7. NIKOLAI #2
“You’re lucky he didn’t grab you…or worse,” Nat said. “That guy could’ve been a serial killer. One of those sickos who stalks women for the thrill of it. You can’t be out there walking everywhere all alone.”
At least her roommate had a little common sense.
Lyla scoffed. “Well, I’m not gonna lie—I was freaked out. But I’m not calling the cops. What would I even say? Some hot guy with a hit-man vibe chased me through Hell’s Kitchen but didn’t lay hands on me? They’d laugh and hang up.”
Nat groaned. “This isn’t funny, Lyla.”
“No, it’s weird ,” Lyla said. “He seemed rich. Powerful. I mean, Carmine looked like he was about to shit himself after I went off on the guy. So maybe he’s well-connected. Russian mafia? Oligarch? Whatever.”
“Lyla…” Nat didn’t smile. “You could be closer than you think to the truth. This city’s crawling with mafia and gang types. That guy sounds like the real deal.”
“Okay, calm down with the Sopranos mania,” Lyla teased.
“He’s young—thirty, maybe. He’s probably just a spoiled, rich asshole with some mafia-daddy complex and a life full of bespoke suits and expensive shoes, too overindulged to actually be dangerous.
The man probably exfoliates with gold dust and throws a tantrum if his driver’s late. ”
Nat crossed her arms. “Or he’s a stone-cold killer who wears dark suits so the blood doesn’t show.”
“He looked too soft to throw a real punch.” Lyla rolled her eyes. “I bet he thinks those stupid pale aqua eyes of his can get him anything. Too much of a pretty boy to ever get his hands dirty. That guy’s never done a day of hard work in his life.”
I growled under my breath.
She turned her head toward the window.
I ducked behind the frame.
“You okay?” Nat asked.
Lyla hesitated. “Yeah. Just thought I heard something.”
I waited a few seconds and peeked in through the corner, rage and heat twisting low in my gut.
She thought I was soft .
Thought I didn’t get my hands dirty.
She had no idea what these hands could do to her. How I could bend her, break her, and rebuild her to suit me.
The intercom buzzed, a sharp static pop that echoed off the apartment walls.
Nat glanced up from her phone and bounded toward the front door. “That’s my food!”
She pressed the button and spoke into the receiver. “Yeah?”
“DoorDash for Nat,” came the muffled reply.
She buzzed him in, then turned to Lyla. “Be right back.”
A few minutes later, she returned with a brown paper bag folded tightly at the top. “God bless the dude who brought me dinner in under twenty minutes.”
While Nat grabbed chopsticks from the drawer, Lyla wiped down the tiny kitchen counter with a damp cloth and washed her bowl.
Nat peeled the lid off her chicken tikka and took one whiff before shoveling a bite into her mouth and groaning like she was halfway to orgasm. “God, that’s good. You sure you don’t want a bite?”
Lyla, who was now drying and putting away her bowl, shook her head. “I’m fine.”
But she wasn’t. She suddenly looked exhausted. A pang of guilt hit me—she was probably crashing after the adrenaline rush I’d given her.
Nat jabbed a piece of chicken with her fork and grinned. “You know, I was thinking…I wouldn’t totally mind being kept by some rich, brooding mafia prince. I mean, just imagine the perks—helicopters, diamonds, a driver who calls me ma’am.”
Lyla shook her head and hung the dish towel over the oven handle. “Please. I’d rather starve. I don’t want to be anyone’s pet. The idea of being some guy’s property makes me want to throw up.”
Nat snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Unless it’s in the bedroom. Don’t think I haven’t noticed those books you read. Girl, you are so about those Mr. Morally Gray types.”
Lyla turned crimson. Her whole posture changed—chin lifted, mouth tight—like she was ready to deny everything, but her face betrayed her.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she mumbled, trying to back out of the kitchen.
Nat lunged for her backpack.
“Oh my God, no !” Lyla shrieked, laughing as she tried to grab it back.
Too late. Nat had the bag in hand, and the book was already out.
Lyla tackled her with just enough force to yank it away, then shoved the book under her arm like contraband. “You’re such a menace.”
Nat cackled. “So it is smut. Just admit it! You love it when the villain gets the girl.”
“Shut up.” Lyla groaned, her face still flaming.
I lit another cigarette and turned slightly, blowing the smoke out over the alley, away from the window.
I was intrigued by the way Lyla’s body moved when she got flustered; it was different than when she was working at Cipher.
There was something sweet about how she fought back against Nat, something dangerous in how badly I wanted to tangle with her.
