Chapter 4
Nikolai
Our footsteps echoed down the corridor—hers fast, clipped, like she was trying to outrun something. Maybe him. Maybe herself. Maybe me.
The noise of the arena faded behind us. Just distant thunder now. Unimportant.
I walked a pace behind, eyes sharp. She moved like a soldier retreating from battle—composed, but barely. I saw the way her wrist flinched every few steps, the one he grabbed. Her shoulders were coiled tight, breath shallow. But she didn’t crumble.
No theatrics. No tears.
Just silence. Controlled. Hard.
“Car’s this way,” I said.
Not an offer. Not a request. Just fact.
She didn’t stop. Didn’t say thank you. Her head turned briefly toward the hallway behind us, like she could still feel him breathing down her neck. Then she nodded once—sharp, no nonsense—and kept walking. Past me.
I fell in beside her.
The silence was not awkward. It was thick. Tense. Familiar, to me at least. The kind that lived in trenches and aftershocks. Most people ran from it. She didn’t.
I respected that.
The scent of sweat, blood, and cheap antiseptic still hung in the air. Arena smells. War smells. Her pace never slowed. Not until we hit the doors and the cold night air slid between us like a blade.
Parking lot lights hummed above. My car sat near the edge of the lot—black, low to the ground, engine still warm from earlier. Sleek. Efficient. Like me.
She looked at it once. Didn’t say a word.
Good.
Words now would be a waste.
I watched her out of the corner of my eye. Her chest was rising too fast. Breathing hard but trying not to show it. Her fists were tight. Like she didn’t know if she wanted to scream, cry, or punch something.
Probably all three.
“Are you sure you want to ride?” I asked, not because I doubted. But because I believed in clarity. Always give someone the last out before they step into something they can’t walk back.
She glanced at me—just a flick of the eyes. Then away again. A nod.
Fine.
I pressed the key fob. My car chirped once, headlights flashing.
I opened the door for her, and she slid into the passenger seat without hesitation. But I saw the way she exhaled as the door closed—just a flicker of vulnerability. The kind most men miss.
Not me.
I closed her door gently. Walked around. No rush.
The engine turned over, low and smooth.
I said nothing. Neither did she.
She looked straight ahead. Jaw set. Eyes distant.
And I knew we were both thinking the same thing.
Whatever line had been drawn tonight, we had stepped over it.
Now there was no going back.
The silence inside the car wasn’t peaceful.
It was pressurized—like a sealed chamber waiting to rupture. The hum of the engine was the only sound, steady and low. No music. No words. Just road and breath and tension.
I kept my hands firm on the wheel. My posture straight. Eyes on the lane.
I drove the way I played: no wasted motion, no noise, no chaos. Every turn was calculated. Every second accounted for.
Mina sat beside me, arms folded tight, shoulders locked, her jaw like stone. She didn’t speak. Didn’t look at me.
She didn’t need to.
I saw everything in the way her fingers tapped restlessly against her thigh. The way she exhaled through her nose every few seconds like she was holding something back just to keep it together.
“You shouldn’t have been there,” I said finally. “With him.”
Not judgment. Not anger. Just truth.
Her head whipped toward me like I’d slapped her. Her eyes—sharp. Defiant. Alive.
“I wasn’t yours to protect,” she said.
It hit deeper than I expected.
Not because she was wrong.
Because she wasn’t.
I let the words hang there like smoke curling in the dark—acrid, uninvited, undeniable.
“I’m not trying to protect you,” I said after a long moment. “Just stating facts.”
She scoffed. Quiet. But not empty.
There was something else beneath the sarcasm. A tremor. She was fire, yes—but I knew fire. Hers wasn’t burning for the sake of destruction. It was burning to survive.
“Facts?” she said, leaning back, eyes locked on mine like a challenge. “Is that what you call it? Your bets? Your games?”
“Games?” I repeated, shaking my head once. Annoyed. But not just that. Intrigued. “This isn’t the same.”
“Isn’t it?” she snapped. “You think just because you skate fast and hit hard, you get to act like this gives you some kind of claim over me?”
“I don’t want claim.” My voice was sharper now, edged with something I didn’t care to name. “I want clarity.”
Her breath caught. Not much. Just a slight pause. But I heard it. Felt it.
“You think you can swoop in and play the savior?” she said. “You don’t know anything about me.”
She was right. I didn’t.
But I wanted to.
