Chapter Nine
~ Nicolai ~
I shrugged out of my coat as the penthouse door closed behind me, my mind still tangled with the details from Yuri's security briefing. The meetings were becoming more frequent—and more concerning—as word of Mishka's abilities spread through certain circles.
I loosened my tie with a heavy sigh. Decads of building and maintaining my territory, and suddenly I found myself playing protector to a boy who could crash my entire empire with a touch. And yet, I couldn't bring myself to regret it.
I rolled my shoulders, feeling the familiar tension that came with these discussions. Yuri had been thorough, as always. Our enemy list was growing. O'Rourke's people had been spotted in three locations near our territory boundaries.
Two new hackers had been brought in, clearly trying to track electronic footprints. Even the agency director—a woman who typically operated through six layers of proxies—had made inquiries through less obscure channels.
They all wanted what I now possessed—a young man who could manipulate electronic systems with nothing but his thoughts and fingertips. An electronic manipulator. The rarest of rare talents in our world of supernatural oddities.
And none of them would touch him.
The thought came with a possessive growl that I didn't bother to suppress. My bear was closer to the surface these days, a fact Yuri had pointed out with raised eyebrows during our meeting.
Not in words, of course. Yuri knew better than to directly question my behavior. But the concern had been there, written in the slight furrow of his brow and the careful way he'd phrased his security recommendations.
I rounded the corner to the main living area and paused, taking in the sight before me.
Mishka was sprawled across my leather sofa, one leg draped over the armrest, the other planted on the floor.
His fingers danced across the screen of a tablet that he hastily set aside when he noticed my presence.
He didn't startle. He never startled. Even with my silent approach—a habit formed over decades of predatory existence—he always seemed to sense me before I made my presence known.
"Finding more ways to improve my security, malysh?" I asked, the Russian endearment slipping out before I could catch it.
Mishka's lips curved into that smirk that simultaneously irritated and enthralled me. "Maybe I'm just playing Candy Crush."
I snorted, crossing the room to pour myself a drink. "That would be a criminal waste of your talents. Like using bear claws to open tuna cans."
"I bet you do exactly that when nobody's around," he retorted, rolling to his side to watch me. "Big, scary crime boss sitting alone in his kitchen, shredding tuna cans with his claws while watching cooking shows."
The ridiculous image pulled an unexpected chuckle from me. "You have a vivid imagination."
"So I've been told." His eyes followed me as I sipped my whiskey, appraising me with an intensity that still caught me off guard. "How was your meeting with The Watchdog?"
I raised an eyebrow at the nickname. "Yuri is concerned, as he should be."
"About me?"
"About everything." I studied him over the rim of my glass. "You've stirred up a hornet's nest, malysh."
"Not intentionally." He shrugged, the movement causing his oversized sweater—my oversized sweater, I realized—to slip off one pale shoulder.
My gaze lingered on the exposed skin, on the marks I'd left there the night before. Mine. The thought caught me off guard with its intensity, its certainty. It wasn't just protection I offered anymore, wasn't just shelter from those who hunted him.
Something fundamental had shifted between us, something that made my bear pace with agitation and satisfaction in equal measure.
"Intentional or not," I said, forcing my thoughts back to the matter at hand, "we have increased security protocols. You'll need to be more careful about your electronic... wanderings."
"You're no fun." He sighed dramatically, but I could see the understanding in his eyes. He knew the dangers better than most.
"Fun isn't what's kept me alive for over a century."
"No? What a shame." He stretched languidly before holding his arms out invitingly. "You should try it sometime."
I stared at the picture he made—young, beautiful, dangerous in ways most couldn't comprehend—and felt my focus dissolve. The security briefing, the threat assessments, the territorial considerations... all of it faded to background noise against the pounding of my heart.
What the hell was wrong with me? I was a century-old crime boss, a bear shifter who had faced down rivals and enemies without flinching. I'd built an empire on calculated decisions and ruthless follow-throughs. I didn't get distracted by pretty boys with clever tongues and dangerous abilities.
Except, apparently, I did.
I set my glass down with more force than necessary. "You're playing a dangerous game, Mishka."
