Chapter Nine
Sunlight spills across the silk sheets, mocking me with its brightness. I haven’t slept, not really. I drifted in and out of a light, restless doze, waking every time the mattress shifted or the air-conditioning clicked on.
The first thing I notice is the cold space beside me. Nikita is gone.
The sheets are already cool, his pillow indented but empty. Irritation flares, hot and sharp. It shouldn’t bother me. I should be relieved that I woke up alone, that he didn’t try to assert his marital rights while I was unconscious. Instead, I feel… dismissed.
He left without a word. Without a goodbye. Just like I was an object he’d used and then set back on the shelf.
Throwing the covers off, I climb out of bed. The floor is cool against my bare feet as I pad to the window. The city stretches out below me, a grid of steel and glass. From up here, it looks orderly. Controlled.
Just like him.
Turning away, I catch sight of myself in the full-length mirror on the closet door. I look pale, my eyes slightly shadowed, my blonde hair a tangled mess. I look like a captive, not a wife.
I refuse to be a captive.
I came here for a reason. It wasn’t to play house, and it wasn’t to learn how to be the perfect Bratva wife. I came to find Ayaan.
Striding into the closet, I grab leggings and a simple tunic, pulling them on with aggressive jerks. I don’t bother with makeup. I don’t need to impress the cameras today. I need to work.
Walking out of the bedroom, the penthouse reveals itself in the morning light. It’s massive, sprawling, and eerily quiet. Expensive art hangs on the walls—abstract pieces that look like violence frozen in paint. The furniture is sleek, modern, and uncomfortable.
I start my search.
I’m not looking for diamonds or cash. I’m looking for paper. Files, anything that links Nikita to my brother.
I move through the living area, opening drawers in the sideboards. There’s nothing but coasters and meticulous remote controls. I check the bookshelves in the study—spines of books in Russian, English, and French, but none of them look like they’ve been opened in years. Dust lines the top edges.
It’s all a facade. A set.
My frustration mounts as I move deeper into the apartment. The place is sterile. It’s like a hotel room that no one actually lives in. Where does he keep the important things? Where does he hide the bodies?
At the end of the main hallway, I find a door that looks different from the others. The wood is darker, the handle reinforced. There’s no keypad, no biometric scanner, just a heavy physical lock.
His office.
I try the handle. It’s locked. Of course.
Jiggling it does nothing. It’s solid, immovable. Stepping back, I glare at it, wishing I had a bobby pin or a crowbar.
Then, I look up.
A small black dome is mounted in the corner of the ceiling, right above the door. A camera.
I freeze. My heart skips a beat, then settles into a faster rhythm. He’s watching. Or someone is. He probably has an entire security team monitoring his fortress, making sure the little wifey doesn’t blow the place up.
Instead of ducking or hiding, I stand my ground. I lift my head and look straight into the lens.
I roll my eyes.
I make sure the gesture is obvious, exaggerated. Then, I turn on my heel and walk away, flipping my hair over my shoulder. Let him watch. Let him see that I’m not scared of his cameras. I’m not some timid mouse he can trap.
The penthouse feels larger when I’m alone. My footsteps echo on the marble floors as I make my way to the kitchen. I need coffee. I need caffeine to fuel the hunt.
The kitchen is a chef’s dream—stainless steel, double ovens, an island that could seat ten. And it smells amazing. Bacon, coffee, something yeasty and sweet.
“Mrs. Gromov?”
The voice is soft, heavily accented. I jump slightly, spinning around.
An older woman stands by the stove. She’s compact, with silver hair pulled back in a severe bun and an apron tied over a simple black dress. Her face is a map of wrinkles, but her eyes are sharp and clear.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” I say, trying to regain my composure.
“I move quietly,” she says, offering me a small, polite smile. “I’m Anna. I take care of the house.”
“Freya,” I correct. “Please, just call me Freya.”
“Mrs. Gromov,” she repeats firmly. “Is tradition.”
“Right. Tradition.”
I walk over to the island, needing something to do with my hands. “You don’t have to cook for me. I can get my own breakfast.”
“Nonsense.” She turns back to the stove, flipping a pancake with a practiced flick of her wrist. “You are the wife of the master. You shouldn’t be cooking.”
“The master?” I scoff, pulling a stool out and sitting down. “He has a name.”
“Of course. In this house, there is order. Hierarchy.” She brings a plate of pancakes and bacon over to me, setting it down with a clink. “Eat.”
I stare at the food. It looks delicious, but my stomach is in knots. “Anna, can I ask you something?”
She wipes her hands on her apron, looking at me expectantly.
“How long have you worked for Nikita?”
“Twenty years,” she says without hesitation. “Since he was a boy.”
Twenty years. She knows the real him, not the mask he puts on for the public.
“He seems…” I struggle for the right word. “Intense.”
“He is focused,” she corrects, her tone defensive but gentle. “He is a man who carries heavy things.”
“He carries a lot of blood,” I say, unable to help myself. “I know what he does.”
Anna sighs, a sound of long-suffering patience. She pours herself a cup of tea and leans against the counter.
“People say many things about Mr. Nikita,” she says slowly. “They say he is a monster. They say he is ice, but I have seen him take care of things. His people. His family. He is not cruel, Mrs. Gromov. He is… necessary.”
“Necessary?” I repeat, skepticism dripping from my voice.
“There is chaos in the world,” she says, waving a hand vaguely. “Bad men who would hurt the innocent. Mr. Nikita stops them. He creates structure and safety.”
“Safety through fear,” I counter.
“Safety through strength,” she counters back.
She looks at me, her eyes softening. “He is a good man, Freya. He has a hard shell, but inside… there is heart.”
I look away, stabbing a pancake with my fork. I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to humanize him. I want him to be the villain. It makes things easier.
