Chapter Twenty
The penthouse is a cage of glass and steel, and she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen inside it.
Freya moves through the living area, a glass of juice in her hand, the morning light catching the loose strands of hair around her face. She brushes them back, a simple, unconscious gesture, and my body responds with a primal, gut-deep ache.
I watch her from the shadows of the hallway, a predator observing its prey. She’s still playing her game, still digging for answers, still looking at me with a mixture of hatred and desire. But the fire between us is real. It’s a living, breathing thing, and it’s consuming us both.
I remind myself of the rules. Control is everything. Distraction is a liability.
She’s more than a distraction now. She’s an obsession.
I move into the room, my footsteps silent on the marble. She doesn’t hear me approach. She’s staring out the window, lost in thought.
I stop behind her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her body. “You’re thinking about him again,” I say, my voice low.
She jumps, turning to face me. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Sneak up on me.”
“I don’t sneak. I observe.”
I reach out, my fingers lightly grazing her shoulder as I point to a ship passing in the distance. “See that? Cargo tanker from Hamburg. It’s carrying electronics. High-value, low-profile.”
My touch lingers, a deliberate, teasing pressure. I feel her shiver, a subtle tremor that runs through her entire body.
“It’s just a boat, Nikita.”
“Everything is more than it seems, Freya.”
She pulls away, a flicker of defiance in her eyes. “Is that what you tell yourself?”
“It’s what I know.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, a low, insistent hum. I pull it out, glancing at the screen. A blocked number.
“Excuse me,” I say, turning away from her. “I have to take this.”
I walk into my office, closing the door behind me. The room is soundproof, a fortress within a fortress.
I answer the call. “What did you get?”
The voice on the other end is distorted, electronic. “Pavel Zhivago. He’s a mole.”
The line goes dead.
I stand there for a moment, the words echoing in the silence. Pavel. My lieutenant. My most trusted man. The man I trained, the man I mentored.
He’s a traitor.
I feel a cold rage settle in my chest, a familiar, welcome feeling. It sharpens my senses, clears my mind.
I start planning contingencies. I need to make an example of him.
First, I need to protect her.
Freya’s safety is now intertwined with my own. If Pavel is working with Lorenzo, then she’s a target. A loose end. A liability.
I can’t let that happen.
I walk back into the living room. She’s still by the window, but she’s watching me now, her expression wary.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
“Everything’s fine,” I say, my voice smooth. “Just business.”
I can see she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t push.
“We’re going out tonight,” I say, changing the subject.
“Where?”
“A club.”
“I don’t want to go to a club.”
“It’s not a request.”
She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it. She knows it’s pointless.
“Fine,” she says. “I’m not wearing a dress.”
“Wear whatever you want,” I say, my eyes lingering on her. “Just make sure you can run in it.”
***
The club is a labyrinth of shadows and light, the air thick with the smell of expensive perfume and stale cigarette smoke. I lead Freya through the crowd, my hand on the small of her back, a constant, possessive pressure.
She’s wearing black jean shorts and a leather jacket, her hair pulled back in a severe knot. She looks like a warrior, and I feel a surge of pride.
We find a table in the back, secluded, with a clear view of the room.
“Stay here,” I say, my voice low. “Don’t move. Don’t talk to anyone.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to take out the trash.”
I walk away, leaving her alone in the darkness. I can feel her eyes on me, a weight I’ve grown accustomed to.
I find Pavel in the VIP lounge, surrounded by a gaggle of beautiful women. He’s laughing, a drink in his hand, the picture of a man without a care in the world.
He sees me coming, and his smile falters. “Nikita,” he says, his voice tight. “What a surprise.”
“Is it?” I ask, my voice dangerously calm. “I thought you’d be expecting me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?”
I signal to my men. They move in, flanking him, cutting off his escape.
“What’s this?” he asks, his voice rising in panic. “This is a mistake.”
“The only mistake was yours,” I say.
