Chapter 25 Nikolaj
Nikolaj
I wake with the taste of him still in my mouth.
Not metaphorical. Not abstract. Not like how they write it in books with poetry and longing and soft, trembling metaphors.
No, I wake choking on the phantom weight of his hips straining above me, his hands gripping my jaw tight enough to bruise, and the sound of my own name—my real name—rasped out in that wrecked whisper.
“Nikolaj.”
He says it like no one else ever has. Like the syllables themselves are a sin, like wrapping his mouth around them is a sacrament only he’s worthy of.
Everyone else uses the shortcut—Niko. Simpler.
Safer. Americanized. The name you can put on papers, say in meetings, and offer up to strangers like a handshake.
But Vincenzo doesn’t bother with safety. He says my full name like he owns it. Like he owns me.
I bolt upright, sheets twisted around my hips like I fought a war in my sleep.
My chest is heaving, and my skin is soaked in sweat, the throb between my thighs sharp and insistent.
My nails are bloody. I must’ve dug into my thigh again, trying to wake myself up when it started—when the dream shifted into memory and my mind stopped trying to protect me from it.
It wasn’t a nightmare; it was worse than that.
It was real.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and glare down at the fresh crescents torn into my thigh, blood already drying into dark rust across pale skin.
I deserved it. I know I did. I didn’t fight hard enough.
Because even now, even knowing what he is, even knowing what I am, even after Arseniy’s failed reprogramming, I still want him. I still crave him.
And Dragovichs don’t crave, we conquer.
The cold shower hits me like a punch to the chest, but it’s not enough.
I brace my palms against the tiles, steam curling around my head despite the ice-cold water.
My breath comes out in sharp bursts, and I tilt my face toward the spray like maybe drowning myself will fix this—burn it out, freeze it off, do something to erase the way he said my name like it was both a plea and a promise at once.
But it clings. It always does.
When I finally step out, my goosebump-covered skin is numb, but the ache remains.
I wrap a towel around my waist and stare at the mirror.
The man in the reflection isn’t broken, not outwardly.
I’ve spent years making sure he looks sharp enough to cut.
But I know what’s underneath, and I know what needs to be done.
I grab the cigarettes from the bottom drawer and light one, pressing the cherry end against the inside of my arm.
The first hiss of pain is sharp, white-hot, and my breath stutters, but I don’t make a sound.
Not the first time, or the second, or the third.
I press until the skin blackens, until the smell of burned flesh rises like incense from the altar of guilt I’ve built for myself.
Only when I can’t grip the cigarette anymore do I let it drop into the sink and run cold water over my arm. It’s trembling now, but not enough to matter. I’ve survived worse; I’ve inflicted worse.
I throw on a hoodie to cover the marks and head down the hall toward the North Wing lounge.
I can hear my cousins before I see them—Kai’s voice low and irritated, Maksim’s laugh too bright for this early in the morning.
They’re sprawled across the sectional like they own the place, which, in fairness, we kind of do.
“Look who finally crawled out of his crypt,” Maksim smirks as I enter, eyes flicking up and down my body like he’s scanning for fresh bruises. He’s always been the most observant out of us. Too clever for his own good.
“Sleep well?” Kai asks, and the way he says it makes me pause. I drop into the armchair and stretch my legs out, forcing my posture into something lazy and bored. The key is never to look like you’re running, even when you are.
“No worse than usual,” I say.
Maksim leans forward, elbows on knees. “That’s code for ‘I woke up hard again because Vincenzo moaned my name in my dreams,’ right?” I don’t react, and he grins. “Thought so.”
“You want to say that again?” I ask, my tone cold enough to make the air thicken between us.
Kai sighs and rolls his eyes. “Christ, can you two not be feral before breakfast?”
Maksim doesn’t back down. “I’m not the one dry-humping a pillow to the memory of a rival heir.”
“I didn’t touch him,” I growl. “I never touched him.”
“No,” Kai says slowly, “but you want to. And that’s worse.”
I stare at the wall behind them, jaw tight and hating that they know me so well.
They’re not wrong, and that’s the problem.
I’ve danced around it for weeks, acted like the pull was something tactical.
A way to disarm. A way to get inside Vincenzo’s head.
But the truth is uglier. It lives in the way my hands still remember the shape of his throat, the way I can still taste his blood on my tongue.
“We need you focused,” Kai says more quietly. “You’re in charge here, Kolya. No more weakness, especially not with Lorenz and Fischer watching us after what Arseniy did.”
I force myself to nod and leave before they can say more. My boots echo down the marble hallway, the slap of rubber on stone too loud in the quiet. I slam my palm against the wall, fury rising fast.
I want to break something. I want to drag Vincenzo into this hallway and show him what he’s done to me.
Make him pay for the dreams. Make him beg me to stop and never fucking stop.
I want to rip the softness out of him. That lightness.
That smirk. The way he walks like he owns everything he touches.
He doesn’t own me.
I walk back into the main hall and head toward the training floor.
If I can’t kill the ache, I’ll beat it into someone else.
The sound of fists hitting bags, of grunts and curses and broken breath—that’s the only church I belong in.
I shrug off my hoodie and wrap my fists, ignoring the fresh sting from the burns on my arms. The pain keeps me grounded. Keeps me sharp.
Kai and Maksim show up ten minutes later. They never say it, but they know I need to hit something. And they’re the only ones I trust to hit back.
“You wanna talk about it?” Maksim asks as he blocks one of my punches.
“No,” I grunt, ducking his elbow and driving my fist into his side.
“Good,” he wheezes. “Because I don’t want to hear about your boner problems.”
Kai tags in, face unreadable. He always hits harder. Always makes me work for it. “You going to keep letting him live rent-free in your skull?” he asks between strikes.
“He’s not in my head,” I lie, slipping past his guard and landing one clean to his jaw.
He smiles. It’s not kind. “Then why do you look like you want to fuck or kill him every time he walks by?”
I don’t answer. There’s no point. The truth’s already smeared across my skin, scorched into my arms, clawed into my thighs.
I’ll burn it out eventually.
Or I’ll burn for it.