Nikolai (Underworld Daddies #4)

Chapter 7

Nikolai

The financial reports blurred together around 2:47 AM. I'd been staring at the same column of numbers for twenty minutes, my eyes tracking the figures without actually processing them. Revenue from construction sites all over the city. Expenses for the legitimate shipping operation. The kind of work I should have delegated to Maks weeks ago but couldn't because delegating meant trusting someone else with control and control was the only thing keeping my hands from shaking.

My office was quiet except for the hum of the security monitors mounted on the wall to my left. Three screens showing live feeds from various points around the compound. The front gate. The perimeter walls. The main entrance. The hallways. The guest rooms.

I told myself I was working. Told myself the reports needed my personal attention. Told myself that staying up until my eyes burned and my medication wore off was productive rather than avoidance.

The truth was simpler and more pathetic: I couldn't sleep knowing Sophie was three floors up, alone in that guest room. I felt like I had to watch over her, to make sure she was safe.

Movement on monitor three caught my attention. Sophie's room—the camera mounted in the upper corner near the ceiling, angled to cover the door and most of the bedroom. Standard security protocol. I'd installed cameras in all guest rooms years ago after a Morozov associate tried to plant a listening device during a family dinner. We'd caught it on video, handled the situation quietly, and I'd upgraded the system.

Practical. Necessary. The kind of security measure any competent Pakhan would implement.

That I checked Sophie's feed more than the others was just . . . thoroughness. She was a high-value asset. The Belyaevs wanted her. I needed to ensure she was safe, that no one had breached her room, that she wasn't in distress.

I was lying to myself. I knew I was lying to myself. Didn't stop me from switching my primary attention to monitor three, the financial reports forgotten.

I’d told her that she’d sleep well, but it wasn’t panning out like that. In fact, she’d been restless all night. I'd checked the feed at midnight and found her pacing, wearing the grey sleep shirt and black shorts I'd left in her bathroom. At one AM she'd been at the window, her forehead pressed against the glass, her lips moving like she was counting. At two AM she'd finally gotten into bed, but the way she'd tangled in the sheets told me sleep wasn't coming easily.

Now, at 2:47 AM, she was thrashing.

Not just shifting positions. Thrashing. Her body jerked violently, her legs kicking out, her hands clawing at the blankets. Her head whipped from side to side. Even through the grainy black-and-white feed, I could see the distress written across her face.

My chest went tight. I leaned closer to the monitor, my hand reaching for the volume control before I remembered I'd muted the audio. I'd told myself it was about respecting her privacy—that watching was necessary for security but listening crossed a line.

Now I regretted it. I needed to know if she was making sounds, if she was calling for help, if—

Her mouth opened. Wide. In what I knew with absolute certainty was a scream.

Silent on my end. But I could see her throat working, her chest heaving, her entire body rigid with terror.

Nightmare. She was having a nightmare. A bad one.

I should call Irina. Should have the household staff check on her. That was protocol. That was appropriate.

But I was already moving. My chair hit the wall as I stood too fast. The financial reports scattered across my desk. I didn't care. Didn't stop. Just ran.

The hallway was dark except for the emergency lighting along the baseboards. My feet made no sound on the thick carpet. My heart slammed against my ribs in a rhythm that had nothing to do with physical exertion and everything to do with the image burned into my brain—Sophie's mouth open in a silent scream, her body trapped in whatever hell her subconscious had constructed.

Third floor. The guest wing. My mind was already calculating—how long since I'd seen her start thrashing? Thirty seconds? A minute? How long had she been caught in the nightmare before I noticed?

Her door was at the end of the hallway. Dark wood, heavy, soundproofed like all the rooms in the compound. The master key was in my pocket—I'd carried it since she arrived, telling myself it was standard security procedure and not evidence of my growing obsession.

I pulled it out. My hands were shaking badly enough that I almost dropped it. Counted to four. Didn't help. Counted again.

The key turned. The lock clicked. I had one moment of hesitation—one second where my brain caught up and whispered that this was crossing a line, that walking into her room uninvited would confirm every fear she had about captivity and control and men who thought they owned her.

