Chapter Two
~ Nicolai ~
I had noticed the door to my office was slightly ajar before I even rounded the corner. Not much, just enough to raise the hackles on the back of my neck and send a ripple of irritation down my spine. I never left my door open. Not even a fraction of an inch.
In my line of work, such carelessness tended to result in shortened life spans, and after a century of careful existence, I wasn't about to break my streak of survival over something as trivial as proper door etiquette.
Great.
Another Tuesday, another territorial violation.
My steps were deliberately silent as I approached—a century of practice had taught me the value of surprising intruders rather than announcing my presence with the thundering footfalls my size would normally produce.
The thick carpet of my second-floor hallway absorbed what little sound my Italian leather shoes made.
I paused, drawing in a deep breath. My bear's senses, always simmering just beneath my human facade, cataloged the scents in the air.
The usual smells of leather, paper, and the lingering notes of my cologne were there, but something else lingered—something unfamiliar, electric, and strangely. ..enticing.
That was unexpected.
Slowly, I pushed the door open wider, my eyes adjusting instantly to the ambient lighting of my office.
Everything appeared to be in its precise place—the leather chairs positioned at perfect angles to my desk, the rare books lining the shelves, the crystal decanter of vodka that cost more than most people's monthly salary.
Yet something was different. Someone was here.
"What business do you have on my private floor?" I kept my voice low, controlled, letting it fill the room like smoke.
The silence that followed was telling—punctuated only by the faint sound of rapid breathing coming from beneath my desk.
Really? Under the desk? How delightfully cliché.
I moved around the heavy wooden piece of furniture with deliberate steps, my shadow falling across the hidden space beneath.
And there he was.
Young, blond, with the most striking green eyes I'd seen in decades—perhaps a century. He was pressed against the back panel, trying to make himself as small as possible.
Failing miserably, I might add.
My first instinct should have been anger. Territorial violations typically resulted in broken bones, at minimum. My bear should have been clawing at my insides, demanding retribution for this intrusion into our domain.
Instead, I felt something entirely different stir within me.
Well, this is a first.
My bear wants to cuddle, not maul.
The thought was so absurd I almost smiled, which would have terrified the young man even more than my usual cold stare. I rarely smiled unless I was about to do something unpleasant to someone who had displeased me.
"I know someone is here," I said, noting how the young man's heartbeat accelerated. "Your heartbeat gives you away."
One of the advantages of being a bear shifter—human hearts sound like bass drums to my ears. His was practically a rock concert.
I circled the desk slowly, giving him time to consider just how trapped he truly was. The ma?tre d' interrupted before I could complete my circuit, and the conversation about the men searching downstairs only confirmed what I'd already suspected.
This was no ordinary trespasser. This was prey being hunted—prey that had unwittingly stumbled into a different predator's den.
Mine.
When I finally pulled away the chair and fully revealed the young man's hiding spot, I found myself staring into those emerald eyes with an interest I hadn't felt in decades. There was fear there, yes, but also a sharp intelligence and defiance that made my bear rumble with approval.
"Found your missing man, I presume," I said to myself, acknowledging the pieces falling into place.
He scrambled backward, pressing against the wall and I caught his full scent.
My nostrils flared involuntarily.
The smell hit me like a physical force—clean sweat, adrenaline, and something else, something inherent to him alone. It was intoxicating in a way I hadn't experienced in my long lifetime. My bear stirred more insistently, interested in a way that went beyond mere territorial concerns.
Mine, it seemed to say. This one is mine.
I crossed my arms over my chest, as much to maintain my intimidating posture as to physically contain the unexpected hunger rising within me.
"I can explain," he said, his voice carrying a defiant edge despite his compromised position.
"I'm certain you can," I replied, not bothering to hide my accent. Let him hear it. Let him know exactly who—and what—he was dealing with. "Most trespassers have fascinating stories."
He surprised me with honesty, explaining about his kidnapping and escape. I found myself fighting an inappropriate urge to smile at his casual reference to my napkins costing more than his shoes.
He wasn't wrong.
