Chapter 7
NIKOLAI
My uncle sent me to do the recon on the building. He told me he was interested in who lived here. But I suspect he already knew.
He used me. Did he want me to run into Elle? Did he set this up? I look at him and can’t read his expression. I look at Gayle who looks way too smug.
And Elle just agreed to marry me with little fight. Why? Why do I feel like I’m the butt of the joke?
“When?” Elle asks her mother. “When do I get to leave your cage?”
I don’t know what I thought the answer was going to be, but I sure as hell wasn’t expecting the backhand across Elle’s face.
I move before I can think about it. Red flashes in front of my eyes. I snatch Elle’s arm and jerk her behind me.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Jeffrey and the other guards are there. They shove me back. I don’t hesitate to swing. I’m a trained fighter. My punch lands square in Man One’s jaw. I swing again before the other guy drops. I hit the second man in the stomach. He grunts and drops.
“Stop!” Viktor grabs my shoulder before I can get Jeffrey.
“I owe them more than that,” I hiss.
Gayle sneers at me. “Take the trash out, Jeffrey. My whore daughter included.”
I shove off Viktor. Jeffrey stares me dead in the eye. Whatever he sees, he steps to the side and Gayle is exposed.
I owe Jeffrey a hit or a fucking blow to the head, but for now, my anger is directed at Gayle. I step close. My body pushing into her space. Her head tilts back and the coldest, deadest eyes look back at me.
“Touch my fucking bride, and I will kill you.”
I see the fear for just the briefest second. And then she sneers. “She’s your problem now.”
“And don’t you fucking forget it.”
I turn around to find Jeffrey looking at me with what almost loos like appreciation. I grab Elle’s hand and stalk to the door.
“Get her shit, Jeffrey.” I make sure to emphasize his name and his place.
“Wait!” Elle calls out. “I need to pack.”
“No, you don’t. You need nothing from this place.
You’ll be my wife and I will provide everything you need.
”I don't want a wife. I want a quiet life and a home for just Pasha and me.
But Uncle made it clear that it's either this or war, and the woman next to me said yes before I could even think up an alternative.
So. Here we are.
The gates to my estate swing open like the jaws of a beast that just swallowed my freedom.
Elle is in my passenger seat, bright as a struck match, knees bouncing. She keeps peeking at me, then at the passing trees, then at the pet carrier quivering on her lap.
She insisted she needs her cat. A feline grenade named, God help me, Sir Isaac Mewton.
Who names a cat that? Who looks at a tiny predator and says, yes, he's a genius.
She does.
The tires crunch over gravel as we pull up the drive, loud in the kind of quiet that listens back.
I hate that Elle looks delighted.
She leans toward the window, her breath fogging the glass. Eyes bright, mouth soft. Like I brought her to a resort instead of a fortress that bites strangers.
The house is a white jawbone against the night. Old trees. Deep lawns. A lake dark as a pupil swallowing light.
Her breath lifts, catches. "Oh."
That sound does something to me. Irritates. Scratches. Feels like fingers on the inside of my ribs.
She presses her forehead to the window. "You live here?"
I don't answer, because it's complicated. It's my uncle's, but he lets me use it to keep the danger at a distance. That's the arrangement. I collect debts and I enforce. In exchange, I get to raise my son away from the city.
"I thought you'd be... I don't know." She gestures at me, then at the compound. "Minimalist."
"I am." I gesture at the road, the gate. "This is minimal security."
"Oh." She takes that in, and for a second she's quiet. Then the carrier yowls like a demon, and she brightens again. "Almost home, Sir Isaac."
Throw her in the lake, my brain suggests helpfully. Not to drown her. Just to test whether joy is waterproof. Has she already misplaced the part where she's being forced to marry me?
Then the same old suspicion slams into the amusement like a fist. She's too pleased. Too calm. Did she script this whole circus?
I pull to a stop under the portico and we step out. The big door yawns open because someone always watches, and Pavel appears. Thick-necked. Polite in the way a grenade is just a glob before the pin gets pulled.