I pushed the door open. The sight that greeted me made my breath catch—Sophie sat in the center of the bed, wrapped in the blanket like it was armor, shaking so violently I could see it from the doorway. Her eyes were open but unfocused, staring at something only she could see. Her breathing came in sharp, shallow gasps—the kind that fed panic rather than resolved it.

Full panic attack. I'd seen them before. On Kostya after a particularly brutal enforcement job that had required killing a man in front of his family. On Maks when he'd been shot at for the first time at twenty. On myself, in the mirror at 3 AM when the anxiety got so bad I couldn't remember how to breathe without counting.

The symptoms were textbook. Hyperventilation. Trembling. That glazed look of someone trapped inside their own terror, unable to reach the present moment no matter how desperately they tried.

"Sophie," I said quietly. Kept my voice low, unthreatening. Didn't want to startle her further.

No response. She didn't even blink. Her chest rose and fell too fast, each breath shorter than the last. If she kept hyperventilating like this, she'd pass out. I'd seen that too—the way oxygen deprivation made everything worse, made the panic spiral into physical collapse.

I needed to ground her. Bring her back to the present. Give her something concrete to focus on.

I moved closer. Slowly. Each step deliberate and visible so some part of her subconscious would register that I wasn't a threat. The bedroom floor was hardwood here, not carpet, and my footsteps made soft sounds that should have alerted her to my presence.

Nothing. She just kept staring at whatever nightmare had followed her out of sleep.

I reached the edge of her bed. Sat carefully, keeping myself outside her immediate personal space. The mattress dipped under my weight. She didn't react.

"Sophie, listen to my voice." I kept my tone steady, the way my therapist had kept hers steady when I'd been the one having panic attacks in her office. "You're safe. You're in the compound. You're having a panic attack, but you're safe."

Still nothing. Her chest heaved. Her hands clutched the blanket so tightly her knuckles had gone white, fingernails digging into the fabric hard enough to leave marks.

I ran through my options. Verbal grounding wasn't working. She couldn't hear me, or couldn't process words, or was too far gone in whatever hell her brain had constructed. I needed something more concrete. Something that would force her attention outward instead of inward.

"Name five things you can see," I said. "Five things. Start with the easy ones. The bed. The window. The dresser. Can you see them?"

Her breathing stayed ragged. No acknowledgment that she'd heard me at all.

The five-things technique required cognitive engagement she couldn't access right now. I needed something more basic. More physical.

I shifted my approach. Reached out slowly, telegraphing the movement, and touched her knee through the blanket. Just light pressure. Enough to register as real, as present, as something outside the panic.

"Breathe with me," I said. Firm but gentle. "In for four counts. Hold for four. Out for four. Can you do that?"

Her eyes flickered. Finally. Some tiny spark of awareness breaking through the terror.

"Watch me," I continued. I exaggerated my breathing, made it visible. Let my chest rise and fall in that deliberate four-count rhythm I'd practiced ten thousand times. "In—two, three, four. Hold—two, three, four. Out—two, three, four."

Her eyes found mine. Grey-green and terrified and so lost it made my chest ache. But she was trying. I could see the effort in the way her expression shifted, the way she fought to focus on something outside herself.

She gasped in air. Ragged. Uncontrolled. Held it for maybe two counts. Released it too fast.

"Good," I said, keeping my voice low and steady. The tone I'd use with a spooked animal or a frightened child. Both of which applied. "That's good. Again. In—two, three, four."

I demonstrated again, my hand still resting on her knee through the blanket. The contact seemed to help. Gave her something to anchor to.

She tried again. Better this time. Managed to hold the breath for three counts before releasing it in a shaky exhale.

"Perfect," I murmured. "You're doing so well, devotchka. Keep breathing with me."

Three more cycles and she was starting to calm. The violent shaking reduced to smaller tremors. Her breathing was still ragged but improving. Color started returning to her face—I hadn't realized how pale she'd gone until I saw the blood flow returning.

"That's it," I said. Kept my voice quiet, soothing. "In and out. You're safe. I'm right here."

Her eyes stayed locked on mine. Using my face as an anchor. Using my breathing as a guide. Slowly, painfully, dragging herself back to the present moment.