“Maybe not everything,” I said quietly, eyes on the road. “But you’re worth knowing.”
It was too honest. I knew it the moment I said it. I hated the sound of it in my mouth.
Too real. Too close.
The silence that followed was no longer heavy. It was charged.
She didn’t speak. I didn’t look.
But something between us had shifted.
Not softened.
Tightened.
Wound around us like wire drawn taut—and neither of us was ready to cut it loose.
The engine hummed beneath my hands, low and steady.
Outside, the road stretched ahead like a wound still bleeding light. The city blurred past—cold, indifferent. But my thoughts weren’t on the road. Not really.
They were still back on the ice.
Mikel’s face—twisted in rage, eyes wild—right before I dropped him. I could’ve done more. It would’ve taken nothing to snap his jaw clean. Break a rib. Humiliate him the way he tried to humiliate her.
But I didn’t.
Not because of the refs. Not because of the penalty.
Because she was watching.
I didn’t want her to see that side of me. Not yet.
I clenched the steering wheel tighter. My knuckles stretched white beneath the skin.
What had started as ego—locker room posturing, a stupid bet to get under his skin—had turned into something else. Something I hadn’t signed up for. I didn’t like surprises. I didn’t like losing control.
And Mina? She was all sharp edges and fire under pressure—impossible to control.
It should have irritated me.
Instead, it made my blood burn.
I replayed the fight in my head, the shifts on the ice, the way my body moved without hesitation—efficient, deadly. Winning was what I did. I expected it. But this wasn’t about winning anymore.
This was about her.
And I didn’t know what to do with that.
She shifted beside me, drawing my attention. A small movement. Barely noticeable. But in the silence, it echoed.
She stared out the window, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
She didn’t fear me. That was dangerous.
Most people feared me. They should.
Her reflection in the side mirror caught the streetlights—flashes of cheekbone and lashes and the curve of her jaw, defiant even in shadow.
Then she spoke. Quiet. Sharp. “Why do you care?”
I didn’t answer right away. My mind scanned the road out of instinct, but her voice stayed lodged somewhere in my chest.
“About what?” I said, even though I knew what she meant.
“Him.”
One word. Loaded. Precise.
I shrugged like it didn’t matter. “I don’t.”
The lie landed heavy between us. Not even dressed up.
She turned her head slightly, just enough to look at me. Not full on. Just enough to let me feel it.
Her eyes weren’t soft. They weren’t angry, either.
They were curious.
Curiosity was worse. It meant she was paying attention.
And for some reason, that unsettled me more than her silence ever did.
I looked back at the road. Focused on the lines. The motion. Anything but her.
Because if I let myself stare back, I wasn’t sure what I’d do next.
And I needed to be sure.
Always.
I pulled up to the house.
Sleek. Modern. Black glass and matte steel nestled in the trees like a secret no one was supposed to find. It wasn’t built to impress. It was built to disappear. Quiet. Private. Efficient.
Like me.
Mina stared.
Her eyes swept over the facade, catching on the hard edges and cold angles. She didn’t say anything at first. Just stared like the house might explain something about me that I hadn’t said out loud.
Eventually, she asked, “This it?”
I didn’t look at her when I answered. “Temporary quarters.” Then I added, “Prison or palace. Depends on your mood.”
Dry. Flat. Truth with a smile’s edge.
She rolled her eyes. Sharp. Tired. Still defiant.
Good. She wasn’t broken.
“Very funny,” she muttered, arms crossing over her chest like armor. “Does this place come with a guard dog or just overpriced furniture?”
I smirked. Couldn’t help it. The bite in her voice was sharper than any chirp I’d heard on the ice this season. “Only if you behave.”
Her eyebrows lifted, mouth twisting into something dangerously close to a smirk of her own. “Behave? You think that earns me choices in here?”
I tilted my head, watching her. The air between us wasn’t just tense—it was alive. Something thrummed just under the surface, an unspoken dare.
“I treat royalty well,” I said. Then leaned against the car door, folding my arms. “Come in. Or don’t.”
A beat.
Then she stepped out of the car.
Her boots hit the gravel with purpose. Not hesitation.
She didn’t look at me, just moved toward the door like she owned her decision—even if it burned.
I followed, hands in my coat pockets, gaze fixed on her back.
“Why not get something cozy?” she asked, voice light but laced with skepticism. “Like a cabin. Something with soul.”
“Cozy doesn’t win championships.”