He nods to me, then to her. Doesn't ask questions.
"Bags?" he asks.
"Just a suitcase." Elle lifts her own backpack. "And this is Sir Isaac."
Pavel's eyebrows do a slow rise, then a slow fall. He steps forward to take the backpack. She holds tighter.
"It's okay," I say. "He's family. Here to help."
She blinks at that. Then she lets go.
"Let's head in," I mutter. She nods and follows.
From her hand, I hear an offended yowl.
"Should I let him out?" she asks, far too gleefully as we climb the stairs.
"No." Too quick. "I hate cats. Let him out in your room."
"He's very sensitive," she says, lifting the carrier like a chalice. "If you insult him, he'll hold a grudge."
"Yeah, well. I can hold one too." I glower at the cat.
She smiles.
We go inside. The foyer is too big for comfort and echoes a little too much. She spins anyway, the way girls do on stages. Face upturned to the ceiling like she's waiting for stars to be painted there.
Staff drift in from the edges, and one reaches for the cat carrier.
"Careful," Elle warns. "He hates strangers."
The cat turns his head, blinks once, and starts purring like a generator meeting OSHA standards.
"Traitor," she mutters. Then she looks at me, amused. "He pretends he doesn't need anyone. It's a whole personality."
"Cats don't have personalities," I say.
She gives me a look. I decide I'm right and don't deserve it.
Just then, I hear quick footsteps slapping the stone corridor.
"Papa!"
Pasha barrels into the doorway at full speed. He tries to stop, fails, and launches at me anyway. I catch him with one arm without thinking. My body goes into automatic around him.
He smells like soap and grass and sugar. Like childhood in its purest form.
His dark hair is a mess, his gray eyes too sharp for eight. He takes in Elle, then the carrier, and his whole face breaks into a grin so wide it rewires something in my chest.
"You're supposed to be in bed," I say.
"I tried," he says. "My eyes refused."
"Your eyes will listen to me."
"They only listen when they're ready," he says. Dead serious.
To my surprise, Elle laughs. Loud and unguarded, and Pasha immediately straightens his spine like he just got knighted.
She shouldn't sound like that in this house. It's too alive. Too bright.
And when Pasha turns back to her, excitement flashing all over his face, she looks right at him.
Not past him. Not through him. At him. For one dangerous beat, it feels domestic.
Like a picture I have no business imagining.
I've never given him a mother. Not even a contender. It never felt like a risk worth taking.
The thought sparks. I crush it before the universe hears.
Pasha's attention snaps to the carrier. "Is that a cat?"
"This is Sir Isaac Mewton," Elle says, her voice going soft around the name.
Pasha brightens. "The gravity apple guy?"
"Exactly. Only with worse manners."
He glances at me like he needs clearance.
"You can ask her," I say.
He turns to Elle. "Can I pet your cat?"
"Only if you tell me your name." She smiles and crouches down, setting the carrier on the floor.
"I'm Pasha!" He inches closer. Elle nods and opens the carrier door just a crack.
He extends a hand. The cat sniffs once, then head-butts his palm like they're old allies. Pasha breaks into a grin so wide my chest cracks open.
"He doesn't do that for me," Elle says, offended.
"He recognizes a tyrant he respects," I reply, ruffling the top of Pasha's head.
Pasha swats my hand away but doesn't look up from the cat. Already whispering something about them being friends.
Elle watches him for a long moment. Then she looks at me, quickly, then back at him. I can see the equation hitting her.
"My son is eight."
"Oh." She reins in a stronger reaction, but I can tell she never in a million years expected me to be a father.
Oh well, Elle. We've all got secrets.
Pasha pulls the cat out of the carrier before I can stop him. "Can I keep him in my room tonight?"
Elle's face lights up immediately. Seriously, is everything sunshine and butterflies with this woman?
"Sure you can!" she smiles. "But he might get thirsty and hungry, so I'll have the staff send up his bowls and litter box."
"Really?" Pasha asks, like Christmas came early.
