Chapter Twelve
The space between our lips is barely a breath. A fraction of an inch. A void that would be so easy to bridge.
The heat radiating from her body is a tangible thing, seeping through the silk of her dress and the wool of my suit. Her heart is hammering so hard I can feel the rhythm echoing against my chest.
She wants this. I can feel it in the air between us—a mix of adrenaline and curiosity and that dark, dangerous attraction that’s been simmering since the night I forced that ring onto her finger.
My body screams at me to close the distance. To grab her and crush her mouth under mine and take what she’s offering. It would be so easy, and it would be satisfying.
It would also be a mistake.
Control isn’t just about holding the reins; it’s about knowing when to loosen them. If I kiss her now, I’m reacting. I’m letting the heat of the moment dictate the terms. I’m becoming predictable.
Nikita Gromov is never predictable. So, I stop.
It’s a physical effort, a conscious rejection of instinct. I lock my knees, straighten my spine, and step back.
The movement is abrupt, breaking the magnetic pull that had dragged us together. I don’t just retreat; I disengage.
“Go inside,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend.
The disappointment that flashes across her face is fleeting, but it’s there. She blinks, her pupils dilated, her lips parted and glistening. For a second, she looks adrift, confused by the sudden withdrawal.
Then comes the anger. Frustration flushes her pale skin, her eyes snapping back to mine with renewed heat.
“Nikita—”
“Now,” I command, turning my back on her.
I grip the railing, staring out at the city to keep myself from turning around. The night air hits my face, but it does nothing to cool the fire burning under my skin.
I hear the glass door slide open, then shut. She’s gone.
Standing alone on the balcony, I let out a breath I’ve been holding for too long. My hands are shaking slightly. It takes a rare kind of willpower to walk away from a woman like that, especially when she’s standing in front of you, practically vibrating with need.
The victory is mine.
I didn’t take the bait.
The penthouse is quiet when I finally go inside minutes later. The guests have departed, the staff has retired for the night. Only the low hum of the climate control breaks the silence.
Freya is nowhere to be seen.
I don’t look for her immediately. Instead, I pour a drink—a measure of vodka, neat—and walk to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living area. The city is a sprawling circuit board of lights below, indifferent to the tensions playing out in the glass tower above.
My mind is far from the city, though. It’s back on the balcony. On the moment she looked at my mouth.
Analyzing it is a compulsion. It’s how I operate. I break things down, examine the components, find the weak points.
The weak point in that interaction wasn’t me. It was her.
She didn’t just tolerate the proximity. She leaned into it. When I grabbed her wrists, she didn’t fight to get away; she fought to stay close. That was instinct. Deep, visceral instinct that bypasses logic.
She’s not just playing a role. At least not anymore.
The realization is satisfying, but it also complicates things. If she felt nothing, this would be easy. I could ignore her, use her as a prop, and discard her when the narrative served its purpose.
Freya… she makes me want to engage. She makes me want to push.
I take a sip of the vodka, the liquid burning a path down my throat.
I could accelerate this. I could go to the bedroom right now, strip away that silk dress, and finish what we started on the balcony.
If I take her now, she gets clarity. She knows exactly where she stands. Freya’s the woman I conquered. She might hate it, but she’d understand it. She’d have a category to file it in.
I want her thinking about it tonight. I want her replaying the moment, overanalyzing it like I am. I want her asking herself why she wanted it. Why she was disappointed when it stopped.
Confusion breeds dependency. If she can’t predict me, she has to pay closer attention. She has to study me.
Studying me means she’s not studying the Bratva. She’s focused on the man, not the machine.
Setting the empty glass down, I check the time. Nearly two in the morning.
Time to sleep.
Walking down the hallway toward the master suite, the silence of the penthouse feels heavy. It’s a silence I’m used to, a silence I’ve cultivated for years. Tonight, it feels different. It feels like a prelude to a storm.
Pushing open the bedroom door, the scent hits me instantly: vanilla, jasmine, and the distinct, warm smell of Freya.
