Chapter Three
~ Mishka ~
The elevator doors closed with a soft hiss, trapping me in a metal box with a bear shifter crime boss who'd just declared me under his protection.
Great.
Just when I thought my day couldn't get any more surreal.
Nicolai's massive frame took up more than his fair share of the space, his presence so overwhelming I could practically feel the heat radiating from his body as we ascended in tense silence.
I pressed myself against the opposite wall, trying to create as much distance as possible in the confined space. The elevator hummed beneath my feet, its electronic systems whispering to me like old friends. If things went south, I could stop it between floors with barely a thought.
Always have an escape plan. It's served me well so far.
"Your heartbeat is quite rapid," Nicolai observed, not even looking at me. "You can relax. If I wanted to harm you, I would have done so already."
"That's exactly what someone planning to harm me later would say," I shot back.
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Fair point."
The elevator continued its smooth ascent, floor numbers lighting up one after another. I noticed there was no button for the top floor—just a keycard slot that Nicolai had activated with a wave of his hand.
Exclusive access.
Figures.
"So," I ventured, desperate to break the suffocating silence, "is 'bear shifter' the politically correct term or do you prefer 'were-bear'? 'Ursine-American', perhaps?"
This time, a full smile ghosted across his lips. "Bear shifter is fine."
"Just checking. I try to be sensitive to the supernatural community's preferred classification."
The elevator slowed, then stopped. When the doors slid open, Nicolai gestured for me to go ahead of him—a gentleman mobster.
How quaint.
"After you," he said.
"So you can watch my back or stab it?" I asked, but stepped out anyway.
I immediately froze, taking in the space before me. Penthouse didn't quite cover it. This was more like a luxury fortress.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the snow-blanketed city, lights twinkling against the night sky like earthbound stars. The ceiling soared overhead, making even Nicolai's imposing height seem proportional.
"Welcome to my den," he said, moving past me toward the windows.
Den. Cute bear pun.
I wonder if he even realizes he was making them.
The space was a study in masculine elegance—dark mahogany furniture, rich leather sofas that probably cost more than my entire life savings, plush throws draped strategically, and ambient lighting that created pockets of warmth in the vast room.
A massive fireplace dominated one wall, its flames dancing behind tempered glass.
"Nice place," I quipped, hugging myself against a residual chill that had nothing to do with temperature. "Very crime-boss-chic. Do all mobsters have the same interior decorator or did you pioneer the look?"
Nicolai turned, those intense eyes studying me with an expression I couldn't quite read. "You use humor as a shield," he observed.
"And you use intimidation as small talk," I countered. "We all have our coping mechanisms."
My fingers twitched as I registered the electronic symphony surrounding us—security cameras in discrete corners, motion sensors hidden in decorative elements, an advanced alarm system humming beneath it all.
My ability let me feel each component like individual instruments in an orchestra. If needed, I could conduct them all to my advantage. The security system alone probably cost more than most houses.
Nicolai moved to a control panel near the kitchen entrance, his fingers dancing over it briefly. "I've deactivated the internal motion sensors," he explained. "You may move freely within the apartment without setting off alarms."
"How considerate of you to disable the cage after I'm already in it."
He turned to face me, leaning against the wall with casual grace that belied his size. "This isn't a cage, Mishka. It's sanctuary."
"That’s what you think," I muttered, drifting further into the room, putting distance between us while examining my surroundings more carefully.
A shelf near the fireplace held books—actual paper books, many with spines so worn they had to be decades old. Languages I recognized and several I didn't.
Another shelf displayed what looked like antique Russian nesting dolls beside modern art pieces. The contrasts were everywhere—old and new, traditional and contemporary, refined and primal.
Just like their owner.
I gravitated toward the windows, drawn by the spectacular view. Snow continued to fall, adding to the several inches already blanketing the streets below. From this height, even O'Rourke's men would look like ants.
If they could even find me here.
"Drink?" Nicolai offered, moving to a bar cart that gleamed with crystal decanters.
"I told you earlier—I don't accept drinks from strangers."
"We've graduated beyond strangers, I think," he replied, pouring amber liquid into a glass for himself. "But I respect your caution."
