36. DARIA
Chapter thirty-six
T he cabin was quiet. It was the kind of stillness that felt unnatural after everything that had happened. The suite was larger than I’d expected, with a bed that looked like it belonged in a five-star hotel instead of a getaway vessel. There were small porthole windows running along one wall that would, thankfully, let in natural light. The closet, filled with clothes and shoes, stood open. I guess it was Nikolai’s way of making sure I had everything I needed for wherever the hell we were headed.
I toed off the heels and pressed my feet against the cool floor, wincing as a dull ache spread through my soles. The dress—once beautiful, now ruined—hung pitifully from my exhausted body, wrinkled and stiff from dried blood. I shuffled to the en suite, suddenly feeling dead tired. Gripping the zipper, I pulled down and let the dress fall around my feet. I picked it up and ripped the stitching apart, recovering my passport and other items Svetlana had hidden.
Once again, the photo of my mother made tears sting my eyes. Her smile hit harder than it should have. I laid my things on the counter, but my gaze stayed on her.
She’d been wearing her pearls in that picture. The same ones I had around my neck now. The only two things in the world I had left of her—this photo, and the necklace she used to wear before the Devil tore our lives apart.
I twisted the strand between my fingers, slow and absent, wishing—just for a moment—that life had been different. That I could’ve grown up with her instead of being forged by him. But the past was a locked door. I could stare at it all I wanted. It wouldn’t open.
My fingers moved to the clasp. I hesitated, then removed the pearls and laid them gently beside the photo. For now, they belonged with her.
Glancing up, I caught my reflection in the mirror and barely recognized myself. The shadows beneath my eyes were deeper than I’d ever seen them. God, I felt old. I’d always been pale, but now I looked like something dragged back from the dead. It had been a hell of a few weeks.
My arm throbbed, a pulsing pain radiating from the wound Braxton had patched up. I’d suffered torture and been beaten in the past, but the impromptu surgery in the freezer had been the worst pain I’d ever felt. The experience would haunt my dreams for the rest of my days. I untied the makeshift bandage and tossed it in the trash. The skin around the incision was swollen and a bit warm to the touch, the superglue holding the edges together barely enough to keep it sealed. The thought of stepping into the shower sent a fresh wave of irritation through me. Water might loosen the glue, and I wasn’t in the mood to rip it open just to get clean.
I exhaled hard and moved into the closet. Shifting through the items there, I found a pair of gray sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt. They were soft and comfortable, nothing like the constricting dress I’d worn to Malinov’s party. I tugged them on, rolling the waistband of the pants down once to make them fit better. The comfort was a relief, but it did nothing to settle my thoughts. I sat on the edge of the bed and pressed my fingers against my forehead, trying to sort through the wreckage in my mind.
Braxton.
Had it been a mistake to help this stray dog of a man caught in the crossfire of a war he barely understood? He was just a paramedic who’d come to volunteer and try to make the world a little better for those in need, and he’d been dropped straight into the Russian meat grinder. I probably should have left him there in that abandoned house. And the second the Russians took him, I should have walked away and let them do what they always did.
But I hadn’t.
Because there was something about him—his stubbornness, his quiet strength and empathy, the way he met my gaze without fear—that had cracked something open inside me.
I had risked everything to pull him out of that nightmare, blown my cover, and destroyed any hope of ever going back. And for what?
For a man who’d turned out to be working with the last person I would have ever suspected.
I winced as the memory surfaced, raw and ugly. Braxton wasn’t just an American aid worker who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was tied to Nikolai Volkov—the man who’d handed me over to the Kremlin, my father, and ultimately Malinov like I was nothing. When I’d laid eyes on Nikolai just now, it had taken all that was in me not to claw his eyes out.
But what gutted me most was that Braxton had never said a damn word.
I had trusted him. I had let him in, shared things about myself I’d never told anyone—not just details of my life, but real pieces of me. I’d trusted him with not only my secrets but also my body. Our fun little romp in the river had been a diversion we’d both needed, but the way he’d touched me that night…had been so much more intimate. I’d never fallen asleep wrapped in a man’s arms. And then, just like every other man in my life, he had betrayed me.
