Chapter Eleven
The heavy mahogany door of his office clicks shut, and I stand there for a long moment, pressing my back against the cool wood. My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs, betraying the calm I’m trying to project.
Silence was his only weapon. He didn’t yell or threaten, didn’t even get angry. That’s what unsettles me the most.
Replaying the interaction, I see his fingers lifting my chin, feel the controlled precision of his movements.
A normal person would have snapped back when I challenged his authority.
Nikita just observed. He let me rail, and then he stepped into my space to touch my face like he owned the air I breathe.
“Try it your way. See how far you get.”
The words are a taunt but also a dare. He’s not afraid of my rebellion. Instead, he anticipates it, treating my resistance like a variable in a risk assessment rather than a personal insult.
That level of control is absolute. Suffocating and infinitely harder to fight than brute force ever could be.
Pushing off the door, I start walking toward the main living area, forcing my breathing to steady. I need to get a grip. Remembering why I’m here is crucial.
Ayaan.
I’m not here to decode Nikita Gromov’s psychological profile or analyze the way his thumb brushed my jawline. The way his scent—leather and whiskey—lingered on my skin long after he let go is a distraction.
Finding my brother is the only goal that matters.
***
Sunset paints the penthouse in hues of bruised purple and gold. By nightfall, the space has transformed. Servants have cleared away the evidence of our morning standoff, replacing it with the polished veneer of a Bratva social function.
This isn’t the gala. It’s smaller and more intimate, but the weight in the room feels heavier. These aren’t investors or socialites. They are the lieutenants, the capos, the inner circle. Men whose hands are just as dirty as Nikita’s, maybe dirtier.
Moving through the room, I hold a glass of champagne I have no intention of drinking. My dress is black silk, simple and severe, chosen because it makes me feel armored. Looking approachable is not on my agenda tonight.
Nikita stands at the center of it all, near the fireplace with a tumbler of whiskey in hand.
He listens to a stocky man with a thick neck recount a story, nodding at the appropriate moments.
Relaxation defines his posture. He listens more than he speaks, a stark contrast to the aggressive posturing of the men around him.
Frustration bubbles up.
This isn’t the monster I’ve been hunting. A ruthless butcher who ordered hits doesn’t look like a statesman. A leader who negotiates with a calm word doesn’t match the villain in my mind.
“You’re staring.”
I jump slightly, turning to find a tall woman with sharp cheekbones and ice-blue eyes standing next to me. A cigarette holder rests in her hand like a weapon.
“I’m observing,” I correct.
“Same thing.” She takes a drag, exhaling a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. “He’s different, isn’t he? Than the stories.”
I hesitate, then nod. “He’s… calm.”
“He has to be.” Gesturing toward the crowd with her cigarette, she explains. “Look at them. They’re animals. Sharks. If Nikita showed a crack, showed a weakness, they’d tear him apart in seconds. He stays in control because he has to. It’s the only thing keeping the leash on.”
“He doesn’t look like he needs a leash.”
“He is the leash, darling.” She smiles, a cold, knowing curve of her lips. “And trust me, you don’t want to see what happens when he lets go.”
She wanders away, leaving me with the unsettled feeling that I’ve been missing something crucial. Painting Nikita as the villain has been easy. Watching him now, seeing the way the heavy-set man laughs at a dry comment Nikita makes, the truth appears more complex.
He’s not just a villain. He’s a kingpin, and kings don’t rule by fear alone. Presence is their weapon.
***
The hour grows late. The crowd thins as guests drift toward the bar or the terrace doors. Thick cigar smoke and expensive perfume fill the air inside.
Drifting toward the balcony doors, I need a reprieve from the suffocating politics of the room. Night air bites against my bare skin as I step out, wrapping my arms around myself.
Below, the city is a sea of lights, indifferent to the games we play.
I expected peace. The soft slide of the glass door behind me proves otherwise. I don’t turn around. His identity is obvious.
“You shouldn’t be out here without an escort,” Nikita says, his voice low, blending with the hum of the traffic below.
“I’m not a prisoner, Nikita. Stepping onto my own balcony is allowed.”
“It’s not your balcony. It’s mine.”
Turning to face him, exasperation takes over. “Is that really how you want to play this, property lines?”
He walks over to the railing, standing a few feet away. His tie is loosened, the top button of his shirt undone. Fatigue lines his eyes in the shadows.
“You did well tonight,” he says, looking out at the city.