"Stand up," I commanded. "I prefer not to conduct interviews with people hiding under my furniture."
When he rose to his full height, I noted with satisfaction that he barely reached my shoulder. My bear appreciated the size difference—it made the protective instinct that was strangely surging through me feel more justified.
The conversation turned to Patty O'Rourke, and I watched his face carefully. The flash of fear that crossed his features at the name confirmed my suspicions. O'Rourke didn't send his men after just anyone.
"Interesting," I murmured, studying him more closely. "And what would O'Rourke want with you? You don't look like his usual associates."
His laugh was sharp and humorless. "Trust me, I'm not."
The commotion from downstairs interrupted our conversation, and I watched as panic rose in his expression. His eyes darted to the window, clearly calculating the odds of surviving a second-story drop.
Not on my watch.
I stepped between him and the window, fighting an unusual heat coursing through my veins. In a century of existence, I'd never felt such an immediate and powerful urge to protect someone I'd just met.
"Before you attempt something dramatic and most likely painful, perhaps we should discuss why O'Rourke's men are so determined to find you," I said, maintaining my composed exterior while my bear practically paced inside me, agitated by the thought of this young man attempting to flee.
The phone on my desk suddenly vibrated violently, skittering across the polished surface in a manner that was decidedly not normal. I glanced at it momentarily, and in that second of distraction, the young man bolted for the door.
Clever, and unexpectedly interesting.
He yanked the door open only to find my security detail blocking his path. I moved behind him, close enough that he could likely feel my breath on his neck.
"Going somewhere?" I asked, enjoying his startled reaction.
He turned slowly to face me, his back pressed against the door frame. "Would you believe I just remembered a dental appointment?"
I couldn't help but smile at that. It was small, barely there, but the first genuine one I'd given in quite some time.
This unexpected intruder with the ability to make phones dance across desks had somehow managed to awaken both my protective instincts and desires that had lain dormant for decades.
How very inconvenient… and how very intriguing.
Before I could explore the strange pull this young intruder had on me, heavy footsteps thundered down the hallway. Not the measured steps of my security team—these were impatient, aggressive, the sound of men who thought their urgency trumped everyone else's rules.
I pivoted slightly, positioning myself between the desk and the door without making it obvious. My bear, usually content to observe human interactions with disinterest, suddenly surged with protective fury.
Mine. Protect. Hide him.
The door flew open without so much as a knock. Territorial violation number two of the evening, and this one far less appealing than the first.
Two men burst into my office—the same ones my ma?tre d' had mentioned.
One was weasel-faced with nicotine-stained fingers, the other built like his neck and shoulders had merged sometime in adolescence and never bothered to separate.
Both wore cheap suits that strained at the seams and expressions that suggested thinking wasn't their primary skill set.
O'Rourke really needed to upgrade his hiring standards.
"You Aleksandrovich?" the neck-optional one demanded, his eyes darting around my office before settling on me.
A century of dealing with disrespectful intrusions had taught me the value of silence. I simply stared at him, letting the weight of my gaze do the work. Men like these—they'd fill any silence with increasingly nervous chatter.
"We're looking for someone," he continued, shifting his weight. "Young guy, blond hair, green eyes. Skinny. Ran in here about a few minutes ago."
I remained perfectly still, my expression a blank canvas of indifference. Behind me, I could hear the quickened breathing of the young man they sought. His scent spiked with fear, which made my bear growl internally.
"We know he's here," Weasel-face added, stepping forward with more confidence than wisdom. "He belongs to Mr. O'Rourke. Stole something valuable."
At that, I finally spoke, my voice low and controlled. "In my establishment, nothing 'belongs' to Patty O'Rourke."
The way I said O'Rourke's name—like I was discussing something I'd scraped off the bottom of my shoe—didn't go unnoticed.
Both men stiffened.
"Look, we don't want trouble," Neck-optional said, his tough-guy act already cracking. "We just need to collect our property and go."
"Property," I repeated, letting the word hang in the air between us.
I took a single step forward, and both men instinctively stepped back. Good. At least their survival instincts were functioning, even if their manners weren't.