The panic attack probably lasted less than ten minutes total. Felt like an hour. Felt like watching someone drown in open air and being helpless to do anything but throw words at the water.

But finally—finally—her breathing evened out. The trembling reduced to occasional shivers. The glazed terror in her eyes cleared enough that I could see her actually seeing me instead of whatever nightmare had been playing on repeat.

"There you are," I whispered.

She made a small sound. Not quite a word. Just a desperate noise that said she was still too fragile, still too close to falling back into panic.

I should leave. She was stabilized. Breathing normally. Present in her body again. She didn't need me hovering. Didn't need the man who'd bought her sitting on her bed at three in the morning while she was vulnerable and scared.

But when I started to stand, she made another sound. Sharper. More desperate.

Don't go.

I understood without her having to say it.

"Would you like me to stay?" I asked.

She nodded. Small. Jerky. Her hands still clutching that blanket like it was the only thing keeping her together.

"Okay," I said simply. "I'll stay."

I moved to the leather armchair by the window. Settled into it, keeping my posture relaxed, unthreatening. Close enough to reach her if she needed me. Far enough that I wasn't crowding.

The silence stretched. She was calmer now but still shaky. Still wrapped in that blanket like armor. I needed to distract her. Give her something else to focus on besides whatever nightmare had clawed its way out of her subconscious.

"Let me tell you a story," I said quietly. "About my grandfather. Dedushka Mikhail."

Her eyes tracked to me. Wary but curious. Like she wasn't sure what I was doing but was willing to listen if it meant not being alone with her thoughts.

I leaned back in the chair. Made myself comfortable. Let my voice drop into that low, soothing register that meant safety.

"I was seven years old the first time my grandfather taught me chess," I began, letting my voice settle into the low, soothing cadence my father had used for bedtime stories. Back when I was small enough to believe stories could protect you from the world. "It was winter in Moscow—the kind of cold that makes your lungs hurt when you breathe. Every exhale turned to mist. The snow was so deep we had tunnels between buildings instead of paths."

Sophie's breathing had already started to even out. She was listening. Still wrapped in her blanket but no longer shaking.

"My father had just been made Pakhan," I continued. "Which meant my grandfather officially retired, though everyone knew he still ran half the organization from his study. The old men would come for tea and sit for hours discussing territory and strategy while pretending they were talking about the weather."

I let myself sink into the memory. Pulled up details I hadn't thought about in years. The smell of my grandmother's kitchen—black bread and borscht and strong tea. The way the apartment had been warm despite the brutal cold outside. The sound of men's voices rumbling through walls that were supposed to be soundproofed.

"I was supposed to be in bed," I said. "But I'd heard voices and wanted to know what the men were discussing. Important things were always discussed after children were supposed to be asleep. So I snuck downstairs, quiet as I could, and hid behind the curtains in the library."

Sophie's eyes were fixed on me now. Less terrified. More present. I kept going.

"Grandfather found me almost immediately. I thought I was being clever, but he knew every creaking floorboard in that apartment. He pulled the curtain back and there I was, seven years old in my pajamas, trying to be invisible." I smiled at the memory. "Instead of sending me back to bed, he dismissed the other men. Told them we'd continue the discussion tomorrow. Then he pulled out this chess set from the cabinet behind his desk."

Her hands had loosened slightly on the blanket. The white-knuckle grip was easing.

"The set was ancient," I said. "Ivory and ebony, hand-carved, probably pre-Revolution. The kind of thing that belonged in a museum. Each piece was a work of art—the knights were horses with flowing manes, the bishops wore traditional Orthodox vestments, the kings and queens had faces you could actually recognize as human. My grandfather said it had been his grandfather's. Passed down through four generations of Besharovs."

I leaned forward slightly, elbows on my knees, making myself smaller. Less threatening. Just a man telling a story to someone who needed distraction from her own thoughts.

"He set up the pieces on the board and said, 'Kolya, if you're going to sneak around, you might as well learn something useful.'"

Sophie's breathing was deeper now. Still conscious but settling. The rhythm of my voice was working.

"He taught me the names first," I said. "The pieces. The king—korol'—most important but also most vulnerable. Can only move one square at a time. Has to be protected by every other piece on the board because if he falls, the game is over. The queen—ferz'—most powerful, most dangerous. Can move in any direction, as many squares as she wants. A good queen can control the entire board."

