Chapter Twenty-Two
The warehouse air smells of gun oil, sweat, and stale coffee. It’s a scent that usually settles me, the olfactory equivalent of a loaded gun—dangerous, reliable, and necessary. Today, it just irritates my sinuses.
“Again.”
I stand on the mezzanine overlooking the main floor, my arms crossed over my chest. Below me, twelve of my best men move through a hostage extraction drill.
They’re sloppy. Their lines of fire are crossing, their communication is fragmented, and their situational awareness is practically nonexistent.
“Antonov,” I bark, my voice echoing off the corrugated metal ceiling. “You’re dead. You checked your corner, then you looked at your target, then you looked back at the corner. Pick a lane and stay in it.”
Antonov, a bruiser of a man who usually handles debt collection, lowers his weapon, looking chagrined.
“Sorry, Boss.”
“Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to the team you just got killed because you were too busy checking your own reflection in the glass.”
I pace the length of the catwalk, my boots ringing on the steel grating.
“Lorenzo isn’t going to give you a second chance to admire your form,” I continue, my tone sharp. “He doesn’t care about your ego. He cares about results. He cares about fear. If you give him an opening, he’ll shove a grenade down it.”
I glance at the door to the small, glass-walled office that overlooks the floor. Freya is in there. She insisted on coming, claiming she needs to oversee the logistics for a charity auction the Bratva is ostensibly fronting. I know better. She’s watching. She’s learning.
She’s a shadow in the corner of my eye, a constant variable in my calculations.
“Reset,” I order. “Now.”
The men scramble to their starting positions. I watch them with a critical eye, but my mind drifts to the bigger board. The Colombos. The hit on Pavel. The man watching the building.
We’re tightening the noose. I have eyes on Lorenzo’s supply routes, ears in his accountant’s office, and a tap on his personal line. He’s a snake, slippery and adaptable. He struck at the gallery, probing for a weakness. He found Freya.
That can’t happen again.
“Too wide,” I call out as the breach team stacks up. “Tighten the stack. If you stand that far apart, a single gunman can pick you off one by one. You become targets, not a force.”
I move to the railing, gripping the cold metal. I can feel Freya’s gaze on me from the office. She’s watching me work, watching me command. I wonder what she sees. Does she see a monster? A killer? Or does she see the man trying to hold back the tide?
The training drags on for another hour. I push them hard, running the drills until their movements become instinctive, until they act as a single organism rather than a collection of individuals. By the time I call a halt, sweat slicks their skin and their chests heave.
“Good enough,” I say, though it isn’t really. It will have to be. “Dismissed. Clean your gear and get some rest. We’re on high alert starting now.”
They disperse, grabbing water bottles and towels, the tension in the room breaking as they shed the personas of soldiers and return to being men.
I walk down the metal stairs, my boots heavy on the treads. I head straight for the office.
Freya sits at the desk, a stack of invoices in front of her. She looks up as I enter, her eyes wary.
“You’re loud,” she says.
“I’m effective.”
“You’re a tyrant.”
“I’m a realist.”
I walk around the desk, not stopping until I stand right behind her chair. She stiffens, her shoulders pulling tight, but she doesn’t move away.
“Did you learn anything?” I ask, my voice dropping to a low murmur.
“That you have very high standards,” she replies, her voice slightly breathless.
“That I have very dangerous enemies.”
“Antonov,” she says. “The big one. He hesitated.”
“He did.”
“Why?”
“He was distracted,” I say, my lips brushing against the sensitive skin of her ear. “In a firefight, that gets you killed. You have to trust your training. You have to trust your brothers.”
“Do you trust them?”
“With my life,” I say without hesitation. “With yours.”
She turns her head slightly, her eyes meeting mine. There is a question in them, a flicker of vulnerability that she quickly masks.
“Is that supposed to make me feel safe?”
“No, but it’s the truth.”
I straighten up, pulling away from her. The loss of contact is jarring, a sudden cold rush in the overheated warehouse.
“Pack up,” I say. “We’re done here.”
***
The ride back to the penthouse is quiet. The city lights blur past, a smear of gold and red. Freya sits beside me, her fingers curled around the door handle, her gaze fixed on the passing buildings.
I catch her glancing at me once, a quick, furtive look that she tries to hide when I turn my head. She is thinking about the training, about the men, about the violence that is now the backdrop of her life.
I let her think. It is better than the alternative. It is better than her feeling helpless.
When we arrive, the staff has already retired for the night. The penthouse is dark, the only light coming from the city outside.
“I’m going to take a shower,” she says, heading toward the bedroom without waiting for a response.
I watch her go, the sway of her hips hypnotic in the dim light. I want to follow her; I want to peel that dress off her and lose myself in her body until the world outside ceases to exist.
I have work to do.
I go to the kitchen and pour a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light from the window. I sip it slowly, letting the burn settle in my stomach. I need to clear my head. I need to focus.
She’s getting under my skin. That’s dangerous.
Before I can think further, I hear footsteps. I set the glass down on the counter and turn.
Freya stands in the doorway. She’s wearing one of my shirts, the silk hanging loose on her frame, her thighs peeking out from under the hem. Her hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends.
She looks incredible.
She walks into the room, her movements hesitant. She stops by the island, her fingers tracing the granite countertop.
