips the back of my neck, and hauls me forward until our foreheads nearly touch.
“This is a reminder,” he growls, “of who you are. What you are. You were raised to rule, Kolya, not spiral. I bled for your birthright. Don’t make me bleed to keep it.”
I swallow hard, fury and shame curling through my spine.
He lets go, and I crumple to the stone floor, clutching my ribs with a sharp breath that tastes like blood. My palms press against the cold flagstone, and I brace there for a second, grounded only by fury.
It’s not the pain that guts me. It’s the humiliation. It’s the fact that he didn’t even raise his voice while doing it.
“I know what I am,” I snarl, dragging myself upright, my spine screaming protest with each inch I gain. “I’m the heir.”
Arseniy doesn’t blink as he straightens to his full height, pale eyes blank as smoke. “Then start acting like it.”
He turns toward the window and wipes his bloodstained knuckles on a white linen cloth that wasn’t there before. I don’t know where he pulled it from. I never do. He’s always calm in the aftermath, like violence is a thing that washes off of him easier than water.
My knees shake. I lock them in place and force myself to stand tall. My mouth tastes like copper and rage. “I had it under control.”
“No,” he says flatly, “you had him under you. That’s not the same thing.”
The silence that follows punches harder than his fists. My jaw clenches. “He’s not going to forget what I did,” I rasp.
“No,” he says again. “But neither will you, and that’s the fucking problem.”
I flinch when the door behind me opens and two shadows step in. Big ones dressed in Dragovich black. One has a scar from lip to ear, the other doesn’t bother hiding the knife tucked beneath his sleeve. Both are quiet. Professional.
I turn on my brother. “You’re joking.”
“Do I look like I’m in a joking mood?” Arseniy doesn’t even face me. He folds the bloodied cloth, presses it into his jacket pocket like it’s a receipt, and finally looks back. “You want your stars? You want to lead this family?”
“You know I do.”
“Then you’ll do this,” he says. “You’ll let them reset your focus before Pappa gets involved.”
My throat tightens. “I don’t need to be reprogrammed.”
“You fucked the crown prince of the East Wing.”
I step forward, fists clenched. “We didn’t—”
“But you wanted to.” His voice slices straight through mine. “And worse? You want to do it again. I saw your face. I smelled him on you. You don’t come back from that, Kolya. Not unless we burn it out of you.”
I’m breathing hard now. The walls feel too close, my ribs scream from the inside out, and my hand twitches toward the knife on my thigh, but I don’t draw it. “You said you wouldn’t do this again,” I whisper.
“And I meant it. But then you walked into his fucking bed like a branded dog. You don’t get to keep playing both sides.”
“You don’t get to make that call.”
“I do when you forget who the enemy is.”
I don’t answer… because I didn’t forget. I remembered every second of it, and that’s the fucking problem.
Arseniy walks to me and stops close enough that I smell the dried blood still crusting on the inside of his collar. He lowers his voice. “Do you want him more than your stars?”
“No.”
“Say it again.”
I meet his eyes. “No.”
“Good,” he breathes, cold satisfaction ghosting over his face. “Then go with them.”
My fists curl tighter, nails digging into the meat of my palms.
“Voluntarily, or not?” he asks softly. The knife on my thigh hums like it wants blood. My gaze shifts to the two waiting guards.
Arseniy steps back, lets the silence thicken, and when I don’t move, he nods once. “Not, it is.”
They grab me in perfect sync. One locks my arms behind my back, shoving me forward, the other jams a pressure point between my shoulder and neck that steals the strength from my legs. I hit the floor hard enough to make my ears ring.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” I snarl, bucking against the hold.
Scarface doesn’t flinch. “Protocol, sir.”
“I am the fucking protocol!” But my voice shakes, and they know it. Arseniy just stands there, hands in his pockets.
“I don’t need this,” I spit, gasping as they drag me toward the door. “I don’t need to be fixed.”
“No,” he says. “Your name is Nikolaj Dragovich. Heir to the Bratva throne. You’ve been trained since birth to protect the family name and secure its future. You were sent here with one mission, and now you need to be reminded.”
Of who I am.
Of what I was raised to do.
Of why he was always the goal—not the fucking obsession.
I thrash once more, but they’re trained for this. The one behind me slams an elbow into the side of my neck, and stars bloom in my vision. My last sight before everything goes black is Arseniy watching me with something like grief.
And then, nothing.