The answer came too easily. Too automatic.
She snorted—almost laughed. “God, you really don’t know when to turn it off, do you?”
She didn’t slow down. She didn’t look back.
But that didn’t mean she wasn’t paying attention.
Neither was I.
The space between us—physical, emotional—was shrinking by the second. And I wasn’t sure if I should widen it again or close it completely.
The night was silent when we reached the door. The final line.
My hand hovered over the key panel. I glanced at her.
Still standing. Still here.
Maybe she didn’t trust me.
But she was walking into my world, anyway.
And that?
That meant everything.
The door opened with a soft click. I stepped aside to let her in first. She didn’t hesitate. Just crossed the threshold like it meant nothing.
But it did.
To both of us.
Inside, the house was quiet. Dim. Clean. Every line intentional. No clutter. No softness.
Mina paused in the entryway, arms still crossed, gaze sweeping across the dark hardwood floors and the glass-paneled staircase. She didn’t comment.
Good.
She wasn’t here for aesthetics.
I shut the door behind us and locked it.
She turned to face me, chin tilted like she expected a lecture—or a fight.
I gave her neither.
“I’ll keep this simple,” I said.
Her eyes narrowed.
“You belong to me for thirty days.”
She opened her mouth—but I raised a hand before she could speak.
“Not like that. I won’t touch you unless you ask me to. But you’re here. You agreed. So now, you follow my rules.”
A muscle ticked in her jaw. “You make it sound like I signed up for a hostage situation.”
“You followed me willingly. There is no misunderstanding here.”
Her eyes flashed. “You don’t own me, Volkov.”
“No,” I agreed. “But for thirty days, I hold you.”
“Like that’s any better,” she muttered.
I stepped closer—not threatening. Just enough to let her feel the difference in energy. I didn’t need volume. I had presence.
“I won’t hurt you. I don’t raise hands to women. But I won’t lie to you either. You sleep in my bed.”
That got her.
Her arms tightened. “I’m not sleeping with you.”
“I didn’t say with me.”
I saw the tension flicker in her posture.
“I’ll take the couch,” she said, like she’d decided something final. "Or the guest bedroom. I'm sure you have a few of those."
“No.”
Her brows shot up. “Excuse me?”
“My bed. My house. My terms. You sleep where I tell you.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am always serious.”
The silence stretched. I let it. I wanted her to sit in it—to feel the control without cruelty. To understand the weight of a situation without force.
Finally, she huffed. Pushed a hand through her hair. “You’re lucky I didn’t bring pepper spray.”
I allowed a small smirk. “It wouldn’t have worked. But I admire the thought.”
She glared.
I didn’t blink.
Eventually, she turned away, muttering something under her breath as she walked deeper into the house.
I didn’t follow immediately.
I just stood there, letting the quiet settle again—letting her claim space she didn’t realize she already occupied.
This was day one.
And I had already stopped thinking of it as a bet.
She was still standing stiff, arms folded across her chest like she expected the walls to close in.
So I offered her the smallest olive branch I knew.
“Come,” I said. “I’ll cook you something.”
That got her attention.
Her head tilted, skeptical. “You know how to cook?”
I nodded once. “My mother taught me.”
That made her blink. She didn’t have a snarky comeback for that. Just stared at me like she was trying to decide whether I’d just lied or grown a second head.
I walked toward the kitchen without waiting. She followed. Curious, wary.
The space was as clean and sharp as the rest of the house—black marble counters, matte gray cabinets, steel appliances that practically gleamed. It wasn’t warm. But it was efficient.
She paused near the island, her hand brushing along the cool stone surface.
“You know,” she said slowly, “for a professional hockey player, this house is surprisingly…” She looked around again, brow furrowed. “Basic.”
I opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of eggs, a few vegetables. “I didn’t realize I had a princess on my hands.”
She snorted. “No, it’s…” Her voice softened. “I like it.”
I glanced over my shoulder.
She was still watching the room like it might reveal a secret. But there was something new in her expression now—something that wasn’t suspicion.
I smirked. Just a little.
“Good,” I said. “I hate clutter.”
I cracked an egg cleanly into the pan. She leaned against the counter, arms still crossed—but her body had eased slightly. Shoulders lower. Chin no longer raised like a shield.
Silence settled in again, but it wasn’t the strained kind. It was real.
She didn’t say anything else right away.
Neither did I.
But the space between us had shifted—just a fraction.
And I could feel it.