The rage had carried me through everything after that—through the torture, the interrogations, the pain. I had held onto it, let it fuel me, let it build until I was ready to tear him apart with my bare hands.
And then—he’d come back for me.
Braxton, not Nikolai.
I had seen it in his eyes, the determination to protect me.
And that should have meant nothing. But it did.
What I needed was to snuggle up in this bed and leave Braxton and Nikolai to figure out the next steps—but I was way too restless. My arm was throbbing, and my thoughts were circling like vultures. I pushed off the bed and strode to the door, shoving it open.
I needed air. I needed to figure out my next steps.
And more than anything, I needed a reason to believe that saving Braxton Thorin hadn’t been the worst mistake of my life.
The main deck was quiet except for the steady hum of the engines beneath my feet. I moved through the open entertainment space, taking in the contrast between the yacht’s sleek luxury and the controlled chaos of Nikolai’s war room. The dining area—designed for extravagant feasts—had been repurposed as a command center. The massive round table, meant to seat twelve, was covered in monitors wired to laptops and enough surveillance tech to rival an intelligence agency. Cables snaked across the polished wood, connecting screens that displayed real-time feeds of Malinov’s estate.
Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the water of Neva Bay outside. The yacht pushed us steadily away from St. Petersburg, the city lights shrinking behind us. Focusing on the screens, I moved toward the full bar that was stretched along one side of the room, hoping to find a bottle of water. I was still shocked that I’d actually gotten out of Malinov’s grip alive. The level of precision and sheer intelligence it had taken to pull off the rescue was impressive. Even I had to admit that.
“So, no rest for the weary, huh?”
I flinched ever so slightly. Normally, I was good at picking up on someone at my back. Nikolai’s voice had come from behind, low and amused. My spine straightened as my mask fell back into place. Turning to face him, I locked eyes with him. He would never intimidate me. We were equals in the mafia world we’d been raised in. He braced a hand on a chair, watching me like he had expected me to wander in eventually.
He smirked. “Did I startle you?”
I didn’t answer. He let out a chuckle, soft and smug. “Relax, Melnichenko. If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have spent the last two weeks rearranging my life to save yours.”
He spread his arms in a lazy gesture toward the table. “Hell of a setup, right? I hated to take over such a beautiful space with all this equipment, but I needed eyes on everything during your rescue and for what’s coming.”
I dragged my fingers over the back of one of the chairs, keeping my distance from him. “And why would my rescue be so important to you?”
His smirk faded, and I noticed something cautious in his expression. “Maybe we should start properly.” He extended a hand. “Nikolai Volkov. But you already knew that.”
I didn’t take it.
He dropped his arm, unfazed. “You’re uneasy around me. I get it. I’m not exactly the type of person you trust easily.” He hummed, something like amusement crossing his face. “You think you know me, don’t you?”
I shifted, resting a hand on the bar beside me, tracing the rim of a crystal tumbler.
Nikolai’s eyes followed the movement. “Let’s make something clear—I’m not my father. Just like you’re not yours.” His voice had lost its casual tone, something sharper sitting beneath it. “I could give you a rehearsed speech about how I don’t work for any government, but let’s just say my loyalty has never been to any flag. My priority has always been my sister.”
Something about that surprised me. I wouldn’t have taken him for a loving brother.
Nikolai tilted his head slightly, watching me. “Anastasia—she was taken from our home in St. Petersburg when she was twelve and shipped off to the US under a different name, all to further our parents’ ambitions. She was the only person I ever gave a damn about. The only one who has ever mattered.” His jaw tensed briefly before he relaxed it. “Maybe you understand that type of loyalty. Maybe you don’t.”
I swallowed, slowly edging my way to the other end of the bar and putting more space between us. “From where I stand,” I said, “you’ve always seemed happy to do your father’s bidding. Every time I’ve seen your face in the press, you’ve been smirking while reveling in whatever cruelty you’ve orchestrated. Why should I believe you’re any different than he is?”
Nikolai smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Why should I trust you ?” he asked, lifting a brow. “You haven’t just been your father’s tool—you were the Kremlin’s. And let’s not pretend you weren’t damn good at it.”
My fingers curled around the wooden bar top. He wasn’t wrong.