“I need to find out about my brother,” I say quietly.
Anna’s expression doesn’t change, but the air in the room cools. “I do not ask about business.”
“I know. If you hear anything… if you know anything…”
“I will be silent,” she says firmly. “As you should be. Questions are dangerous.” Straightening up, she claps her hands together, dismissing the heavy topic.
“Anyway,” she says, her bright voice returning.
“There is a tradition. On the first morning after the wedding, the wife prepares a meal for the husband. It is a symbol of care. Of nurturing.”
I stare at her. “You want me to cook for him?”
“It is expected,” she says, her eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. “Do not worry. I have laid everything out. It is simple.”
She gestures to a cutting board on the counter. Ingredients are already arranged—eggs, herbs, a loaf of bread.
I look at the ingredients. Then I look at her.
“You’re serious,” I say.
“Always.”
A slow smile spreads across my face. If tradition is what he wants, tradition is what he’ll get.
“Fine,” I say, standing up and walking over to the counter. “I’ll make breakfast.”
Anna nods, satisfied. “I will go to the market. Call me if you need assistance.”
She bustles out of the room, leaving me alone with the ingredients and a sudden, vicious spark of inspiration.
I turn to the cutting board. I’m not a chef, but I know how to follow a recipe. And I know how to modify one.
I crack the eggs into a bowl. I reach for the salt shaker, and I dump in a massive amount.
Then I watch the white crystals dissolve into the yolks. I mix it all together, the concoction turning into a lumpy, aggressively orange mess.
Next, the toast. I pop the bread into the toaster, but I don’t stop there. I find a jar of bitter marmalade—something that looks like it’s been aging since the Soviet Union—and slather it on thick.
The coffee. I find the beans and grind them into a fine dust. Then, I mix them with instant decaf. The worst of both worlds.
I arrange it all on a tray. It looks… acceptable. The eggs are scrambled, the toast is browned, the coffee is steaming. It looks like a lovingly prepared meal for a new husband.
I set the table, placing the tray at his seat. I pour the coffee, the steam rising in a fragrant, bitter cloud.
Then I wait.
It doesn’t take long. The front door opens, the heavy thud echoing through the penthouse. Footsteps approach, confident and rhythmic.
Nikita walks into the kitchen.
He looks fresh, wide awake. He’s wearing a suit, dark gray with a faint pinstripe, tailored perfectly to his lean frame. He’s checking his phone, his attention divided.
He looks up, and his eyes land on me.
Then on the table.
He pauses. His gaze lingers on the tray, on the effort I’ve put into the presentation. For a second, I think he sees through it. I think he’s going to laugh at me or demand I make something else.
“Good morning,” he says instead, his voice smooth. “You’re up early.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” I reply, leaning back against the counter and crossing my arms. “I made breakfast.”
Walking over to the table, he inspects the tray. He takes in the eggs, the toast, the coffee. “Thank you,” he says.
“I’m not the best cook,” I say, keeping my voice light, casual. “I thought you wouldn’t like it.”
He pulls out his chair and sits down. Unfolding the napkin, he places it across his lap.
“Sit,” he commands, not looking at me.
“I’m not hungry, I already ate.”
“Sit.”
I pull out the chair opposite him and sink into it. My heart is hammering against my ribs. Is he really going to eat it? Is his ego so massive that he can’t admit his wife tried to poison him?
He picks up his fork.
I watch, mesmerized, as he scoops up a mound of the salt-laden eggs. He lifts the fork to his mouth.
I hold my breath.
He takes a bite.
He pauses for a fraction of a second. His jaw tightens, just a twitch. Then he reaches for his coffee cup.
He takes a sip of the bitter, foul sludge. He doesn’t spit it out. He just swallows, his throat bobbing. He continues eating. It’s the most infuriating thing I’ve ever seen.
“You’re eating it,” I blurt out, unable to stop myself.
He looks up at me, his fork paused halfway to his mouth. His expression is faintly amused, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
“Of course I am.”
“Why?” I demand. “It’s… it’s terrible. I know it is.”
He sets the fork down and dabs his mouth with the napkin. “It’s not about the taste, Freya,” he says, his voice low and resonant.
“Then what is it about?”
“It’s about the gesture.”
He stands up. The sudden movement makes me flinch, but he ignores it. He walks around the table, his footsteps silent on the marble.
He comes to a stop right behind my chair.
I have to crane my neck to look up at him. He looms over me, a wall of expensive wool and restrained power.
“You made this,” he says, placing his hands on the back of my chair, caging me in. “For me.”
“I was trying to be nice,” I say, my voice trembling slightly.
“Were you?” He leans down, bringing his face level with mine.
His breath fans against my neck, warm and coffee-scented. It sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with fear.
“You tried to punish me,” he murmurs, his lips inches from my ear. “You tried to make a point.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie, my breath hitching as his cologne fills my senses.
“Yes, you do.” He reaches out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair away from my face. The touch is light, barely there, but it burns.
“You made this meal,” he whispers. “My wife made it.”
The words hang in the air between us. He lingers there for a moment, just long enough to make me aware of his body heat, of the strength in his hands, of the way his eyes darken as he looks at my mouth.
Then, he pulls away. He straightens up, adjusting his cuffs, and steps back. The spell breaks.
“Eat,” he says, turning toward the door. “You’ll need your strength.”
“I’m not eating that,” I call after him.
He pauses at the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder. “Then make something else,” he says. “Next time… remember who you’re cooking for.”
He walks out, leaving me sitting there with a tray of poisoned eggs and a heart that won’t stop racing.
I reach out and touch the back of my neck, where his breath still seems to linger against my skin.
I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to disgust him.
Instead, I think I just made him want me more.