33. NIKOLAI
Chapter thirty-three
T he live camera feed of the guest suite played on the monitor above the one I was using for work. It had been a couple of hours since Lyla had fallen asleep, which had given me an opportunity to focus on syndicate business.
When I caught movement in my peripheral vision, I switched the live feed to the monitor in front of me.
She was stirring from her nap.
I leaned back slightly, watching her.
Lyla sat up, stretching her arms and yawning. She blinked groggily, like her mind hadn’t caught up with her body yet.
There was no panic in her demeanor, which was a good sign. Maybe she was calming her ass down a bit.
She rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand and scanned the room—her expression wary, almost confused.
Then she rose to her feet leisurely.
She moved toward the bathroom and paused, turned back to the dresser, and pulled out some clothes.
I switched off the guest suite’s camera to give her a small bit of privacy.
When the hallway feed blinked on a few minutes later, she looked different—more awake now, clear-eyed and composed.
She’d pulled her hair up into the usual crazy bun on top of her head.
Her face was freshly washed, her skin bare and flushed from scrubbing.
Without makeup, she looked younger—closer to her age.
Wholesome. Pure fucking sunshine. And with nothing to distract from them, her dark blue eyes stood out like a stormy ocean.
The oversized navy sweatshirt she was wearing hung low off one shoulder, exposing the ridge of her collarbone, which I would have liked more than anything to have my lips on at the moment. Gray sweats hugged her hips. Fuzzy pink socks wrapped her feet in warmth.
She looked casual and comfortable, like she always had in her apartment.
Not like earlier, when she’d been fighting like a wildcat—wet, furious, and out of control.
She was a natural beauty.
And I couldn’t look away.
I closed the spreadsheet I was working on and leaned forward, bracing my elbows on the desk and locking my eyes on the screen.
She walked into the wide-open expanse of the penthouse’s main area. The living room and kitchen glowed with soft amber light—pre-programmed for late evening. The fireplace pulsed gently behind its glass. A classical piano piece played from the speakers surrounding the living room.
She paused at the edge of the kitchen, scanning every inch, glancing toward the foyer that led to the private elevator and then across the living room.
She was searching for me.
Her hands remained loose at her sides. There was no tension in her shoulders, no defensiveness in her posture. Just quiet curiosity and maybe a touch of resolve.
And then she turned and headed toward my office.
My hand moved to the keyboard, and I killed the live feed.
By the time the door opened, I was already tapping away on my keyboard, with the spreadsheet on display.
She knocked on the doorframe and stepped inside.
I turned in my chair to catch her scrutinizing the room.
Her brow lifted as she gave me an unimpressed smirk.
“So this is your hacker’s lair…where you’ve been watching me.”
I ran my hand over my chin, studying her for a second. “Something like that,” I said, trying to gauge her mood after everything that had just happened. I was honestly surprised she was talking to me and not coming at me with a kitchen knife.
She stepped further inside. Her gaze drifted across the racks of servers, the wall of monitors, and then back to me.
Her nose wrinkled slightly.
“This room’s nothing like the rest of the place,” she said, coming to stand in front of me. “Everything else feels like…old money with exceptional taste. This?” She scanned the room again. “This feels like the inside of a machine.”
It hadn’t been said as an accusation, more like an observation.
I nodded. “That’s because it is.”
Her gaze landed on me again, and for a second, we remained frozen, facing each other—two people who had been through too much in too little time, pretending like we hadn’t just unraveled each other.
“I’d like to talk,” she said matter-of-factly.
“I’d like that too,” I said cautiously.
She started to pull out the chair beside me, but I quickly stood. This wasn’t the space to relax and try to have an actual conversation.
“How about I fix us a drink and we make ourselves comfortable in the living room?”
She nodded and followed me out of the office without another word.
I went to the kitchen, pulled down a bottle of red wine, and poured her a glass. Then I poured myself another vodka neat.
We moved to the L-shaped white leather sectional in the living room.
I took the corner closest to the fireplace and sat forward, planting my feet and bracing my forearms on my thighs.
I tapped my fingertips together, like I needed something to distract myself from the apprehension crawling under my skin.
Lyla curled up on the other side of the sofa, tucking her feet beneath her and looping one arm loosely on the back. Her other hand toyed with the corner of a throw pillow, twisting it absent-mindedly as she took a sip of her wine.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” she said, “but I keep getting sidetracked from it.” Her eyes finally met mine.