I continued circling the room, noting minimal exits, numerous cameras, and the subtle shifts in Nicolai's posture as he tracked my movements without seeming to. He was allowing me to explore, but I had no doubt he was mapping my every step, just as I was mapping every electronic pulse around us.
"So what's the plan here?" I asked finally, coming to rest against the back of a leather sofa. "I sleep on your fancy couch while O'Rourke's goons circle the block? You parade me around as your new pet electronic manipulator? I become your secret weapon in some underground crime boss showdown?"
Nicolai took a measured sip of his drink before answering. "The plan is to keep you safe until we determine our next move."
"Our next move?" I raised an eyebrow. "That's presumptuous."
"Is it?" He set his glass down and crossed the room toward me, each step deliberate. "You're in danger, Mishka. O'Rourke won't stop hunting you. Whatever your ability is worth to him, I guarantee he's already devoted significant resources to recovering you."
I swallowed hard, acutely aware of his approach. "And what's my ability worth to you?"
He stopped a few feet away, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "That depends on what you can do with it."
"I could shut down every electronic system in this building with a thought," I said, a hint of challenge in my voice. "Kill the elevator. Disable security. Plunge us into darkness."
"I'm aware," he replied, seeming entirely untroubled by the threat. "Just as you're aware that I could shift forms and tear through steel doors if necessary. Yet here we are, having a civilized conversation."
His calm confidence was infuriating, and oddly compelling.
"This is temporary," I insisted, more to myself than to him. "Until O'Rourke gives up or finds someone else to harass."
"Of course," Nicolai agreed, though something in his tone suggested he knew better. "In the meantime, consider this space yours as well. The guest room is through that door. You'll find everything you need. I had Sergei bring up some clothes that should fit."
The thoughtfulness of the gesture caught me off guard. "You had this all planned before I even agreed to come up here, didn't you?"
A small smile played at his lips. "I prefer to be prepared for favorable outcomes."
"Pretty confident for someone who just met me hiding under his desk."
"I trust my instincts," he said simply. "They're rarely wrong."
Something in the way he looked at me then—intense, almost hungry—sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with fear. This man, this predator, had decided I was worth protecting, worth keeping close.
And the most troubling part? I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to run.
My stomach growled loud enough to echo off the marble countertops.
Embarrassing.
I hadn't realized how hungry I was until the adrenaline from my escape started wearing off. Nicolai glanced at me, one eyebrow raised in that annoyingly perfect arch that probably took decades of crime boss practice to perfect.
"Hungry?" he asked, stating the obvious with infuriating calm.
"No, my internal organs are just practicing their whale calls," I replied, crossing my arms over my traitorous stomach.
That almost-smile appeared again as he moved toward what had to be the most intimidatingly perfect kitchen I'd ever seen.
Gleaming stainless steel appliances, marble countertops, and a center island big enough to land a small aircraft on.
The kind of kitchen that appeared in magazines where they photographed lifestyles no one actually lived.
"Sit," he instructed, gesturing to the bar stools at the island. "I'll make something."
I blinked in surprise. "You cook?"
"I've been alive for over a century. I've picked up a few skills." He shrugged those massive shoulders as he opened a refrigerator that probably cost more than my entire education. "Contrary to popular belief, one cannot survive on intimidation and territorial disputes alone."
I reluctantly perched on one of the bar stools, watching as he moved around the kitchen with unexpected grace.
For someone so large, he navigated the space with efficient precision, like he'd mapped every inch of it. Which, knowing what I did about him already, he probably had.
Even crime bosses needed hobbies, I guess. Extortion and gourmet cooking—the perfect work-life balance.
"Is borscht acceptable?" he asked, already pulling ingredients from the refrigerator.
"Is that the beet soup thing?"
He looked mildly offended. "It's not just 'the beet soup thing.' It's a traditional Eastern European dish with complex flavors and cultural significance."
"Right. Sorry I offended your soup sensibilities." I rolled my eyes. "Yes, borscht is fine. Anything edible that doesn't come with handcuffs as a side dish is an upgrade from my evening so far."
Nicolai moved with methodical efficiency, chopping vegetables with the precision of someone who knew their way around a knife.