Nikolai stepped behind the bar and reached for a bottle of liquor, his movements casual and unhurried. The gold label on the bottle flashed in the low light—Louis XIII cognac, a kind of brandy meant for kings and criminals.
“You’re not the only one who had to claw their way out of their father’s shadow,” he said, his voice even as he uncorked the bottle with a twist.
He poured a measured stream of the amber liquid into two snifters. The liquor pooled rich and deep in the crystal.
Nikolai placed them onto a brass-plated spirit warmer, a polished stand that cradled the delicate glasses just above a controlled blue flame. The warmth licked at the crystal, coaxing the liquid to life.
“Are your accommodations to your liking?” he asked, his gaze sweeping across the windows. “I asked the chief steward to provide you with everything you would need for a comfortable voyage.”
“Thank you for thinking of me,” I said politely.
The brandy shimmered as the heat worked its way through, releasing the aromas of spice and dried fruit into the space between us. Nikolai intently watched the flame flickering over the glasses, doing so in the same way someone might watch the second hand of a clock, waiting for the precise moment when the brandy would be perfectly warmed. Then, with a steady hand, he lifted the glasses from the flame. He tested the heat against his palms and moved to stand in front of me.
“Perfect,” he murmured, offering me one without ceremony. “Have a drink. You look like you need it.”
I hesitated, but eventually my fingers closed around the bowl of the glass, brushing against his as I took it. I swirled the liquid lazily before taking a drink. It was just warm enough to soften the bite but not dull the edge.
Nikolai tapped his glass against mine and then took a slow sip, watching me over the rim. “You and I”—he set the glass down—“have both made some assumptions about each other.”
I leaned against the bar, rolling the warmed brandy in the glass. “That’s an understatement.”
He smirked. “You think I’m just my father’s heir. A puppet, just like you were supposed to be. A coldhearted asshole who doesn’t care about anyone but himself.”
I didn’t argue.
“But you?” Nikolai’s eyes narrowed slightly, assessing me. “You’re not as made of stone as you and everyone else think, Melnichenko. You’re not so unreadable. I watched you at Malinov’s, and again when you arrived a few minutes ago, and I see the way you look at Braxton—with a mix of betrayal and uncertainty, as if he handed you over to Malinov like other men who used you and threw you away in the past. I hate to break it to you, but Braxton’s about the only honest guy I’ve ever met. And trust me, I don’t say that lightly.”
My fingers tightened around the glass. “Honest men don’t lie.”
Nikolai let out a short breath and shook his head. “He didn’t lie. There was no right time or way for him to explain how he knew me. Besides, you don’t know the half of it.” He rubbed a thumb along the rim of his glass before leveling me with a steady gaze. “Braxton and his brothers got thrown into the underworld by accident. You ever hear about what happened to his brother Atticus’s fiancée, Samantha?”
I said nothing, but the name did ring a bell.
“Her father sold her to my father,” Nikolai continued. “Viktor kidnapped her, tried to rape her, and was about to take her back to Russia before Atticus and his brothers got involved.” His head tilted slightly. “You know that drill.”
My stomach tightened. I’d just been sold like property to Yakov Malinov. So yes, I knew very well, but I didn’t give him a reply.
Nikolai let the thought sit before continuing. “Long story short, Sam and Atticus’s ordeal got Viktor chased out of the US by the FBI. Coincidentally, my security firm—the one my father had no idea existed—was hired by Atticus to protect Sam. My relationship with my father was always complicated, at best. The irony? I was the one sent to clean up the mess Viktor’s removal left behind in the Pacific Northwest.”
I studied him carefully. His clean up had likely involved a lot of dead bodies.
“Now, I won’t get into what happened next,” Nikolai went on, swirling the brandy in his glass, “but let’s just say my sister Anastasia came after me, got in a car wreck, and while dealing with amnesia, fell for Braxton’s other brother.” His smirk deepened. “Poor Conan had no idea he was falling for a girl who had an arranged marriage contract to one of the biggest mafia families in the US—the Morettis. Trust me when I tell you, things went sideways fast.”
I set my drink down on the counter. “I’ve heard rumors.”
Nikolai raised an eyebrow. “Then you know it was a goddamn disaster.”
I tilted my head. “How did Braxton get so tangled up in all of it?”
