Chapter Twenty-Five
Nikita left an hour ago.
He left without fanfare. A kiss on my forehead—a press of lips that felt more like a brand than a caress—and a command:
“Stay here. Don’t open the door for anyone but Yuri.”
Then he was gone, swallowed by the black SUV waiting at the curb.
Now, the silence is deafening. It presses against my eardrums, heavy and suffocating. I walk to the window, parting the sheer curtains just enough to see the street below. It’s raining again, a relentless gray wash that blurs the city lights.
He’s out there.
My heart is a frantic bird trapped in my chest, beating wings against my ribs. I try to rationalize the fear. It’s logical to be scared. Lorenzo’s men attacked our home. They came to kill us. Nikita is walking into the hornet’s nest, striking back at a man who has nothing left to lose.
It’s more than that.
I close my eyes, and the image of him flashes behind my lids—Nikita checking his weapon, the cold steel of the gun in his hand contrasting with the warmth of his skin. I remember the graze on his ribs, the angry red line I bandaged earlier with shaking fingers.
What if he doesn’t come back?
I clutch the pendant around my neck. The sapphire is cool against my palm, a heavy weight. It belonged to his mother. He gave it to me. That and the brooch that belonged to his father.
A shiver runs through me, but it’s not from fear. It’s from a heat that has nothing to do with the radiator hissing in the corner.
I lean my forehead against the cold glass. I shouldn’t want him this much. I should be counting the minutes until I can escape, until I can find Ayaan and disappear.
Instead, I’m imagining the way his jaw feels under my fingertips. The way his eyes darken when he looks at me. The terrifying, thrilling way he takes control of my body until I’m nothing but sensation and need.
God, I’m in trouble.
***
The sound of the door opening makes me jump. I spin around, my hand flying to my throat.
It’s just Anna. The staff were all either sent home or relocated here.
She’s carrying a tray with a teapot and two cups. She looks calm, unruffled, as if armed men breaking down doors is just a Tuesday in the Gromov household.
“I thought you could use some tea,” she says, setting the tray down on the coffee table. “Chamomile. For the nerves.”
“I don’t think tea is going to fix this,” I say, my voice brittle.
“No,” Anna agrees, pouring the steaming liquid. “But it helps to have something to do with your hands.”
I sink onto the sofa, tucking my legs beneath me. I wrap my hands around the warm cup, letting the warmth seep into me.
Anna sits in the armchair opposite me, her hands folded in her lap. She’s an older woman, her hair streaked with gray.
“He loves you,” she says.
The tea splashes onto my hand. I set the cup down with a clatter. “He doesn’t love me,” I snap. “He owns me. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” Anna asks mildly.
“Yes. Love is a choice. Ownership is a transaction.”
“Maybe.” She takes a sip of her tea. “I’ve seen him with many things. Money. Guns. Territory. He treats them well. He maintains them, but he doesn’t look at them the way he looks at you.”
I look away, staring at the rain streaking the window. “He’s a monster, Anna. I saw him… he killed a man without blinking.”
“He’s a Pakhan,” she says, as if that explains everything. “He does what needs to be done. To protect the family. To protect you.”
“By killing people?”
“By removing threats.” She sets her cup down, her gaze fixed on mine. “You know, before you came along, he was… cold. Not unkind, but distant. Like a statue carved from ice. He did his job, he ran the empire, but there was no joy in it. No life.” She pauses. “He changed your locks, you know.”
“What?”
“He went to your apartment and added security so that nobody would break in while it was empty.”
My mouth goes dry. “I… I didn’t know.”
“That was the point.”
She leans forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“He had a tail on you for months before he ever approached you. Not to spy. To watch. To make sure no one else was watching. When that ex-boyfriend of yours showed up—the one who ghosted you? Nikita had him picked up within an hour..”
I stare at her. “Rafael?”
“The same. The boy was scared, but he was unharmed. Nikita just wanted to make sure you weren’t bothered.”
I think back to that day in the café. Rafael looking over his shoulder. The way he’d apologized and then vanished.
“He never told me,” I whisper.
“He doesn’t brag,” Anna says. “He doesn’t want a medal; he just wants you safe.”
I touch the sapphire pendant again. The weight of it seems to triple. “He’s… protecting me,” I say, testing the words. “Even when I’m trying to destroy him?”
“Especially then,” Anna says, smiling. “He knows that if you destroy him, you’ll be the one standing in the rubble, and he wants to make sure you’re strong enough to survive it.”
I stand up, unable to sit still. The room feels too small, too full of revelations I’m not ready to process.
“I need air,” I mutter.
“There’s no balcony,” Anna says. “Just the window.”
I stare out at the city again. “He’s going to come back, isn’t he?” I ask, my voice barely audible.
“He always comes back.”
“But what if… what if this time is different?”
“He is Gromov,” Anna says firmly. “Gromovs are very hard to kill.”
I watch the taillights of a car fade into the distance.
“Don’t let him see you afraid,” she adds. “He needs you strong.”
“I’m not afraid for me,” I admit, the truth tumbling out before I can stop it. “I’m afraid for him.”
Anna nods, a small, satisfied smile touching her lips. “Then you’re already exactly where you need to be.”
She stands to leave, taking the tray with her. The silence returns, but it’s different now. Less oppressive.
I pace the room. The plush carpet is soft under my bare feet. I’m wearing one of his shirts—it’s all I could find in the closet when we arrived. It smells like cedar and him, a scent that’s both comforting and intoxicating.
I catch my reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. I look wild. My hair is a tangle of waves, my eyes wide and shadowed. The sapphire pendant glints against my chest, a spark of blue in the gloom.
It’s madness. I should be curled up in a ball, weeping. I should be plotting my escape.
Instead, I’m imagining his hands on me.
I close my eyes, letting the fantasy take over. I see him walking through that door. He’s covered in rain, maybe even blood, but he’s here. He sees me, and his eyes darken with that familiar, predatory hunger.
He tears the shirt from my body, his hands rough, demanding. I arch my back, silently begging for more. He gives it to me—everything, all at once. The weight of him, the heat of him, the sheer, overwhelming force of his presence.
I gasp, my hand flying to my chest. My heart is racing, my skin flushed. The ache between my thighs is a persistent, throbbing reminder of what we shared in the first safe house, and what I’m starving for now.
I walk over to the sofa and sink down, burying my face in the cushions. They smell like him.
I’m trapped. I know that. I’m caught in his web, in his world,
Maybe that’s okay.