His smile widened, revealing the flash of teeth that never failed to stir something primal in me. "Only if you're losing, Nicolai."
The use of my name—not "boss" or any of the other titles people typically used—sent a shiver down my spine. In his mouth, my name sounded like both challenge and invitation. And God help me, I had never been able to resist either.
"Come here," Mishka purred, and like a man under a spell, I moved toward him. My feet carried me across the room without conscious thought, drawn by the invitation in those blue eyes.
I'd faced down rival syndicate leaders, government agents, and supernatural threats with unshakeable resolve, but this boy with his clever hands and knowing smile had me responding to commands as if they were my own desires.
Perhaps they were.
I braced my hands on the back of the sofa, caging him between my arms as I leaned down, my lips brushing against the sensitive skin of his neck.
"You're giving orders now, malysh?" I growled, inhaling deeply. His scent was intoxicating—a mix of my expensive soap, the faint metallic tang that seemed to accompany his abilities, and something uniquely him.
Something I'd begun to crave.
Mishka tilted his head, offering more of his neck in a gesture that satisfied something primal in me. "Not orders," he whispered, his fingers already working at my belt with practiced ease. "Just enthusiastic suggestions."
I huffed out a laugh against his skin, feeling his pulse quicken under my lips. His fingers were deft, unfaltering—the same fingers that could bring down security systems and manipulate digital networks now focused entirely on undoing my clothing.
The thought sent a rush of heat through me.
"Is that what we're calling it now?" I murmured, nipping at his earlobe and drawing a soft gasp from him.
"Would you prefer I beg?" The belt came loose, followed by the button of my trousers. "Because that can be arranged."
The image his words conjured—Mishka begging, desperate—triggered something in me, something possessive and hungry. I straightened, catching his wrists in one hand and pulling them above his head as I pushed him back against the cushions.
"Careful what you offer," I warned before claiming his mouth in a kiss that was nothing short of ravenous.
He moaned against my lips, his body arching up to meet mine. I could feel his hardness pressing against my thigh, feel the heat of him even through our clothing. He tasted faintly of the mint tea he favored, and beneath that, something sweet and addictive that I couldn't name.
This boy will be the death of me, I thought as I released his wrists to tug at the sweater he wore. My sweater. The sight of him in my clothing stirred something possessive in me that I'd rather not examine too closely.
He raised his arms obligingly, allowing me to pull the garment over his head and toss it aside. "So eager," he teased, but I could hear the breathlessness in his voice, see the flush spreading across his pale chest.
"You have no idea," I replied, my hands already working at the drawstring of his sweatpants—also mine, I noted with satisfaction.
I stripped away the remaining barriers between us, revealing pale skin marked with bruises and bites from our previous encounters. Rather than feeling shame at the evidence of my lack of control, I felt a surge of pride.
I bent to add to the collection, trailing possessive kisses and nips down his chest, across his ribs, to the sharp jut of his hipbones.
Mishka arched beneath me, his fingers tangling in my hair. Sparks danced across my scalp where he touched me—literal sparks, tiny pulses of electricity that sent shivers down my spine.
His abilities tended to leak when he was aroused, electronic manipulation bleeding into the air around us, raising the hair on my arms and quickening my pulse.
"You're wearing too many clothes," he complained, tugging at my partially undone shirt.
I sat back on my heels to shed the remainder of my clothing, aware of his hungry gaze following every movement. His lips curved into a satisfied smile as my erection sprang free, hard and aching for his touch.
Before I could move to cover him again, he caught my wrist, guiding my hand between his legs. My fingers slid past his cock, heavy and leaking against his stomach, to the cleft of his ass. I found him already slick and open, ready for me.
"You prepared yourself," I observed, my voice rough with desire as I eased a finger into him, feeling the give of his body.
His head fell back against the cushions, throat working as he swallowed. "I was thinking ahead."
"Were you now?" I added a second finger, watching his face as I curved them to stroke against the spot that made him gasp and arch. "Presumptuous of you."
"Crime bosses aren't the only ones who can plan, Nicolai." My name on his lips was a challenge and a plea.