Chapter 19 Daniil
DANIIL
Lex's voice has the sting of bad news as he delivers the report, but I feel the fire climbing through my veins with every word he utters.
Viktor didn't just show his face at Naomi's exhibit.
He lingered there like a shadow, whispering poison into the ears of skeptics and sowing doubts where he could.
And even worse, he dared to circle Naomi herself, moving close enough that she knew he was there, and his presence was a threat.
The image of Viktor standing too close to what belongs to me tears through me. Wearing that smug smile he reserves for moments when he thinks he's outsmarted everyone in the room. Treating her as though she's already marked as his, and her fate has been decided without my knowledge or consent.
My hands curl into fists on the desk. “She didn't tell me,” I mutter, my voice dropping to that dangerous octave that makes grown men step backward. The betrayal cuts deeper than Viktor's bold move. She knew. She knew he was there, breathing the same air, and she chose silence.
Lex doesn't answer. He knows that my anger needs space to burn before it can be reasoned with. His silence is wise. Any defense of her choice would only fuel the venom already consuming me from the inside out.
I end the call and hit Naomi's number on my phone, my thumb pressing the contact forcefully. She picks up on the second ring, her voice soft and cautious, like she's testing the temperature of water before diving in. “Daniil?”
“Why didn't you tell me?” The question comes out sharp enough to cut steel.
She pauses, and I can hear her breathing on the other end, considering her words carefully. When she finally responds, her tone is steady but defensive. “Because there wasn't an immediate threat. I had Lex, Maksim, and Roman with me. I wasn't unprotected.”
The casual way she dismisses the danger stokes the anger already gnawing at my chest like a living thing.
She doesn't understand. She can't comprehend what Viktor's presence means, and what it signals about the war brewing between us.
“It was Viktor. Do you think their presence changes anything? Do you understand what it means that he showed up there?”
“I understand perfectly,” she snaps back, her own temper flaring now. “But this was the most important night of my life, Daniil. My dream realized. And you weren’t there. I wasn't going to let your temper ruin it.”
My jaw clenches until I can feel the muscles straining. “My temper? He was there, circling you like a wolf stalking its next meal, and you think I care about anything else—”
“I didn't want chaos,” she cuts in, her voice rising with each word. “I didn't want my exhibit to become another battlefield for you and Viktor. This was mine, Daniil. Mine. And for one night, just one night, I wanted to stand in it without you tearing everything apart.”
Her words feel like a slap across my face. Because she's right, and that truth infuriates me more than any lie could. She's right that I would have torn through that gallery like a hurricane and turned her moment of triumph into a scene of violence and chaos. She's right, and I hate her for it.
I rise from my chair abruptly, the leather creaking as I abandon it to pace the length of my office. My voice is scraped raw by the emotions I'm struggling to control. “Do you even hear yourself? You're telling me you'd rather protect your pride than your life.”
“Don't twist my words.” Her voice shakes now, but not with fear, with anger that matches my own. “I wanted one night where I wasn't just your liability, or your burden to bear.”
The word ‘liability’ snaps something fundamental inside me. “Liability? That's what you think you are to me?”
“What else could I be?” she fires back without hesitation.
“You drag me into your world, cage me inside your estate like some exotic bird, and now what?
You'll keep me under lock and key until Viktor decides to stop haunting your shadow?
I want to go home, Daniil. Back to my apartment, and back to my life. I don't need your protection.”
My breath is sharp and quick, my hands curling at my sides as I fight the urge to put my fist through the nearest wall. “You don't need—”
But she's not finished destroying me yet. Her voice lowers, cutting deep. “Maybe this is about Sasha. Maybe you're just trying to replace her with me. Another woman you can lock away and pretend you're protecting while you play God with her life.”
White-hot fury blinds me completely. “Don't you dare,” I seethe.
Her silence on the other end of the line dares me anyway and challenges me to deny what she's just accused me of. The audacity of it, the cruel precision of her words, makes my vision blur.
