Chapter Twenty-Three
We’re on our way back from a formal dinner when the sky tears open ten miles outside the city.
One moment, the horizon is a bruised purple, heavy with the promise of rain. The next, the heavens unleash a deluge that turns the world into a blur of gray water and asphalt.
The wipers of the SUV are useless, slapping frantically against the glass, smearing the water rather than clearing it.
“We can’t make the bridge,” Nikita says. His voice is calm, cutting through the drumming of the rain. “The flooding will block the access road.”
I stare out the side window. The landscape is indistinguishable, just shapes and shadows swallowed by the storm. “Where are we?”
“Safe house. It’s an old extraction point.”
He turns the wheel, the tires hydroplaning for a second before biting into the mud. We leave the main road, bumping down a gravel track that disappears into a dense thicket of trees. The suspension groans, protesting the rough treatment.
A structure looms out of the dark. A house, or the skeleton of one. It’s concrete and glass, modern and stark, sitting alone in the middle of the clearing.
Nikita kills the engine. The silence that follows is sudden and absolute, broken only by the roar of the wind and the hammering of the rain against the roof.
“Stay here,” he says.
He opens his door, stepping out into the downpour. He’s back in seconds, a black umbrella in one hand. He comes around to my side, opening the door and extending a hand.
I take it.
His grip is firm, warm, grounding. He pulls me out, shielding me with the umbrella as we run for the porch.
The front door is heavy steel, reinforced with a biometric scanner that looks dead in the gloom. Nikita places his thumb on the pad. A light flickers green, and the door clicks open.
We step inside. The air is stale, smelling of dust and disuse. It’s pitch-black.
“Wait here,” Nikita commands.
He releases my hand, and I hear him moving through the dark. There’s a click, then a low hum. The emergency lights kick on. They aren’t bright—just strips of LED along the baseboards and ceiling—but they cast enough of a glow to push back the shadows.
I blink, looking around.
It’s a bunker masquerading as a house. Minimalist furniture covered in white sheets. Concrete floors. No windows, just reinforced glass slits that offer a view of the raging storm outside.
“Power grid is down,” Nikita says, shaking the water from his hair. “Generator is finicky. It’ll run the lights, maybe the heat, but don’t expect Wi-Fi.”
I wrap my arms around myself. The temperature in here is dropping fast, the concrete walls leeching the warmth from my skin. “Great. So we’re stuck.”
“For a few hours.”
“A few hours?”
“Until the water recedes.”
He walks past me, heading deeper into the house. “I’ll check the supplies. Don’t touch the alarm system. It’s sensitive.”
I stand there for a moment, listening to the wind howling outside. It’s a primal sound, a reminder of how small we are. How fragile.
I follow him.
I find him in the kitchen. He’s opening cupboards, checking cans and sealed water bottles. His back is to me, his white shirt clinging to his shoulders, translucent where the rain has soaked through.
I watch him. I can see the tension that coils around his spine even in a place like this.
“You’re always like this,” I say.
He pauses, his hand on a can of peaches. “Like what?”
“On edge. Like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
He turns, leaning back against the counter. “Because I am.”
“We’re in a safe house, Nikita. In the middle of nowhere. There’s no one here but us.”
“There’s always someone,” he says. “Always.” He picks up the can, tossing it to me. I catch it instinctively. “Eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need fuel.”
I set the can on the counter with a clatter. “Stop telling me what to do.”
“Then stop acting like a child.”
The air between us crackles. It’s not just the storm. It’s the weeks of tension, the forced proximity, the fights, the sex. All of it, simmering just beneath the surface.
I walk over to him, stopping just inches away. I have to tilt my head back to look him in the eye.
“Why do you do it?” I ask, my voice low.
“Do what?”
“Control everything. Me. The Bratva. Why can’t you just let things be?”
“Letting things be is how people die.”
“Is that the only reason?”
He looks down at me. His eyes are dark, unreadable. “No,” he says. “It’s not.”
“So why?”
“Because I want to.”
The admission is simple. Honest. He reaches out, his hand brushing against my cheek. His fingers are cold, wet from the rain. I flinch, but I don’t pull away.
“Why are you scared of me, Freya?”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not scared of you,” I say, my voice trembling. “I’m scared of what you make me feel.”
He smirks, a faint, dangerous curve of his lips. “What is that?”
“Alive,” I whisper.
He steps closer, invading my space completely. His hips brush against mine, his body heat radiating through the damp fabric of our clothes.
“You are seen,” he murmurs. “You are mine to see.”
He kisses me. His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head back, deepening the angle. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting me, claiming me.
I moan, my hands clutching at his shoulders, my fingers digging into the damp fabric.
He lifts me up, setting me on the edge of the counter. The granite is cold against my thighs, but I barely notice.
He steps between my legs, his hands resting on my waist. He’s not rushing. He’s taking his time, exploring my mouth with a thoroughness that makes my head spin.
He pulls back, his breathing ragged. His eyes are burning.
“Nikita,” I gasp.
“Shh.”
He trails kisses down my jaw, my neck. His teeth graze the sensitive skin where my pulse hammers against his lips. I shiver, arching into him.
He unbuttons my shirt, his fingers deft, efficient. He pushes the fabric aside, baring my skin to the cool air. I gasp, my nipples hardening instantly.
He doesn’t touch them. He traces the curve of my waist, the line of my ribs. His touch is light, maddening.
“Please,” I whimper.
“Patience.”
“Fuck patience.”
He chuckles, a low, dark sound. Then he drops to his knees.
