10. Sabina
10
Sabina
It’s early evening when Nikolai wakes up, emerging from the bedroom with tousled hair and clear eyes, the dark bags gone now. He retrieves his gun from me and heads outside again, I assume either to check the generator or walk the perimeter. I head to the bathroom to retrieve my turtleneck and skirt, intending to bundle them with the bloodied coats and set them ablaze. But the clothes aren’t there, and when I open the front door, neither are the coats. Nikolai has already taken care of it.
I go to the kitchen where I put together a makeshift feast. Canned oysters sit alongside three types of crackers and a tin of peaches that I drain into two mugs. There’s a small bowl of mixed nuts and another of dried apricots. I even find a wedge of aged cheddar and a small wheel of wax-sealed gouda buried in a cabinet. It feels absurdly domestic, playing house while the snow piles high outside and danger presses closer. I set the spread out on the low coffee table in front of the fire, arranging it with a precision I tell myself is about presentation and not distraction.
In one cupboard, I find a selection of wines. Expensive, aged ones, worthy of a five-star restaurant. There are also bottles of scotch, vodka, and other spirits. I ponder the options then retrieve a bottle of vodka and a bottle of chardonnay. I’m settled on the couch and have just poured myself a glass of wine when Nikolai strides in and stomps the snow from his boots.
“You’re back,” I say.
“I’m back,” he replies, his tone unreadable as his gaze flicks from my face to the coffee table then back to my face.
“Generator okay?” I ask.
“For now.” He shrugs off his coat, the movement fluid but heavy, as if the weight of the world doesn’t quite leave him when the fabric does.
“That’s reassuring.” He definitely is not in a conversational mood.
“It’ll be fine,” he says, his tone laced with quiet authority.
I pat the sofa next to me. “Join me. I put together a feast.”
Nikolai raises an eyebrow but steps closer. His gaze moves over the spread, lingering on the vodka. When his eyes meet mine, there’s a flicker of amusement, dark and knowing.
“Oysters and vodka?”
“I figured you for a vodka type of guy.”
He stares at me, the corners of his mouth curling up, and I feel like I’ve missed the punch line to a joke only he knows.
“Vodka works,” he says, his voice low. “It’s a classic. Bold. Uncomplicated.”
A strange sense of déjà vu washed over me. I reach for it, trying to catch a memory, but it slides away.
He sits down on the opposite side of the couch, his big body dominating the space in a way that makes me feel both uneasy and…warm. Too warm. He doesn’t sprawl, but his presence pulls the air from the small cabin.
“I thought we could play a game,” I say, forcing lightness into my tone. When he doesn’t say anything, just stares at me with that pale, piercing gaze, I add, “Truth or drink.”
His brows lift. “Dangerous,” he murmurs. Not a warning. An invitation.
A shiver of awareness passes through me. Everything about Nikolai is dangerous.
I wet my lips. His gaze lingers on my mouth, then snaps back to my eyes.
“What are the rules?” he asks, his voice a low rasp.
I swallow, feeling breathless and restless and out of my depth. “It’s like truth or dare, but no dares. You either answer my question honestly or take a shot of vodka. I’ll drink wine, though. Leveling the playing field.”
“Because I’m twice your size?” There’s a hint of laughter in his tone.
“Exactly.”
I stare at his hands as he reaches for the bottle of vodka. Strong hands. Long fingers. Nails neatly trimmed. I shouldn’t notice his hands, shouldn’t want to feel the rough pads of his fingers trail over my skin…
“Truth is a dangerous thing, Sabina.” The way he says my name feels like a dark caress.
“Is that a yes?” I feel breathless, restless.
His gaze locks with mine, and for a moment, the firelight dances in his pale blue eyes, making them seem molten. He looks at me like I’m already his and he’s just waiting for me to figure that out.
“Yes,” he says softly.
“All right,” I say, summoning every ounce of confidence. “Who’s your favorite Kardashian?”
Nikolai blinks. “That’s the question you’re leading with?”
“Warm-up question,” I reply breezily.
He leans back slightly, helps himself to some cheese and crackers. “Kim.”
“Why?”
“She’s beautiful, savvy, successful, and ruthless when she needs to be. My type.” His voice drops on the last two words, slow and deliberate, and they land low in my belly, curling like smoke.