The room is dark, lit only by the faint glow of the city filtering through the drapes. She’s in bed, lying on her side, her back to me. Her breathing is rhythmic.
I undress in the dark, my movements practiced and silent. Hanging the suit, folding the shirt, placing my watch in the charger. Routine is the anchor that keeps me grounded.
Sliding under the covers, the bed is still warm from her body heat. I lie on my back, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. My body is tired, but my mind is still racing, replaying the events of the day.
I’m just starting to drift, to let the heavy blanket of sleep pull me under, when the sound tears through the silence.
It’s a whimper.
I freeze.
“No… please…” Freya’s voice is thick with sleep, muffled by the pillow. She shifts restlessly, the sheets rustling as she thrashes against an unseen enemy.
“Don’t go…”
I turn my head to look at her. Her face is twisted in distress, her brow furrowed. There’s sweat beading on her forehead. Her hands are clutching the pillowcase, her knuckles white.
Nightmares?
I should ignore it. Caring about someone else’s trauma is a waste of energy.
The sound of her voice, though, grates against my nerves. It’s too close to the sound of panic, to the sound of a victim who has no one to save them.
I’m the only one here.
Sighing, I roll onto my side and reach out. My hand lands on her shoulder, the skin clammy and cold.
“Freya,” I say, keeping my voice low but firm, “wake up.”
She doesn’t respond. She just gasps, a sharp intake of breath that sounds like she’s drowning.
“Ayaan!”
The name hangs in the air, a knife twisting in the dark.
Her eyes fly open. They’re wide and unseeing, filled with a terror that has nothing to do with me.
I shake her shoulder, a little harder this time. “Freya. You’re dreaming.”
She thrashes, lashing out blindly. Her fingernails scratch against my forearm, sharp and sudden. I ignore the sting, grabbing her wrists and pinning them to the mattress.
“Look at me,” I command.
She freezes, her chest heaving. Slowly, her eyes focus. They find me in the dark, recognition bleeding back into them.
“Nikita?”
“You’re safe,” I say, keeping my voice level. “It was just a dream.”
The realization hits her. The tension drains out of her body, leaving her limp against the mattress. Her eyes fill with tears, swimming in the moonlight.
“I… I was back there,” she whispers. “He was leaving. He was getting in the car, and I couldn’t stop him.”
“Ayaan?”
She nods, a tear spilling over and tracking down her temple. “He promised he’d come back, but he never did.”
I release her wrists, but I don’t pull away. I stay where I am, propped up on one elbow, looking down at her.
She’s a mess. Her hair is wild, her face pale, her breathing ragged. She looks nothing like the polished socialite from the gala or the defiant opponent from the balcony.
She looks like a lost little girl.
Then, she does something that catches me completely off guard. Her hand finds my waist, gripping the fabric of my T-shirt. She pulls herself closer, burying her face in my chest.
“Please,” she sobs, her voice muffled against me. “Please don’t go.”
Her body is shaking against mine, the tremors racking her frame. She’s seeking warmth, seeking anything that feels real in the aftermath of the nightmare.
Against my better judgment, my arm wraps around her. I pull her close, tucking her head under my chin.
“I’m here,” I say, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. “I’m not going anywhere.”
We lie there for a long time. I can feel her tears soaking through the cotton of my shirt. I can feel the rhythm of her heart slowing down, syncing with mine.
The silence of the room shifts, changing from oppressive to something else. Something protective.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers eventually, her voice hoarse.
She starts to pull away, the haze of the nightmare clearing enough for embarrassment to set in. “I didn’t mean to… to grab you. I know you don’t like that.”
I let her go, but only enough to see her face. She’s wiping her eyes, trying to compose herself, trying to rebuild the walls I just saw her tear down.
“It’s fine,” I say.
“It’s not fine,” she argues, a flash of her usual fire returning. “I’m acting like a child. I’m supposed to be… I don’t know. Stronger than this.”