I watched Sophie's eyelids grow heavier. Good. Keep talking. Keep her mind occupied with something that wasn't terror.

"The bishops move diagonally," I continued. "The knights move in an L-shape—two squares in one direction, one square perpendicular. The rooks move in straight lines. And the pawns—the pawns can only move forward, one square at a time, unless they're making their first move. Then they can move two squares."

The technical details should have been boring. Instead they seemed to soothe her. She probably knew it all already. But maybe that’s what made it soothing. It was knowable. We were sharing rules that made sense in a world that didn't.

"He taught me how the pieces moved, one by one, until I could recite them back to him. Then he taught me the first rule of chess." I paused. Let the silence stretch just long enough to hold weight. "Control the center, control the game."

Sophie's eyes were half-closed now. Her breathing had found that deeper rhythm that came just before sleep. But I kept talking. Couldn't stop yet. Not when she was finally, finally relaxing.

"We played until dawn," I said softly. "Five games. Maybe six. I lost every single one. Didn't even come close to winning. I'd think I had a strategy, think I'd found an opening, and then he'd move a piece I'd forgotten about and suddenly my king was in check. Game over. Set it up again."

I remembered the frustration. The way I'd wanted to cry but couldn't because seven-year-old boys in bratva families didn't cry. The way my grandfather had watched me struggle with that emotion, had seen it written on my face.

"But Grandfather never got impatient," I continued. "Never told me I was too young or too stupid. Never made me feel like losing was shameful. He just kept teaching. Kept showing me the patterns. Kept explaining why certain moves worked and others didn't."

Sophie's eyes closed completely. Her face smoothed. The tension that had been carved into her features since I'd entered the room was finally, finally easing.

"He said chess was like life in our world," I said, my voice dropping even quieter. "Every piece has a role. Every move has consequences. You have to think three steps ahead, five steps, ten steps. You have to anticipate what your opponent will do before they do it. And you have to protect your king—protect what matters most—even if it means sacrificing everything else."

Her breathing had deepened into the unmistakable rhythm of sleep. Real sleep, not the thrashing nightmare state I'd found her in. Her hands had finally released the death grip on the blanket. One had slipped out, resting on the mattress beside her, palm up, fingers slightly curled.

I should stop talking. She was asleep. She didn't need me anymore.

But I kept going anyway. Kept my voice low and soothing, let it wash over her like a lullaby.

"When the sun came up, we could hear my grandmother in the kitchen. She came into the library and saw us there—me exhausted and frustrated, him calm and patient as ever—and she just smiled. Brought us tea and bread with butter. Kissed my grandfather's head and told him not to keep me up too late next time."

I watched Sophie's chest rise and fall. Steady. Even. Safe.

"I went to bed and slept for twelve hours," I murmured. "And when I woke up, the chess set was in my room. My grandfather had given it to me. Said I'd earned it by lasting the whole night without quitting. Said the mark of a good strategist wasn't winning—it was being willing to lose a hundred times to learn the patterns."

The story was finished. Sophie was deeply asleep now, her face peaceful in the dim light from the window. The city glow filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows across her features.

I stood slowly. Careful not to make the floorboards creak. Moved to the door on silent feet.

Stopped with my hand on the handle. Looked back.

She looked so small in that big bed. Small and young and vulnerable in a way that made my chest ache. The blanket had slipped down to her waist. Her hair had come partially loose from its ponytail, honey-colored strands falling across the pillow.

I should leave her. Let her rest. Stop hovering like some kind of obsessive stalker.

But the thought of her waking up alone, waking up to another nightmare without anyone there to ground her, made it impossible to walk away completely.

I'd check on her. That's all. Just check on her. Make sure she stayed asleep.

I pulled the door shut with a careful click and headed down to the basement storage.

At 4:15 AM, certain that Sophie was deeply asleep, I slipped back down to the basement storage area where I kept emergency supplies. The compound's lower level was climate-controlled and organized within an inch of its life—shelves labeled and catalogued, everything in its designated place. Medical supplies. Non-perishable food. Water. Batteries. First aid kits. The paranoid infrastructure of someone who'd spent his entire life preparing for worst-case scenarios.