Nikolai leaned against the bar, his expression losing some of its usual sharpness. “The Thorin brothers…they’ve been thick as thieves their whole lives. Trauma bonds people. They always have each other’s backs.” He tapped a finger against the counter. “Braxton followed Conan to Manhattan out of that same loyalty. And when shit went down? He didn’t run.”
I frowned slightly. “Meaning?”
Nikolai’s smirk faded. “Meaning I got shot. And Braxton, along with Conan, saved my life.”
The realization landed heavier than I wanted to admit. A life debt. That wasn’t a concept that needed explaining.
Nikolai’s gaze sharpened on me. “He’s as honest as the day is long. Never asks for anything. Never takes advantage. He’s a good man—the kind I don’t come across often.” A beat of silence passed before he added, “The closest thing I’ve ever had to an actual friend.”
I lifted my glass, taking a slow sip, watching Nikolai as I processed what he had told me. He wasn’t lying. I had spent a lifetime learning how to read men—how to spot deceit and find the weak points in their masks. Nikolai wasn’t weak, but he wasn’t hiding much either. Although, I wasn’t as certain of my powers of perception as I had once been, after Braxton had deceived me. And it had been a deception, regardless of his intentions.
Nikolai studied me like he was calculating how much to say next. “Braxton wanted to see the world and broaden his understanding. When I mentioned I had a home in Ukraine and that I preferred to live there instead of rotting in the shadows of Moscow, he got curious. Started asking questions about the war, about what it was really like—not just the shit his media feeds him.”
I rolled the glass between my fingers, listening with interest.
“Of course, I told him not to come,” Nikolai continued, tilting his head slightly as if recalling the moment. “Strongly suggested it, in fact. But, Braxton being Braxton, he ignored me and insisted on coming and then volunteered with the Global Food Outreach. Because he’s a fucking bleeding heart.”
Before I could respond, a voice came from the doorway.
“Well, shit. I take five minutes for a shower, and suddenly, I’m a bleeding heart?”
I turned as Braxton stepped into the room with that same infuriating half smirk playing at his lips.
My pulse jumped.
He had changed his clothes. Gone was the tuxedo that had made him look like some rogue MI6 operative. Now, in perfectly fitted dark jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt that stretched over his shoulders and chest just right, he didn’t just look good—he looked right. The tux had suited him, but this? This was him. Broad, powerful, at ease in his own skin. And, of course, his hair still had that perfect, effortless messiness that made it seem like he’d just rolled out of some magazine spread.
I forced myself to take another sip of brandy, pretending I wasn’t staring.
Nikolai grinned. “You are a bleeding heart, Thorin.”
Braxton stepped closer, rolling his shoulders. “Not how I’d describe myself, but sure.” His eyes flicked to me. “You two bonding?”
Nikolai smirked. “Just explaining to Daria why you’re not, in fact, a lying bastard.”
Braxton’s gaze held mine for a fraction too long before he released a breath, shaking his head. He walked up to the bar, scowling at Nikolai. “Fantastic. If she didn’t hate me enough already, I’m sure you defending me has done nothing but make her more suspicious.” He glanced over at me, his brows bouncing as he let out a humorless grunt.
Something about his tone and how he looked at me did funny things low in my belly. Everything Nikolai had just told me altered the picture I’d painted of Braxton in my mind.
Was I being too hard on him?
Nikolai let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You did good work tonight, rescuing the damsel in distress. Maybe I’ll make a mobster out of you yet.” He lifted the bottle of cognac and gestured to an empty chair. “Come sit. Have a drink. You’ve earned it.”
Braxton didn’t move right away, his gaze shifting between us like he was trying to measure the room. Finally, with a small shake of his head, he crossed the space and dropped into the seat Nikolai had indicated.
Nikolai went through the methodical process of warming another glass of brandy, like we had all the time in the world. We all watched in silence for a couple of minutes, and then Nikolai slid the glass toward Braxton, who picked it up and tilted it slightly before taking a slow sip.
“You’re awfully relaxed for a guy being chased by the Russian military and the Tambovskaya Bratva,” Braxton said, setting the glass down.