I look down, my breath catching in my throat. He’s looking up at me, his eyes dark with intent. He reaches for my belt, unbuckling it with agonizing slowness.
He drags my pants and panties down, pooling them around my ankles. I kick them away, impatient.
He leans forward, his breath hot against my core.
“You’re so wet,” he murmurs.
“For you.”
“All for me.”
He licks me.
I cry out, my head falling back. The sensation is electric, sharp pleasure shooting through my veins. He holds me open with his thumbs, his tongue exploring every inch of me.
It’s slow, exquisite torture. He’s not rushing to the finish line, only savoring the journey.
I thread my fingers through his damp hair, holding him to me. “Don’t stop.”
“I don’t plan to.”
He sucks on my clit, and I see stars. My toes curl, my back arching. The pleasure builds, a slow, relentless wave.
“God, Nikita…”
“Let go, Freya.”
He slides a finger inside me, then two. He curls them, finding that spot that makes me come undone.
I shatter. My orgasm rips through me, tearing a scream from my throat. My body convulses, my vision blurring.
He works me through it, his tongue and fingers relentless, drawing out every last drop of pleasure.
When I finally come down, I’m limp, boneless. I slump back against the cabinets, my chest heaving.
He stands up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks incredibly pleased with himself.
“You taste like sin,” he says.
“Shut up.”
He laughs, unbuttoning his shirt. I watch him, my eyes roaming over his chest, the hard planes of muscle, the scars that map his history.
He pushes his pants down, freeing himself. He’s hard, thick, and ready.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer.
He pushes inside me. The stretch is intense. He’s big, and he fills me completely. I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders.
“Okay?” he asks, his voice strained.
“Yes. Move.”
He starts to move, his strokes slow and deep. He’s holding back, restraining the beast I know is lurking just beneath the surface.
“Harder,” I demand.
“No.”
“Please.”
He sets a rhythm that is designed to drive me insane. He’s hitting every nerve ending, every sensitive spot. The pleasure is building again, tighter and higher than before.
“Look at me,” he commands.
I open my eyes, looking up at him. His expression is fierce, possessive. He groans, his control finally snapping. He grabs my hips, his fingers bruising, and starts to pound into me.
The sound of our bodies moving together fills the room, mingling with the storm outside. It’s wild, primal.
I meet him thrust for thrust, rising to meet him. The pressure is unbearable, a coil tightening in my belly.
“I’m close,” I gasp.
“Come with me.”
He reaches between us, his thumb finding my clit. He rubs it in time with his thrusts.
I explode. My vision whites out. My body clamps down around him, pulsing and rippling. I scream his name, a sound of pure ecstasy.
He follows me over, his body tensing as he finds his release. He buries his face in my neck, groaning my name as he pours himself into me.
Eventually, he pulls away, adjusting his clothes. I slide off the counter, my legs weak. I have to hold onto him to keep from falling.
He wraps his arms around me, holding me up.
“You okay?”
“Never better.”
He leads me to the living room. The sheets on the furniture cast ghostly shapes in the low light. He pulls one off a couch, shaking the dust off, and sits down, pulling me into his lap.
I curl up against him, my head resting on his chest. I can hear his heartbeat, slow and steady.
I trace the line of his collarbone with my finger.
“What was this place?” I ask softly.
“A safe house like I said.”
“But for whom?”
“For the Pakhan. My father, and eventually for me.” He runs his hand up and down my spine, a soothing, rhythmic motion.
“He used to bring me here,” he continues, his voice low.
“When things got… too much. When the politics got ugly. We’d sit in the dark, just like this, and he’d teach me about money and control. ”
“Control,” I repeat.
“It’s the only thing that matters,” he says. “If you lose control, you lose everything. Your life. Your family. Your legacy.”
“Did he lose control?”
“Eventually.” His voice tightens. “He got sentimental. He trusted the wrong people, and it killed him.”
I lift my head to look at him. His expression is guarded, his eyes distant.
I look at him, really look at him. The monster. The killer. The man who holds my brother’s life in his hands. I see the man underneath. The man who is just as trapped as I am.
I lean up and kiss him. It’s a gentle kiss, a promise.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say against his lips.
He tightens his hold on me, burying his face in my hair. “You might not have a choice.”
***
Hours later, the silence wakes me.
The storm has passed. The house is quiet, the gray light of dawn seeping through the glass slits.
I’m still on the couch, curled up in Nikita’s lap. He’s asleep, his head resting against the back of the cushion, his breathing deep and even.
I shift slightly, trying not to wake him.
His arms tighten around me instantly, a reflex. “Go back to sleep,” he mumbles, his voice rough with sleep.
“I can’t. It’s morning.”
“Too early.”
“The rain stopped.”
He opens his eyes, blinking groggily. He looks down at me, a slow smile spreading across his face.
I watch as he shifts, sitting up straighter. I slide off his lap, standing up and stretching. My muscles protest, a delicious ache that reminds me of last night.
“I need to check the road,” he says, standing up. “We should move before the locals get curious.”
He walks to the window, peering out through the reinforced glass. “The water is receding,” he says. “We can leave in an hour.”
I watch him, standing there in the gray light. He’s putting his armor back on, piece by piece. The distance is returning. The control.
I walk over to him, wrapping my arms around his waist from behind. I rest my forehead against his back.
He stiffens for a second, then relaxes, covering my hands with his. “What are you doing?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“I’m just…” I trail off, searching for the right words. “Anchoring myself.”
He turns around, pulling me into his arms. “You don’t need an anchor,” he says. “You have me.”