“Everyone has nightmares, Freya.”
“Not like that.” She sits up, hugging her knees to her chest. “It’s always the same. The car door closing. The taillights fading away.”
The confession hangs in the air. She’s volunteering information, unasked.
I roll onto my back, resting my head on my hands. “Ayaan left?”
“He didn’t have a choice.” Her voice is thick with memory. “Our father… he was a mess. He went to jail when I was four. When he got out, he was always drunk. He didn’t care about anyone but himself.”
She pauses, taking a shaky breath.
“My mother tried. She really did, but she got sick. Cancer. It ate her alive in six months. I was ten. Ayaan was sixteen.”
“Sixteen,” I repeat. “That’s young to be a man.”
“He had to be.” She looks down at her hands, twisting the sheets. “He dropped out of school, started working odd jobs. Anything that paid cash. Construction, delivery, sometimes… things he wouldn’t tell me about.”
“The Bratva,” I say quietly.
“Maybe. He never said. He just wanted to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table. He sold his car, his watch, everything he had. But it wasn’t enough.”
She swallows hard, the memories clearly painful.
“She died in the winter. The hospital bills were astronomical. We lost the apartment, and Ayaan tried to fight it, tried to find a way to keep us together, but social services stepped in.”
“They separated you?”
“They tried. They wanted to put me in foster care. Ayaan fought them. He screamed, he threatened, he did everything he could to stop them, so they let me stay with him.”
She looks up at me, her eyes swimming with fresh tears.
“He promised me he’d fix it. He said he was going to get us a house, just the two of us, where nobody could touch us.”
“He went to the loan sharks,” I say.
“He went to the devil,” she sighs. “He came back that night with a wad of cash. He was so happy. He said we could stay together.”
“And then?”
“We were happy for a while, but he vanished two years ago.”
She looks away, staring at the dark window.
“I waited, but he didn’t come back. I went home, but the apartment was empty. I waited for days. Weeks. I told myself he was just working. That he was busy.”
“He wasn’t.”
“No.” She turns back to me, her gaze intense. “He was gone, and I was alone.”
The silence stretches between us.
I understand the debt now. I understand the loyalty. Ayaan wasn’t just a brother. He was a father figure who sold his soul to keep his sister safe.
And it killed him.
“He loved you,” I say, surprising myself with the admission.
“He did,” she whispers. “He was the only person who ever did.”
The vulnerability in her voice is a weapon she doesn’t know she’s using. It strips away the anger, the defiance, leaving behind the wounded girl underneath.
I reach out, my hand finding hers in the dark. I don’t squeeze it, just cover it with my own. “He didn’t die in vain, Freya,” I say softly. “He bought you time.”
“Time to what?” she asks, a bitter edge returning to her voice.
“Time to grow up,” I say. “Time to become strong enough to come looking for him.”
She looks at our joined hands, then up at my face. The accusation is gone, replaced by a wary curiosity.
“Is that what I’m doing?” she asks. “Being strong?”
“You’re here, aren’t you?” I counter. “You’re married to the enemy. That takes a kind of strength most people don’t have.”
“Stupidity, you mean.”
“Survival.”
We fall silent again. The emotional storm has passed, leaving behind a strange, quiet intimacy.
She doesn’t pull her hand away. Neither do I.
“I’m tired,” she admits, her voice heavy with exhaustion.
“Then sleep.”
She shifts, lying back down on the pillow. This time, she doesn’t turn her back to me. She faces me, her eyes closing as the adrenaline fades.
“Nikita?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you.”
Instead of replying, I just watch her in the dark. The tension has left her body. Her breathing is deepening, slowing down as sleep pulls her back under.
This changes things.
Knowing her history changes the game. It explains the determination, the recklessness, the willingness to throw herself into the fire. She has nothing left to lose.
Ayaan isn’t just a missing person to her. He’s the ghost that haunts every waking moment. He’s the reason she became who she is.
Closing my eyes, I let the silence of the room wash over me.