“Did I?”
“Petrov asked about you. Said you seemed… sensible.”
“I’ll try not to let the compliment go to my head.”
“He also noticed you spent most of the evening glaring at me.”
“I wasn’t glaring.”
“No? Assessing, then.”
Sighing, I turn back to the view. “Can you blame me? Everyone in there looks at you like you’re a god. I’m just trying to figure out if the worship is warranted or mandatory.”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters to me.”
“Why?”
Looking at him, really seeing him, the moonlight catches the sharp angle of his jaw, the streak of steel in his dark hair.
“I need to know who I’m married to,” I say quietly.
He turns to me then, his gaze narrowing. “You know who I am.”
“I know what you do. The reputation is clear, but I don’t know you.”
“Knowing me isn’t part of the deal, Freya.”
“No,” I agree. “Knowing what happened to my brother is.”
The air shifts instantly. Casual banter evaporates, replaced by a sharp edge as Nikita narrows his eyes at me.
“We’re not doing this tonight,” he says, his voice dropping an octave.
“We’re doing it whenever I decide to do it,” I counter, stepping closer.
Provoking him here, now, feels reckless. Maybe I’m just tired of holding it in. Or maybe I’m tired of the mask.
“You have his ring,” I say, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. “You know Ayaan was involved with you. Stop pretending you don’t.”
“I don’t pretend anything.”
“You lie by omission. You deflect, when all I want is the truth.”
“What if the truth isn’t what you expect?” he shoots back, finally losing that veneer of calm. His eyes flash, cold and dangerous. “What if Ayaan wasn’t the victim you’ve made him out to be? What if he was just another casualty of his own stupidity?”
“Shut up.”
“He borrowed money he couldn’t pay back,” Nikita presses, stepping closer now. “He made deals with people who don’t offer extensions. He played in the big leagues, and he got crushed.”
“Don’t talk about him like that!” I shove his chest, a reckless, stupid move.
He doesn’t budge. A wall of solid muscle, immovable.
“He was my brother,” I spit out, shoving him again. “He was better than you. Better than this.”
“Was he?” Nikita catches my wrists this time, his grip firm but not bruising. “From what I know, he was a drowning man pulling everyone down with him.”
The shock of his touch knocks the air out of my lungs. We’re chest to chest now, the heat of him radiating through the silk of my dress.
“Let go of me.”
“Make me.”
The challenge hangs there, heavy and suffocating. We’ve gone from zero to a hundred in seconds, the argument spiraling out of control. The anger is changing. It’s mutating into something else, something hot and volatile that I don’t know how to name.
I try to pull away, but he holds fast. His eyes bore into mine, searching, probing. I see something there I haven’t seen before—frustration, yes. But also heat.
“Stop fighting me, Freya,” he murmurs, the fight draining out of his voice as quickly as it arrived.
“Stop lying to me.”
“I never lie.”
“Lies of omission are still lies.”
He exhales sharply, his breath fanning across my face. He smells of leather, mint, and bitter whiskey.
The space between us has vanished. I don’t remember closing the distance. I just know that I’m pressed against him, my wrists trapped in his hands, my body aligned with his.
My breathing is ragged. So is his.
I should be doing anything other than what I am doing, which is looking at his mouth.
It’s a subconscious betrayal. My eyes dip, tracing the curve of his lower lip, the sharp line of his jaw. I see the tension there, the restraint.
He notices. His gaze drops to my lips slowly. The air between us crackles.
Time stops. For a second, it’s going to happen. He’s going to kiss me, and I’m going to let him.
The realization hits me like a physical blow. I want him to. I want to see what happens when the control breaks. I want to taste the danger.
He leans in, just a fraction of an inch.
My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat. My lips part. And then… nothing.
He stops.
The tension snaps, recoiling like a rubber band pulled too tight. He releases my wrists as if they burn him and steps back, putting a deliberate distance between us.
I stand there, swaying slightly, my hands grasping at empty air.
“Go inside,” he says, his voice rough, almost unrecognizable.
“Nikita—”
“Now.”
He turns away, gripping the railing so hard his knuckles turn white. His back is to me, a wall of rejection.
I watch him for a moment, confusion and relief warring in my chest. Then I turn and walk back into the penthouse, the glass door sliding shut behind me.
I don’t look back, but as I walk toward the bedroom, my fingers trace my lips, wishing he’d just leaned forwards and kissed me.