Chapter 24
Vincenzo
Blood hits the wall first. That’s how I know I’ve miscalculated.
It isn’t the first punch or the knife that glances off my arm.
Not the kick to my ribs that rattles bone.
It’s my blood—hot, wet, and streaking down neutral stone—that tells me I underestimated them.
My blood, staining the East Wing’s corridor, where no one is supposed to touch me.
Where no one has ever had the balls to try.
I should’ve known it wouldn’t last.
The first one comes in sloppy, his strike too wide.
I catch his wrist, twist, and slam my knee into his gut, but the second one is faster.
He slides in from the side, and the blade kisses across my neck—shallow, but close enough that the world tilts.
Warmth bursts beneath my jaw, slipping hot between my fingers as I press down.
I taste copper when I swallow, and it pisses me off more than it scares me.
They almost fucking got me.
These aren’t heirs with names worth remembering.
They’re little legacies from neutral bloodlines aligned with Kiril’s circle—low-tier muscle dressed up in entitlement and bruised egos.
This isn’t a sanctioned attack; it’s vengeance in the dark.
Petty, messy, and personal. They waited until I was alone, until I waved off my men while walking back from the strategy labs with my folder in hand.
The smaller one—the quicker one—lunges forward with his knife, aiming for another strike.
I twist, catch his arm, and drive my elbow into his face so hard his nose shatters against it.
He drops the blade and screams, but I don’t stop there.
I slam his head into the nearest wall and spin just in time to catch the second bastard trying to flank me again.
This one’s heavier. More brutal. He grunts as he tackles me, and we both go down hard—my back scraping concrete, his blade clattering somewhere out of reach. I punch him twice in the gut, but he doesn’t budge. He’s fueled by rage, maybe even something stronger, and I can’t get the leverage.
He grabs my throat with both hands, the force enough to slam me against the concrete.
My skull cracks against stone, stars bursting behind my eyes.
I taste blood, iron, and fury all at once.
The pressure builds—fingers tightening, cutting off air, crushing the sound out of my lungs until my vision starts to pulse red.
His face is inches from mine, teeth bared, sweat and rage dripping off him as he squeezes harder.
I dig my nails into his wrists, but it’s no use.
His grip doesn’t falter. I manage to wrench one of his hands loose, twisting hard enough to hear the tendons pop, but the other holds, fingers grinding into my windpipe.
My breath stutters. I can’t pull enough air in.
My hand shoots up, grabbing his face, fingers gouging at his cheek, my thumb catching his eye, but he just grunts and slams me back against the floor again.
The shock rattles through me, stealing what little oxygen I have left, and the world tunnels.
Everything narrows to the raw, desperate sound of my pulse slamming through my skull.
One more second. One more breath…
Then a click—that unmistakable, surgical sound of a safety disengaging.
The weight lifts from my chest in a blur of violence, before a shadow moves over me. I collapse on to my side, coughing, dragging air into my raw lungs. The sound burns all the way down.
When I blink the haze out of my eyes, I see Nikolaj, calm as sin, the tattoos on his forearms splattered with blood.
He’s standing over the first heir with a gun pressed to the side of his head.
The other heir is already down, blood pooling under him, throat slit open so wide I can see the glint of bone.
He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t glance at the body cooling on the floor. His focus is on the one still breathing, his tone as soft as the barrel digging deeper.
The heir starts to speak, some strangled, half-formed curse, “Dragovich, what the f—”
“If anyone’s going to end him, it’ll be me,” he says, then his eyes briefly flick down to me. “You owe me a kill, Vieri.”
He pulls the trigger, and the impact splatters hot across my face. My ears ring with the sound, a sharp, metallic whine that drowns everything else out. The heir jerks, body crumpling, and blood spreads wide on the stones. And still—Nikolaj doesn’t flinch.
He lowers the weapon slowly, smoke curling from the barrel.
The smell of gunpowder mixes with blood, turning the air thick enough to choke on.
My chest heaves, each breath scraping against my throat, but I can’t look away.
He finally turns his head, those ice-blue eyes finding mine through the haze, but there’s no triumph in them.
No remorse either. Just control. Cold, lethal control.
“Get the fuck up,” he says, finally stepping closer.
I push myself up with a wince, swiping at my mouth where more blood drips from the corner of my lip. The cut on my neck still leaks, though the flow’s slower now, the blood coagulating. My breathing’s ragged, chest heaving under the strain, but I don’t take my eyes off him.