He lifts the vodka, drinking it even though he answered, his gaze never leaving mine. The casual confidence of it—like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me—is maddening. When he sets the glass down, his lips curve in a slow, dangerous smile. Dark stubble. Perfect lips. White teeth.
“My turn,” he says.
My stomach flips. I grip my glass tighter, as if it can ground me.
He takes his time coming up with a question, taking some nuts, then peaches, then more cheese and crackers. Tension winds through me as I wonder what he’s going to throw at me.
Finally, he asks, “What do you prefer, cats or dogs?”
The question is so unexpected, so mundane, it catches me off guard. And then I realize that was probably his intent. He’s playing with me, testing my reactions, keeping me off balance.
I let him wait for my answer, helping myself to some food.
“Both,” I say.
“That’s cheating,” he counters smoothly. “Drink.”
I roll my eyes an take a sip, the warmth of the wine doing little to soothe the tension coiled in my chest. “Okay, real question this time. Do you have siblings?”
“No.” His answer is immediate, his tone clipped.
“That was too fast,” I challenge. “Elaborate.”
“No siblings,” he repeats, his voice steady. “Only cousins, of a sort.”
“Of a sort?”
“My Uncle Vlasta had no children. My mother had no siblings. My cousins are the sons of family allies. Maxim, Dimitri, and Alexei. We’re not close.”
There’s a story there. I can sense it.
“Why aren’t you close?” I ask, poking the bear.
“That’s more than one question,” he points out, offering that precious flash of a smile, there, then gone.
I wait, saying nothing, inexplicably driven to know the answer, to understand a little about this beautiful, dangerous man.
“Maxim and I were close once,” he says at length, staring into the fire. “Like brothers. But…he made a choice when my uncle died. A different choice than I made.”
He picks up the vodka and takes another shot, the movement smooth, deliberate. The way his throat works as he swallows is absurdly captivating, and I hate myself for noticing.
“Your turn,” he says. “Who’s your favorite brother?”
I groan. “That’s impossible.”
“Truth, Sabina. Or drink.”
I scowl but reach for the wine glass. Before I can lift it, Nikolai takes it from my hand, his fingers brushing mine in a way that feels too intimate for such a brief contact. He sets it aside and pours vodka into his glass, sliding it toward me.
I shake my head. “Replacing my drink of choice with yours isn’t in the rules.”
“You made those rules. These are my rules,” he says, his voice low and commanding, the words wrapping around me like silk and steel.
A flush creeps up my neck at his words, hot and unwelcome. Rules. The way he says it—firm, unyielding, full of quiet authority—sends a thrill through me that I can’t suppress. My breath hitches, and I shift in my seat, trying to mask the reaction, but it’s too late. He catches the movement, and a dark smile curves his lips, like he knows exactly what effect he’s having on me.
Damn him. Damn his voice, his presence, and his maddening ability to strip away my defenses with just a look.
“You’re insufferable,” I mutter.
“Drink or talk,” he counters, his tone daring me to push back.
“Fine.” I huff. “If I had to choose…Dante. He’s the one I’d go to with a problem that didn’t require bullets or fists.”
“Sensitive,” he says, his tone teasing but not unkind.
“No,” I say. “Just…aware. He feels things deeply.”
The words hang between us, heavy with unspoken weight. Nikolai’s gaze sharpens and for a moment, I think he’s about to say something. Something important.
Before he can, I rush to fill the silence. “And Cassio,” I say quickly. “He’s funny. Well, most of the time.”
“So you don’t like Leo or Damian.” His eyes spark with amusement.
“I didn’t say that!” I glare at him.
“Easy.” He holds up his hands, palm out. “I know. I’m just messing with you. Remember, this is your game.”
“My game,” I echo. “That’s right. And my turn.”
“Go ahead.”
“Enough about me.” I narrow my eyes, my voice steady but with a razor’s edge. “How many people have you killed?”
The question comes out sharper than I intend, but I don’t regret it. The way Nikolai moves, the way he talks, the ease with which he wields control—violence clings to him like a shadow. I need to know the depths of what I’m dealing with. Or maybe, I just need to remind myself that this man isn’t a savior. He’s a killer, a danger, no matter how his presence makes my pulse race. Or is that why he makes my pulse race?