"Truly!" Elle squeals, and Pasha laughs in that high-pitched way that makes the walls feel warmer. The next thing I know, she's throwing around instructions and my staff is lapping it all up like she's been here for years.
Suddenly, the house no longer feels like it's mine alone.
"Let's show you to your room," I grunt. I've had enough changes for one day, and watching Elle play mistress of this house is turning my neck red for reasons I refuse to examine.
"Sure," she shrugs, turning to me.
As we climb the stairs, leaving Pasha and Sir Isaac Mew-fucking-ton being lauded over by a handful of my staff, a quiet falls between us.
"You didn't mention you had a child," she says.
"No," I say, surly as fuck. There's no need to give her the background here. I barely know the woman. Fortunately, she doesn't ask more.
"I've put you in the West Wing," I tell her. "It's more private."
The truth is, I've given her a spot as far from me as the architecture allows.
"Okay," she says. Without a question or a fight. Like she's just so damn happy to be here, she doesn't care where I put her.
For some reason, that doesn't sit well with me.
I push open the double doors and let her in first. She looks around, still awestruck by everything.
"It's so... cozy," she smiles, turning to me.
"Uh-huh," I grunt, tired of her rose-tinted take on this world.
"I'll have your things brought up," I say. "And your cat, when my kid's done with him."
She sets the empty carrier down neatly, then faces me straight on. Chin up. Eyes unnervingly steady.
"I'm sorry," she says.
"For what?"
"All of it. I know you didn't want this. Neither did I. But I'll try. I'll be a good wife."
The word wife grates against my eardrums like nails on a chalkboard. "You're not my wife."
Her eyes snap to mine. "Not legally. Yet. But..."
"Not in any way that matters." I cut her off before she can finish the sentence and make it real. "This is a business arrangement, Elle. Nothing more."
Something hardens in her expression. "Great. Then we're on the same page."
"Good."
"Perfect."
We glare at each other for a moment, the air between us crackling with something neither of us wants to name.
“Thank you,” she murmurs softly.
“For what?” It came out harsh. Not intentional. I’m pissed. My head fucking hurts and I need a shower.
“For, um, my mom.”
“She beats you.”
Her gaze drops to the floor.
“She’s the one who cut your lip that first time I saw you.”
“I make her mad.”
“Fuck her.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “Do you mean that?”
“Do I mean fuck her? Yeah. And her fucking goons. I’m going to kill them.”
“You can’t kill Jeffrey.”
“I’ll kill him last.”
“No! Please, Nik, please. He’s my only friend.”
“Your friend knocked me out. Your friend stood there while your mother hit you. That’s not your friend.”
“He’s saved me before. Please. He thought he was protecting me in that room. He’s a good man.”
I’d kill him later.
"You'll need to stay on the estate," I say finally. "The grounds are extensive. There's a pool, gardens, and a small pond. But don't leave the perimeter."
She rolls her eyes. "Trading one prison for another. Fantastic."
That gives me pause. "What?"
She doesn't look at me when she answers.
Her gaze flicks once toward the night-dark gardens through the glass.
"There wasn't much outside in my life," she says.
"The rooftop was my best option, if I was good.
The rest was glass and walls. I never had a garden to walk to.
No permission to take a run in the park. Just a treadmill. Through and through."
That lands harder than she probably intended.
I say nothing, but suddenly the way she stared at the trees when we arrived, like she was afraid to blink and lose them, makes perfect, devastating sense.
She wasn't being dramatic. She was starving.
No one deserves a life that narrow.
My next words come out softer than I mean them to. "Pasha knows the grounds better than anyone. He can show you the lake. The frog ponds. There's a hidden path to the boathouse." I pause. "And the gate that looks locked, but isn't."
Her eyes snap back to mine, filled with surprise. And then she smiles. Genuinely bright. The kind people don't fake.
"Thank you," she whispers.
“Don’t thank me. I didn’t save you. I don’t trust you. I don’t know you and I don’t care.”
I walk away and ignore the hurt I saw in her eyes.
Not my problem.