And in the back corner, on a shelf marked "Personal Items," the weighted blankets.

I'd purchased them six months ago. Right after becoming Pakhan. Right after the first panic attack bad enough that I'd locked myself in my office for three hours, counting to four over and over until my hands stopped shaking and I could breathe without feeling like my chest was being crushed.

My therapist had suggested trying weighted pressure. Said some people found it grounding. Said the physical sensation of weight could help calm an overactive nervous system.

So I'd bought three. Different weights, different sizes. Fifteen pounds, twenty pounds, twenty-five pounds. Intending to test them. See which one worked. Figure out if this was another coping mechanism I could add to my arsenal of techniques for managing the anxiety that never quite went away.

I'd never gotten around to it. The blankets had sat in their packaging for six months, untouched, while I told myself I'd deal with it later. When things were less chaotic. When I had time.

The fifteen-pound one was still sealed in its plastic bag. I pulled it down from the shelf, felt the weight in my arms. Substantial but not overwhelming. The package claimed it was good for people between 100-150 pounds. Sophie was maybe 110 on a good day.

Perfect.

I carried it back upstairs, moving quietly through the dark compound. My footsteps made no sound on the thick carpet. The security monitors in each hallway showed everything peaceful—guards at their posts, perimeter clear, no alerts. Just another quiet night in the Besharov compound, except for the Pakhan creeping through his own house at 4 AM with a blanket for a woman he'd bought just days ago.

The absurdity of it should have stopped me. Should have made me reconsider this entire course of action. Should have sent me back to my office to work until my eyes bled and my hands stopped shaking from something other than anxiety.

But it didn't.

The room was darker now—the city lights had dimmed as early morning approached, leaving only the faint glow of streetlamps filtering through the curtains. But it was enough to see by. Enough to make out Sophie's form on the bed.

She'd shifted since I left. No longer wrapped in her blanket fortress. Now she was curled on her side, her body in a loose fetal position, her breathing deep and even. She looked peaceful. The nightmare and panic attack might never have happened. Her face was smooth, relaxed, younger than her twenty-four years. Without the armor of consciousness, without the defensive walls she kept erected every waking moment, she looked exactly like what she was.

A girl who'd been through hell and somehow kept surviving.

I moved closer. Careful. Each step measured so the floorboards wouldn't creak. The weighted blanket was heavy in my arms, the packaging crinkling slightly as I worked it free.

The blanket itself was grey microfiber, soft to the touch, filled with tiny glass beads that distributed the weight evenly. I'd read the product description obsessively before buying it—the way the pressure was supposed to feel like a hug, the way it was supposed to calm the nervous system by activating the parasympathetic response.

I unfolded it carefully. Shook it out as quietly as I could. Then I draped it over Sophie, starting at her shoulders and letting it settle down to her feet.

The effect was immediate. Her body settled deeper into the mattress under the weight. Her breathing, already deep, became even more regular. Her face relaxed further, the tiny line between her eyebrows smoothing completely.

One hand emerged from under the pillow—small, delicate, the fingers slightly curled. She reached for the edge of the blanket, pulled it closer in her sleep, tucked it under her chin.

The gesture was so unconsciously vulnerable it made my chest go tight.

She made a small sound. Not distressed. Not scared. Just . . . content. The kind of noise someone made when they finally, finally felt safe enough to let go completely.

Something in me cracked. Something I'd been keeping carefully controlled and locked down and manageable. Some wall between professional concern and personal need that I couldn't seem to maintain anymore.

I shouldn't touch her. Should leave right now. Should go back to my office and my work and my carefully constructed emotional distance.

But my hand was already moving. Betraying me. Reaching out with a mind of its own.

I brushed a strand of honey-colored hair away from her face. The strands were silk under my fingertips. Warm from her skin. I tucked it behind her ear, careful not to disturb her, let my fingers linger for just a moment against her cheek.

Her skin was soft. Warm. Real in a way that made everything else feel theoretical.

She made another small sound. Shifted slightly under the weighted blanket, burrowing deeper into its pressure, one hand clutching the edge like a lifeline.