“The training,” she says, breaking the silence. “It looked… intense.”
“It’s necessary.”
“Is it, all of it? The guns, the drills, the… violence.”
“It’s the only language Lorenzo understands.”
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“Do you understand any other?”
I walk around the island, stopping in front of her. She looks up at me, her eyes wide, her breath catching.
“I understand a lot of things,” I say, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I understand that power is the only currency that matters. Mercy is a weakness you can’t afford, and protecting what’s yours requires sacrifice.”
“Yourself?”
“If necessary.”
“Me?”
“Especially you.”
The admission hangs in the air between us. I see her eyes soften, just a fraction, before she looks away.
“You don’t have to protect me,” she whispers. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can,” I say. “You shouldn’t have to.”
I reach into my pocket. My fingers close around the small, velvet box. I’ve been carrying it for days, waiting for the right moment.
There is no such thing as a right moment in my life. There’s only now.
I pull the box out and set it on the counter in front of her.
She looks at it, confusion flickering across her face. “What is this?”
“Open it.”
She hesitates, then lifts the lid.
Inside lies a brooch. A large, teardrop-shaped piece of gold. It’s the Gromov crest. A piece of history.
She gasps, her fingers hovering over the jewels.
“It’s…” She looks up at me, her eyes wide. “It’s too much. I already have your mother’s necklace.”
“It’s family,” I say. “It belonged to my father, and his father before him.”
Her eyes widen further.
“Nikita, I can’t—”
“You can,” I interrupt. “You will.”
I take the brooch from the box, the gold warm from my pocket. She allows me to pin it carefully to the lapel of her blouse, adjusting the fabric.
“Beautiful,” I murmur.
She reaches up, touching the stone, her fingers trembling. “It was your father’s?”
“Yes.”
“Now I have a piece of both of them.”
“Yes. They’re both dead now, have been for a long time.”
Freya turns to face me, her hand still resting on the pendant. She looks at me with an expression I can’t quite read—pity, perhaps, or understanding.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“Don’t be. It was a long time ago.”
I reach out, my hand resting on her waist. My fingers curl around her hip, pulling her closer. She comes willingly, her body molding against mine.
The contact is electric. I can feel the heat radiating from her, the softness of her skin beneath the silk. I want to pick her up and carry her to the counter, to take her right here, with the city watching.
I lean down, my lips brushing against her ear.
“You wear these,” I whisper, my voice a low growl. I tap the pendant around her neck. Then, as my hand drifts down to touch the ring, I add, “You wear my name. You wear my protection.”
“I know,” she breathes.
“No,” I say, pulling back to look her in the eye. “You don’t, but you’re starting to.”
I let my hand slide from her waist to her back, my fingers tracing the line of her spine through the silk. She shivers, her eyes fluttering closed.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Nikita,” she whispers.
“So are you.”
I lean in, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss. It is a claim, a brand, a promise. She melts into me, her hands coming up to rest on my chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt.
The kiss deepens, becoming something more. Something raw and hungry. I bite her lower lip, and she gasps, her hips bucking against mine.
I groan, my control shattering. I lift her onto the counter, stepping between her legs. The granite is hard against my hands, but I don’t care.
I need this. I need her.
I break the kiss, trailing my mouth down her neck, nipping at the sensitive skin where the sapphire rests. She arches her back, a soft moan escaping her lips.
“Nikita,” she gasps. “Please.”
I don’t tease her. I don’t make her beg. I simply give her what she wants, what we both need. I push the silk up, exposing her thighs. I hook my fingers in her panties, dragging them down.
She helps me, kicking them aside, opening herself to me.
I unzip my jeans, freeing myself. I am hard, aching, desperate for her.
I look into her eyes, seeing the same desperate need reflected there.
“Now,” she whispers.
I don’t hesitate. I drive into her, burying myself to the hilt.
She cries out, her head falling back, her nails digging into my shoulders. I hold her there, pinned to the counter, possessed and possessing.
I start to move, my strokes hard and deep. The kitchen fills with the sounds of our pleasure—the slide of skin against skin, the ragged sound of our breathing, the low, guttural growls that tear from my throat.
She meets me thrust for thrust, her legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me deeper. It is fast, frantic, a desperate clash of bodies in the dark.
I can feel the pressure building, a tight coil in my gut. I reach between us, my fingers finding her clit. I rub her in time with my thrusts, pushing her toward the edge.
“Come for me, Freya,” I growl. “Let me feel it.”
She shatters. Her body convulses around me, her inner muscles clamping down on me like a vise. She screams my name, a sound of pure, unadulterated ecstasy.
I follow her over, my own release tearing through me like a gunshot. I bury my face in her neck, groaning her name as I pour myself into her.
We slump against each other, our hearts hammering against our ribs, our bodies slick with sweat.
For a long time, we just stay there, tangled together on the counter. The city lights flicker outside, indifferent to the storm that has just passed.
Eventually, I lift my head, looking down at her. Her eyes are closed, her breathing slowly returning to normal. My mother’s necklace lies between her breasts, and the brooch clings to her collar.
“You’re mine,” I whisper, the words a prayer and a curse.
She opens her eyes, looking up at me. “I know,” she murmurs and kisses me again.