I waited.
“I still don’t know your name.”
I was surprised at how…soft her voice was.
Calm. Not defensive. Just…curious.
She lifted her brows. “I mean, shouldn’t a girl know the name of the man who saved her life, kidnapped her, and”—she paused, clearing her throat—“took her virginity?”
A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of my mouth before I could stop it.
“Most people call me Nik.”
Her nose wrinkled slightly. “Nik? That’s it? All this time, I was imagining something impossibly Russian. Like…” She squinted. “Vladyslav…or, I don’t know, Igor Petrovich Skullcrusher.”
“Vlah-dee-slahv,” I corrected, still smirking. “But I like the Skullcrusher part.”
She sat up straighter. “ Vlad-ee-slave? ” She butchered it again, especially the third syllable.
I chuckled low in my throat. “Good enough for a country girl.”
She grinned.
“It’s disappointing, in fact,” she said, swirling the wine in her glass. “Nik sounds so…American. I mean, the stalker-hacker-bratva-overlord guy has a name that sounds like he should be driving a Jeep and grilling steaks on Sundays.”
I laughed—actually laughed.
It was strange. Sitting here, watching her make jokes with her knees tucked under her, like the last twenty-four hours had never happened.
But it had .
And yet…here she was asking questions. Wanting to know who I really was.
She leaned back and regarded me seriously.
“So…about earlier.”
I didn’t say a word, allowing her to steer the conversation.
She let out a quiet exhale, then lifted her eyebrows as though she were forcing herself to push through the next part.
“I went a little…stark raving mad, didn’t I?”
The corner of my mouth rose slightly.
“You could say that.”
She let out a small, embarrassed laugh and looked down into her wine. “Yeah, well, that’s not me. I’m not like that. Screaming. Throwing stuff. Acting like a lunatic.” She sighed. “That’s not who I am.”
I stayed silent, letting her go on.
“I’m sorry,” she added, more softly this time, “for putting you in such an awkward position. I—” She glanced back up at me, a little more guarded now. “I was dealing with a lot. Still am.”
I glanced down at my fingers but didn’t speak. This wasn’t a moment to interrupt.
She sat forward slightly, drawing the throw pillow into her lap.
“I’ve been through a hell of a lot in the past few days. Almost died—twice. Saw people gunned down. Got sold to a sex trafficker. Lost my understudy role…my first real shot. Lost my friends. Lost…” Her throat bobbed. “Everything.”
Fuck! I wanted to scoop her up and hold her in my arms, but she wasn’t ready for the physical contact. I’d shattered the fragile bit of trust she’d had in me, and I needed to give her space to process what she was feeling.
She pressed her lips together, then huffed out a small laugh—half humor, half grief. “And then, instead of keeping myself together like a functioning adult, I basically assaulted the one person who’s actually been protecting me.”
“You didn’t assault me.” My voice came out raspy.
She gave me a sidelong look. “You know what I mean.”
I did. But I wasn’t about to let her think she owed me any guilt.
Then she leaned in, and her expression shifted—just a degree. Her eyes locked onto mine with new intensity.
“Here’s the thing,” she said. “I’ve always told myself I’d wait for the right man. Someone who deserved me. Someone kind. Strong—emotionally strong. Someone who could…build a relationship with me that would last forever.”
She brought the glass to her lips and downed half of it in one smooth pull.
“I imagined someone fun,” she continued. “Someone who’d challenge me. Excite me. A man who could make me laugh in the daylight…and wreck me in the dark.”
The wine sloshed as she set the glass aside on the end table.
“And of course…I imagined a man who knew what the hell he was doing in bed. A man who wouldn’t be afraid of intensity. Who I would want to explore everything with. Even the things that scare people…you know, the things you have to trust someone to try.”
Her tone had shifted—so subtly most men wouldn’t have caught it. But I did. She wanted something.
Then it hit me; she was using reverse psychology. She’d quickly figured out that coming at me with fire only riled me up, made me push back. This girl was a smart little minx.
She was baiting me, and I was intrigued to see where this would go.
“And trust?” she said. “Yeah…that kind of trust is not easy to find.”
She raised an eyebrow.