I grab him by the arm, dragging him out of the lounge and into the back alley. The air is cold and damp, smelling of garbage and despair.
I push him up against the brick wall, my forearm pressing against his throat.
“Please,” he begs, his eyes wide with terror. “I can explain.”
“Explain?” I ask, my voice a low growl. “There’s nothing to explain. You betrayed me, therefore you betrayed the family.”
“He forced me,” he chokes out. “Lorenzo. He threatened my family.”
“Family is everything, Pavel,” I say, my voice cold. “Which means you don’t fuck with mine.”
I pull a knife from my pocket, the blade glinting in the dim light.
“Please,” he begs. “I’ll do anything. I’ll tell you everything.”
“I already know everything,” I say.
Then I slash his throat, and his words sputter out. I watch the life drain from his eyes, a familiar, satisfying sight.
I wipe the blade on his shirt, then turn and walk back into the club. I barely make it five feet inside before I collide with Freya.
She saw everything. Her face is pale, eyes wide and locked onto the blade.
“I told you to stay put,” I snap.
Freya doesn’t speak.
“Let’s go,” I say.
She doesn’t move. She just stares at me, her expression a mixture of fear and disgust.
“You’re a monster,” she whispers.
I hold out my hand. “Let’s go, Freya.”
She looks at my hand, then back at my face. For a second, I think she’s going to refuse. Then, she takes it. Her hand is cold, trembling.
I pull her outside, leading her out of the club and into the night.
The ride back to the penthouse is silent. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t even look at me. I know she’s processing what she saw. I know she’s trying to reconcile the man who held her while she cried with the man who just slit his lieutenant’s throat.
It’s a contradiction I can’t explain. A duality I’ve learned to live with.
When we get back to the penthouse, she walks straight to the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
I don’t follow her. Instead I pour myself a drink, the whiskey burning a path down my throat.
Pavel’s death will send a message. It will show Lorenzo that I’m not to be trifled with. It will show my men that betrayal is not an option.
Unfortunately, it will also put Freya in more danger.
Lorenzo will see this as an act of war. He will come after me, and he will come after her.
I finish my drink, the glass clinking as I set it down.
When I enter the bedroom, Freya’s standing by the window, looking out at the city. She’s still wearing the leather jacket, her hair a messy knot around her face.
“He had a family,” she says, her voice flat. “Right?”
“He had a choice,” I say.
“He was scared.”
“We’re all scared, Freya.”
I walk over to her, standing behind her. I want to touch her, to comfort her, but I don’t. I know she won’t let me.
“Why?” she asks, turning to face me. “Why did you have to do that?”
“Because I had to,” I say. “It was the only way.”
“The only way for what?”
“To protect you.”
She laughs, a short, bitter sound. “You call that protection?”
“I call it necessary.”
She looks up at me, her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know who you are.”
“Yes, you do,” I say, my voice soft. “You’ve always known.”
I reach out, my fingers gently brushing her cheek. She flinches, but she doesn’t pull away.
“You’re a monster,” she echoes from earlier.
“I’m your monster,” I correct.
Then I kiss her. I pour all of my darkness, all of my rage, all of my twisted, obsessive love into that one kiss.
Her lips are soft, yielding. Her tongue meets mine, a tentative, hesitant exploration. It’s a surrender.
A complete and total surrender.
I pull her into my arms, my body pressing against hers. I can feel her heart hammering against my ribs, a frantic, wild rhythm.
I deepen the kiss, my hands roaming over her body, claiming her, marking her as mine.
She moans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates against my lips.
I pick her up, her legs wrapping around my waist. I carry her to the bed, laying her down gently.
I look down at her, my eyes roaming over her face. Her eyes are closed, her lips swollen, her cheeks flushed with a mixture of fear and desire.
“Mine,” I whisper, my voice a hoarse growl.
“Yours,” she whispers back.
I know, in that moment, that I’ve won.