“Didn’t ask for help,” I rasp.
“And I didn’t ask to watch you almost bleed out for a couple of nobodies. You’re better than that. Aren’t you, Prince?”
His voice drips mockery, but his stance is too controlled. I reach for the edge of the wall, steadying myself. “Could’ve handled it.”
“But you didn’t.”
The bluntness cracks through me harder than any knife. My jaw clenches, ready to throw something sharp back, but he steps into my space before I can. Close enough that I can smell the smoke and blood on him. Close enough that I see the way his pupils dilate as he takes me in.
“You bled for someone else’s grudge,” he says softly. “Don’t be stupid again.”
Then he reaches up slowly and brushes his thumb across my lip. Blood smears across it, a dark, wet streak that shines under the hallway light. He watches it for a second, then slides his thumb into his mouth and licks it clean with no hesitation.
His eyes stay locked on mine, darkened with something that isn’t hunger but too close to it to be anything else. The thumb that had brushed my lip now rests casually against his teeth, and when he speaks, his voice is lower than before. Rougher. More possessive.
“You still taste sweet, you know that?” His gaze trails down the line of my throat, to the place where blood still trickles sluggishly from just beneath my jaw. “Even when you’re leaking all over the goddamn floor. Still so fucking sweet.”
I can’t look away. My whole body’s a riot of adrenaline and ache, but it’s his presence that makes it hard to breathe.
“I said I didn’t need help,” I repeat, but the words lack bite.
He finally holsters the weapon. “You also said you had control. That was a lie too.”
“I had it under control,” I bite out.
He lifts one brow. “Which part? The part where you were on the floor, bleeding like a fucking lamb? Or the part where you almost let two amateurs carve their names into you?”
I glare. “I didn’t almost—”
“Don’t insult me, Vieri,” he snaps. “I know when someone’s seconds from blacking out. I know that look. I’ve seen it right before I slit their fucking throat.”
The silence stretches, thick and hot between us, pulsing with something uglier than anger.
I don’t back down. I hold his gaze, knowing it’s a mistake but unable to stop.
The air crackles. There’s blood on the floor and on both our hands, but the most dangerous thing in this hallway is him. Not the gun. Not the knife.
Just him.
Nikolaj’s head tilts slightly as he presses one hand flat against the wall beside my head, boxing me in. His fingers lift to the edge of the wound. He studies it with clinical interest, then glances at me, something crueler behind his eyes now.
“You bleed too easy for someone with so many walls,” he murmurs.
My body tenses so hard I think something fractures inside me. “What do you want, Dragovich?” I snap. “To remind me I owe you a kill? To see if I’ll drop to my knees and thank you?”
He smirks. “Tempting, but no. You don’t get to die for them.
If someone’s going to bleed you dry you, it’s going to be me.
” I try not to flinch when he leans in, his mouth brushing just beside my ear, breath ghosting against my neck.
“Not a scratch. Not a bruise. Not a drop of blood unless I draw it myself.”
Then he eases back half an inch, but his hand stays on my throat, fingers warm and loose, resting in the same place those other bastards tried to crush.
The contrast burns. I feel the echo of violence still singing in my bones, but his touch is different.
Possessive in a way that’s worse than any blade.
I swallow, pulse kicking hard in my throat. “That what this was? Marking your territory?”
He smirks. “No, that was cleanup. The marking…” His eyes flick down to my neck, then lower, his gaze dragging over every inch of me. “That started the moment I walked into this fucking school.”
“You’re fucked in the head,” I grind out.
He shrugs, unbothered. “Probably.”
Then, slowly, he leans down again, mouth brushing close to mine—just close enough to make my breath hitch.
His hand slides from my throat to my jaw, tilting my face up like he’s examining his favorite fucking trophy.
His thumb grazes the corner of my mouth again, slower this time, dragging through the smear of drying blood before trailing down my chin.
“I don’t care who you try to convince with that mouth,” he says. “Doesn’t matter how many lies you spit or who you pretend to hate. Your last heartbeat belongs to me. No one else gets that privilege.”
I shove him hard, but he doesn’t budge and doesn’t even stumble. His chest just absorbs the blow like I’m nothing but smoke to him. “Back the fuck off,” I growl. “Or I’ll give you a reason to draw that gun again.”