Lyla yawned mid-laugh, rubbing her eyes. Nat crossed her arms.
“Did you sleep at all last night?”
“Forty-five-minute nap,” Lyla muttered, drinking the last of her water and setting the glass in the sink. “Which is better than nothing, I guess.”
Nat’s brow furrowed. “You’ve gotta stop this schedule. Club until two, Cipher at four-thirty? That’s insane. Even if you have the afternoon off, who the hell can sleep in the middle of the day?”
“I’ll adjust,” Lyla said, clearly lying to herself.
“You’re gonna run yourself into the ground. And how are you supposed to memorize lines when you’re dead tired? You’re still trying out for stuff, right?”
Lyla sighed and nodded. “Yeah, but I don’t have any auditions today. I’m going to try to nap before I have to leave tonight.”
Nat paused with her fork in midair. “Ugh. Halloween. That’s gonna be a nightmare at the club.”
“Don’t remind me.” Lyla groaned. “Three sets instead of two. No extra pay. Just, Oh, there’ll be more tips —like that makes up for it. And I have to wear one of those masks that messes with my peripheral vision. Total pain in the ass when you’re spinning ten feet off the ground.”
Masks. Tips. Spinning in the air.
I’d been holding out hope she wasn’t a stripper. That she was a bartender, doing bookkeeping, or something.
But there it was.
She was a performer.
My shoulders locked, my hand flexing tight around the railing.
Nat put down her fork. “I’ve heard bad things about that place and the girls who strip there.”
Lyla shrugged. “I don’t really strip, Nat. I do an aerial pole routine. I don’t wear much, but I do keep my clothes on. And as long as I keep the clientele panting and reaching for their wallets, I’m good. All the boss cares about is money.”
A few seconds passed in silence.
Then Lyla smiled. “Besides, you’re not one who can talk. You get groped almost every night you work. You know we do these kinds of jobs so we can afford to live in this luxury apartment. It is what it is.”
“I hear you,” Nat muttered, picking up another forkful of chicken.
My whole body snapped to attention as Lyla turned and walked out of the kitchen. I gave her a few seconds—just long enough to disappear around a corner—and then moved.
I kept low as I crossed the fire escape. There was only one window at the far end of the unit, and it was half-covered by crooked blinds. It could belong to any of the roommates.
But it was the only shot I had.
I crept to the edge and stopped short, crouching just outside the frame.
Lyla walked in and flicked on a small lamp sitting on a nightstand.
A soft amber glow spilled across the narrow bed that was pressed up against the wall beneath the window. At the foot of the bed, a heap of books lay scattered on the floor.
I exhaled slowly. I’d gotten lucky; it was her bedroom, and she still had no idea I was watching her.
Lyla crossed to a tiny dresser, toed off her sneakers, and tugged open the top drawer. She grabbed a huge T-shirt and tossed it onto the bed. Then she turned to face the window and hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her jeans, shoving them down in one clean motion before stepping out of them.
My eyes locked onto her hands as she crossed her arms, gripped the hem of her pink sweater, pulled it over her head, and tossed it onto the dresser.
No bra. No fucking bra under that top. How the hell had I missed that detail?
I froze, every part of me locking up tight.
She stood before me in a pair of pale pink underwear that clung snugly to her hips. That perfect dancer’s body—compact, muscular—was fucking exquisite. My hand gripped the metal railing so hard it creaked.
My eyes raked over her body—which was now concealed by nothing more than those panties—as she arched slightly and reached a hand up to her bun.
She pulled the tie from her hair.
Blonde waves spilled over her shoulders and down her back like a damn perfume commercial. My cock jerked. I imagined wrapping that hair around my fist and guiding her mouth until she knew what the word obedience really meant.
I’d never wanted to be a man with no conscience more than I did in this moment.
She grabbed the tee from the bed and yanked it over her head, remaining oblivious to the fact that a man was crouched outside her damn window, a man who was watching her like he’d never seen a woman before.
Her body was stunning, but what hit me even harder was how thin she was. Her ribs protruded just a bit too sharply, and there was a faint concave dip beneath her sternum. That wasn’t due to discipline or vanity. That was from skipping meals to make a few dollars stretch.
And it pissed me off.
The girl was working herself into the ground. But she wasn’t asking for help or using the money from her parents’ estate. She was surviving in Manhattan solely on what she earned at the coffee shop and strip club.
The Sacrifice wasn’t just sketchy, it was a fucking death trap. According to Nat, she walked home alone every night. And she didn’t lock the windows I’d been staring through either. Her apartment was open season for anyone with bad intentions and a little creativity.