Nikolai tips his head, his smirk fading into something colder, harder. “You’ll have to be more specific. Professionally? Personally? Or both?”
“All of it,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. The firelight flickers between us, but it doesn’t warm the chill his words send through me.
He considers me for a moment, his pale eyes unflinching, before lifting his glass. “Probably about the same number your brothers have killed.”
“We aren’t talking about my brothers,” I say.
“Too many to count.” He downs the vodka in one smooth motion. For a second, something darker flickers across his face, a shadow that feels too human to belong to a man like him. “But I remember the first. I was eighteen years old. He deserved it.”
The bluntness of his answer hits like a slap, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. My pulse stutters, and I can feel my composure slipping.
“Your turn,” he says, his tone neutral, like we’re discussing the weather.
I scramble for something—anything—to turn the attention away from me, away from the way his honesty unsettles me. Suddenly, I wish I had never suggested this game.
“What were you dreaming about last night?” he asks, his voice low and smooth, dragging my focus back to him.
My cheeks flush instantly. “What?”
“You were dreaming,” he says, leaning forward slightly, his voice a silky taunt. “Moaning.”
My skin prickles, heat rising from the base of my spine to the tips of my ears. “Batman,” I blurt before I can stop myself.
Nikolai blinks, caught off guard for the first time. “Excuse me?”
“I had a dream about a guy dressed as Batman.” The words tumble out like an avalanche, unstoppable.
For a moment, there’s silence, his expression unreadable. And then he chuckles—a deep, rumbling sound that wraps around me like smoke, suffocating and enticing all at once.
“Batman,” he repeats, his tone dripping with amusement. “Fascinating.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but the words lack conviction.
“Let me guess,” he presses, his voice dropping to a dangerous rasp. “He tied you up. Blindfolded you. Took his time.”
My breath hitches, my body reacting to the suggestion before my brain can scream at it to stop. His eyes glint with something predatory, something knowing.
“Or,” he murmurs, his gaze locking onto mine, “am I projecting?”
The fire crackles, casting shadows across his sharp features, and suddenly, the pieces slide into place. My breath catches as the realization slams into me like a freight train.
Holy shit. Batman .
The man at the party—the one who caught me, who called me goddess , who drank vodka and kissed me like he owned me—it wasn’t a stranger.
It was Nikolai.
My chest tightens, the world tilting beneath me as my mind races to catch up. This is why his touch feels familiar, why his presence feels like a trap I can’t escape. The pieces had been there all along, but now they’re glaringly, unmistakably clear.
“You,” I whisper, the word escaping my lips like a curse.
His smirk falters for the briefest of moments, his pale blue eyes narrowing slightly. He knows exactly what I’m talking about.
“Care to elaborate, goddess?” he asks, his voice calm, but there’s a tension in his tone that wasn’t there before.
I stand abruptly. My heart is pounding, my hands trembling, but I refuse to back down. I step closer, my eyes blazing with fury.
“You were him,” I say, my voice trembling, layered with disbelief and anger, and something far more dangerous. “The man at the party. The one who caught me when I fell.”
The man who made me feel seen, heard, understood. The man who made my pulse race. Who has haunted my dreams.
He doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t even blink. Instead, he rises from the couch with a deliberate calm that feels like a storm brewing on the horizon, his presence filling the room until there is no air left to breathe.
“Sabina,” he says, my name a dark, velvet command that makes my pulse stutter.
My fists clench at my sides, a thousand emotions clawing at my chest. Fury, betrayal, and the faintest whisper of longing. A part of me had already known, of course—some deep, treacherous instinct had recognized the way he called me goddess, the way his touch felt both foreign and familiar. But to have it confirmed, to stand here and face the truth...
“You knew,” I whisper, the accusation trembling on my lips. “You knew who I was, and you didn’t say a word.”
Of course he knew. I wore no mask that night.
“I knew,” he admits, his voice steady, unflinching.
The simple truth of it sends a fresh surge of anger through me, sharp and searing. “You let me—”
“I didn’t let you do anything,” he cuts in, his voice low but firm, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes it hard to think. “I was there, Sabina. Just as I am now. No masks. No lies. Just us.”
“Just us?” I echo, my voice breaking on the words. He is my enemy. My family’s enemy. How could I forget that, even for a moment? “There is no us, Nikolai. There can’t be.”