“You think I would confuse you with her?” I snarl into the phone. “You think I would drag you into this hell because I want some ghost back from the dead? You know nothing about what you're talking about.”
Her voice cracks with outrage when she responds. “Then prove me wrong, Daniil. Prove to me that this isn't just some twisted attempt to rewrite history.”
“I don't need to prove anything to you.” The words slam from my chest before I can temper them and think about their consequences. “You're not going back to that apartment. You're confined to the mansion from this moment forward. From now on, you do not leave without my explicit permission.”
Her scream echoes so loudly through the phone that I can almost see her face flushed with rage, eyes burning with the fire I've come to know so well. “I won't be your prisoner!”
“It's better than being dead!” I roar back, my control finally snapping completely.
The silence that follows feels jagged and sharp enough to draw blood. Then the line clicks dead, leaving me staring at the phone in my hand like it's a foreign object.
I stand there in my office, chest heaving, rage and fear twisting together in my gut until I can't tell them apart.
All I know with absolute certainty is that if Viktor takes her from me, if he succeeds in whatever game he's playing, there will be nothing left of me. Nothing but blood and vengeance.
The next day stretches before me like a punishment I've designed for myself.
Naomi doesn't speak to me. Not a single word passes between us.
She doesn't storm through the halls or seek me out to continue our argument.
Instead, she simply avoids me, moving through the mansion like I am nothing more than another locked door she needs to navigate around.
It grates me in ways I didn't expect. More than her anger would. More than her accusations did. Silence is her weapon of choice now, and she knows exactly how to wield it for maximum damage. Every room she enters and exits without acknowledging my presence is another small death.
I watch her from a distance, noting the way she holds herself with rigid dignity while treating me like I don't exist. She's punishing me, and it's working better than any torture could.
By late afternoon, I can't stand it anymore.
The silence has become unbearable. I order the kitchen to prepare something elegant that might at least make her stop long enough to look at me directly.
A private dinner, just the two of us. No guards hovering nearby, no Bratva business to interrupt us.
Just her and me and the chasm that's opened between us.
When she arrives in the dining room, her chin is lifted like a queen refusing to bow to a conquering army. She takes her seat across from me without a word. She cuts into her food silently. I watch her eat, refusing to meet my eyes, and feel something crumble inside me.
“I ruined your night,” I manage, the words tasting like rust and regret.
Her eyes slide to mine for just a moment. “Yes. You did.”
The simple truth of it twists in me like a knife, but I don't look away. I force myself to hold her stare and accept the judgment I see there. “I wanted to protect you. And in trying to do that, I failed you completely.”
She doesn't answer, but something in her eyes wavers, like ice beginning to crack under pressure.
I lean forward, dropping my voice to a whisper.
“Naomi, listen to me. I've buried more people than you know.
I've shut every door in this mansion and in myself because grief was easier than feeling anything real. But you—” I break off, the words sticking in my throat.
“I'm falling for you harder than I've ever fallen for anyone. Not even Sasha.”
The confession burns my throat raw, leaving me feeling exposed in ways I haven't experienced in years. Her breath catches audibly, and I watch the frost in her stare begin to soften around the edges.
“Don't mistake this for weakness,” I add, my voice thick with emotion I can't hide anymore. “It's the opposite. You make me want to fight harder than I ever have. You're not a replacement for anyone. You're the one I cannot afford to lose.”
Her knife lowers slowly to her plate. She studies me across the table, her eyes searching my face for lies, manipulation, or anything other than the raw truth I've just laid bare. The silence feels like a verdict being deliberated. Then, slowly, she rises from her chair.
When she comes to me, I stand too quickly, my chair scraping against the floor. I reach for her hand, afraid she might disappear if I don't bind her to me somehow. The anger that's been burning between us doesn't disappear. It transforms, winding tight and hot in my gut.
She doesn't resist when I pull her against me.
Her lips part beneath mine, and all the anger between us turns into fire that threatens to consume us both.
The kiss is rough and desperate, the type that strips away every defense we've built, and every wall we've constructed between ourselves and the truth.