Nikolai smirked. “This isn’t my first time pissing off the wrong people.” He gestured vaguely toward the boat’s windows and the dark waters that stretched endlessly beyond. “I have the best captain and crew—Magnus Nygaard’s personal pick, and Magnus doesn’t hire idiots. This boat has outrun every government’s prying eyes from here to South America.” He shrugged, like none of that was impressive. “Magnus himself has more money than anyone on the planet, but you’ll never see his name in Forbes . Most of it is buried in banks across the world, where no one can touch it.”
Braxton shook his head. “Sounds like a good gig if you can get it and survive long enough to enjoy it.”
Nikolai lifted his glass in mock salute.
I rested my hip against the edge of a barstool, my fingers absently rubbing at my arm, trying to ease the dull, aching throb. The movement wasn’t subtle enough—Braxton’s gaze latched onto me immediately.
His expression darkened. “That needs to be cleaned and properly bandaged.”
I waved him off. “I’ll deal with it.”
“You’re exhausted,” he said, ignoring my dismissal. “You need to rest. You also need a medic.”
I scoffed. “Mother hen mode activated, I see. Look, I’m a damn adult, Braxton. I can take care of it by myself.”
Nikolai let out another laugh. “Yeah, good luck with that.” He stepped back up to the bar. “You know, he did the same thing to me after I got shot in Manhattan. Wouldn’t even let me stand up without freaking the fuck out.”
Braxton shot him a glare. “Shut up.”
Nikolai grinned. “You’re really attached to this whole savior complex, huh?”
Braxton crossed his arms. “It’s my job. I swore an oath to provide care.”
Nikolai’s grin widened. “Yeah? Pretty sure there are limits to care. Pretty sure you go too far.”
Braxton didn’t take the bait. Instead, he turned his attention back to me, nodding toward my arm. “You know that needs attention.”
Nikolai let out a dramatic sigh before walking toward the equipment-filled table. “Fine, fine. The boat has a full medical suite but no doctor or medic onboard.” He glanced at me. “You’re welcome to whatever supplies you need. There are plenty of pain meds and antibiotics.”
Braxton nodded. “Good to know.” Then he turned to me. “Let’s go, sweetheart, before you end up collapsing on the stool you’re perched on.”
I rolled my eyes, but the truth was, my arm did hurt, and I wasn’t in the mood to fight about it. I also wasn’t stupid; I couldn’t reach the wound to tend to it properly on my own.
Nikolai rattled off directions to the infirmary, and Braxton nodded before turning toward the hallway, shooting me an expectant look. I hesitated for half a second before pushing off the stool and following.
Braxton kept pace beside me, with his hand wrapped around my waist. His hold on me was firm, but it was also loose enough that I could have shaken him off if I wanted to.
I didn’t pull away. Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe it was the brandy, or maybe it was the fact that I wasn’t entirely sure what to do with him.
I wasn’t ready to let go of my anger. Not yet. Not after everything his silence had cost me.
But I wasn’t pushing him away either.
Braxton stepped into the infirmary first, scanning the space like he was taking inventory. The cabinets lining the walls appeared to be stocked with enough supplies to patch up a small army. There was gauze, surgical instruments, and even a few bags of IV fluids in a small fridge. A medical table took up the center of the room, the bright overhead lights throwing sharp shadows across the stainless steel.
Braxton let out a dry laugh. “This reminds me of the safe house we took Nik to after everything went down at the wedding in Manhattan. That place had medical gear that would make any hospital’s ED envious.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Pretty standard for mafia types. It’s not like they can just stroll into an emergency room with gunshot wounds without someone asking a few questions.”
Braxton shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this world.”
Before I could respond, he turned, grabbed me around the waist, and lifted me onto the table, plopping me down like I weighed nothing at all.
A gasp left my lips as my hands shot out, instinctively gripping his shoulders. The unexpected contact sent a jolt through me, something dangerously electric. The insides of my thighs brushed his hips, and our faces were inches apart. His grip on my waist was firm; he was entirely in control.
Braxton gave me a smirk—that cocky, knowing tilt of his lips that sent my mind straight back to the river, to the way his hands had skated down my sides and over my bare bottom, to the way he had made me forget everything except how much I burned for him.
His eyes locked onto mine, and I noticed his chest rise and fall slowly. He saw exactly where my mind had gone.