"Sweet dreams, malyshka," I whispered in Russian. Little one. The endearment came out without permission, without thought. Just instinct.

Her voice came quiet through the darkness. "Thank you."

I froze. My hand was still near her face where I'd tucked that strand of hair. My body had gone rigid, caught in the act of something I couldn't quite name—tenderness, maybe, or the kind of care that went beyond what captors gave their prisoners.

She'd been awake. The entire time. She'd heard me call her malyshka.

Heat flooded my face. I pulled my hand back like her skin had burned me. Started to step away, to retreat to the safety of distance and professional boundaries and all the walls I should never have let crack in the first place.

"Don't go." Her hand shot out from under the weighted blanket. Caught my wrist. Her grip was gentle but insistent. "Please. I just . . . thank you. You helped me. Thank you

for staying. For the story. For this." Her other hand pressed against the weighted blanket. "For knowing what I needed before I did."

My throat went tight. I should leave. Should use the out she was giving me, retreat to my office, pretend this never happened. Should maintain the careful distance between Pakhan and asset, employer and employee, the man who'd bought her and the woman who had no choice but to stay.

But I couldn't move. Her hand on my wrist was an anchor. Her grey-green eyes held mine in the dim light, and I could see everything there - gratitude and need and something deeper. Something that looked like trust.

"You heard everything," I said. Not quite a question.

"The chess story was beautiful." She sat up slowly, the weighted blanket pooling in her lap. The grey sleep shirt was rumpled, her hair falling loose around her shoulders. She looked young and soft and devastatingly vulnerable. "Your grandfather sounds like he was a good man."

"He was." The words came out rough. "Is. He's still alive."

"I'd like to meet him someday." She said it simply. Like she believed there would be a someday for us. Like this arrangement was more than a four-year contract to work off a debt.

The hope in her voice made my chest ache.

I didn’t tell her that I suspected my grandfather was behind all this. It would be too confusing for her.

She was still holding my wrist. Her thumb had started moving, a gentle back-and-forth motion against my pulse point. I didn't think she realized she was doing it. An unconscious gesture of comfort or connection.

"Nikolai." My name in her voice, soft and uncertain and so damn brave after everything she'd been through tonight. "I know this is complicated. I know I'm supposed to be your employee or your asset or whatever the contract says. But right now . . . right now I just need you to know that I see you too."

"Sophie—"

"You count when you're anxious," she continued. "Just like me. You understand what it's like to need control because the world feels too big and too chaotic. You know what panic attacks feel like. You—" Her voice broke slightly. "You knew exactly how to ground me because you've been there yourself."

She'd seen too much. Understood too much. I should deflect, deny, maintain the carefully constructed facade that kept people from knowing how broken I actually was underneath.

But I was so tired of pretending. So tired of being alone with it.

"Yes," I whispered.

She moved then. Shifted forward on the bed, closing the distance between us. Her hand slid from my wrist to my forearm, pulling gently like she was afraid I'd bolt if she moved too fast.

She was right to be afraid. Every instinct I had screamed at me to run.

But I stayed frozen as she leaned closer. As her face tilted up toward mine. As her intention became crystal clear in the heartbeat before she acted on it.

She kissed me.

Soft. Tentative. Her lips pressed against mine with a gentleness that made my breath stop. A question more than a statement. Asking permission even as she took it.

I should stop this. Should pull back, establish boundaries, remind her that she'd just had a panic attack and was vulnerable and couldn't possibly be thinking clearly.

But her mouth was warm and sweet and real against mine. Her hand had slid to my shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt. And some desperate, hungry part of me that I'd been starving for years roared to life and demanded more.

I kissed her back.

My hand came up without permission, cupped her face, my thumb against her cheekbone. I felt her sharp inhale, felt her lips part slightly, felt the way her whole body leaned into me like I was gravity and she was falling.

The kiss deepened. Her other hand found my chest, palm flat over my heart. I wondered if she could feel how hard it was pounding, if she knew what she was doing to me.

My other hand slid into her hair, tangled in the honey-colored silk. I'd wanted to touch her hair since the auction stage. Wanted to know if it was as soft as it looked. It was softer. Impossibly soft.