He let out a small grunt but didn’t push it further. Instead, he stepped back and started grabbing some of the supplies he needed.
“Hold still,” he said, leaning over to get a better look at my arm. His hands moved with gentleness as he examined the wound.
“This looks surprisingly good,” he muttered, more to himself than to me. “No signs of infection, no bleeding.”
He cleaned it, then picked up a packet of Steri-Strips to carefully reinforce the incision where he had closed it earlier. “I don’t want to risk it pulling open, so these will keep it together. And—” He reached for a small bottle of liquid adhesive, opened it, and squeezed a thin, precise layer over the wound. “This will seal it up. Waterproof, so you can shower without messing it up.”
My body relaxed under the care of his hands, and I found myself full of gratitude for how his fingers worked with surety, how he handled my injury like it mattered—like I mattered. He was rough when he needed to be but gentle when it counted.
“You’re good at this,” I said, more to distract myself than anything.
Braxton’s mouth twitched. “It’s my job, you know.”
When he finished, he tossed the used supplies aside and stepped in front of me again, reaching for my waist to lift me down.
The boat lurched hard.
Braxton’s grip tightened instinctively. My hands shot to his chest as gravity yanked us sideways. The next thing I knew, he was on top of me, his arms taking the brunt of the fall. He laid me gently on the table.
My back was pinned against the cold metal while his hand grasped my head to keep it from hitting anything. His chest—warm and solid—pressed into mine. His hips were wedged between my thighs, locking us into place as the boat rocked again, his cock grinding against my center.
My mind spun.
Braxton’s face hovered over mine, his breath warm and his pupils blown wide. His body rested firmly on mine, his heartbeat a steady thrum against my ribs.
Then his gaze dropped to my lips.
A pause. A hesitation.
Then a kiss—light, testing, barely there.
Heat flared under my skin. My fingers twisted into his hair, my body reacting before my mind could stop it. I tugged him down, crushing my mouth onto his.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was everything pent-up inside me, unleashing every moment, every touch, and every fight that had been building up since that first night in the abandoned house. His lips devoured mine while his hand fisted into my hair. The taste of brandy lingered between us, sweet and warm.
Braxton rumbled low in his throat, molding himself to me, demanding more, deepening the kiss with raw need.
Then—another violent shift.
The boat pitched hard, sending things tumbling to the floor. I gasped against his mouth, and the moment was shattered when my back slammed onto the table hard.
I shoved him away, my head spinning, my chest rising and falling fast.
“Guess we’re being chased,” I muttered, my tone of voice harsher than I’d intended.
Braxton pulled back fully. He exhaled, cracking his neck before reaching for me again—lifting me down from the table like nothing had just happened.
I landed on my feet. My body was still thrumming with too much tension, and there was too much heat between my legs.
“We need to find Nikolai,” I said, keeping my tone flat, trying to shove the moment down before it swallowed me whole.
Braxton shook his head. “No. You’re taking these”—he grabbed some antibiotics and painkillers from the counter and pressed them into my palm—“and getting in bed.”
I scoffed. “Excuse me?”
Braxton crossed his arms, every inch the unshakable paramedic now. “You’re taking the meds, eating something, and sleeping. I’ll go find out what’s happening. One of the staff will bring you food.” He stepped closer, dropping his tone as he said, “And don’t even try arguing. I won’t allow it.”
I clenched my jaw and stared up at him, studying this version of Braxton. This was a man who took control, who issued orders like they weren’t up for discussion.
I could argue. I should argue.
But my body was screaming for rest. And honestly? This wasn’t my fight.
I sighed, shaking my head, then took the medicine from him. “Fine.”
Braxton nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing as he opened the door and motioned for me to move. He followed me down the hallway, steadying me again when the boat swung to the side.
He stopped at my door, pushed it open, and waited. I stepped inside, glancing back just long enough to catch a small smile playing across his lips.
There were a thousand comebacks I could’ve made, but exhaustion pressed down hard on me, and I couldn’t bring myself to say any of them. Even the shower I’d been craving would have to wait.
Braxton pulled the door shut behind me.
I stood in the dimly lit cabin, unsure what to do with everything that had just happened.