She made a small sound against my mouth. Not quite a whimper. Not quite a sigh. Something in between that shot straight through me and lit every nerve ending on fire.

My body responded. Inevitable. Undeniable. Heat pooled low in my abdomen, blood rushing south, my cock stirring to life with an urgency that should have embarrassed me.

The physical response broke through the haze. Shocked me back to awareness.

I was kissing Sophie Volkov. The woman I'd bought. The woman who'd just had a nightmare and a panic attack. The woman who was bound to me by a contract she'd signed under duress, who had no real choice but to be here, who was vulnerable and scared and so obviously not in any position to consent meaningfully to this.

What the hell was I doing?

I broke the kiss. Pulled back like her lips had burned me. My hands dropped from her face, her hair, putting space between us even though every cell in my body screamed to close the distance again.

"I can't." The words came out harsh. Wrong. "We can't. This is—"

Sophie's expression crumbled. I watched it happen in real time. The soft hope in her eyes guttering out. The way her shoulders curled inward. The way her hand fell from my chest like I'd rejected not just the kiss but her entirely.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I shouldn't have—"

"No." I stood. Backed away from the bed. Needed more distance. Needed to think clearly and I couldn't do that when she was close enough to touch. "You didn't do anything wrong. This is my fault. I shouldn't have stayed. Shouldn't have touched you. You're vulnerable and I took advantage—"

"You didn't take advantage of anything." Her voice was small but firm. "I kissed you. I wanted to."

"You just had a panic attack." I was talking too fast, my own panic rising. My hands were shaking. I shoved them in my pockets so she wouldn't see. "You're traumatized and scared and you don't owe me anything. The contract doesn't include—this isn't part of—"

I was making it worse. Could see it in her face. The hurt deepening into something closer to shame.

"I know what the contract says," she said quietly. "I know what I signed. I'm not trying to—" She stopped. Pulled the weighted blanket up higher like armor. "I just thought... I thought maybe you felt something too."

I did. God help me, I did. I felt too much. Wanted too much. Wanted to crawl into that bed and hold her and kiss her until neither of us could remember why we were supposed to keep our distance. Wanted to make her mine in every possible way, bind her to me with something more permanent than a contract.

But that was exactly the problem. She couldn't consent to any of that while I held all the power. While she was trapped here, obligated to me, dependent on me for safety and food and shelter.

"You need to rest," I said. Deflecting. Avoiding. Retreating behind the Pakhan mask. "It's late. We'll talk in the morning."

"Nikolai—"

"Goodnight, Sophie."

I left. Walked out of that room before I could change my mind, before I could turn around and see the hurt on her face and apologize and make everything worse by trying to explain feelings I didn't understand myself.

The door clicked shut behind me with a finality that felt like a coffin closing.

I stood in the hallway. Pressed my forehead against the wall. My cock was still half-hard in my jeans, my body still singing with want. My hands were shaking worse now. My chest was tight. The anxiety that had been manageable five minutes ago was spiraling into something darker.

I'd done the right thing. I knew I'd done the right thing.

But the look on her face when I'd pulled away. The hurt. The shame. Like I'd confirmed every terrible thing she believed about herself—that she wasn't wanted, wasn't worth staying for, wasn't enough.

I'd hurt her to protect her. That's what I told myself. That's what made it okay to walk away.

It didn't feel okay. It felt like I'd just made the biggest mistake of my life.

I pushed off the wall. Started walking. My office was two floors down but I took the stairs instead of the elevator. Needed the physical movement. Needed something to do with the energy crackling under my skin.

The office was dark when I entered. The financial reports still scattered across my desk where I'd left them. The monitors still showing security feeds. Everything exactly as it had been an hour ago.

Everything completely different.

I collapsed into my chair. Dropped my head into my hands. Tried to count to four. Couldn't focus long enough to reach two.

The weighted blanket. I'd given her the weighted blanket meant for me. Had used my own coping mechanism to help her without even thinking about it. Had seen her in distress and immediately known what she needed because I knew what I needed.

We were the same. That's what she'd said. We knew what it was like to need control because the world was chaos.

We saw each other. Really saw each other. The broken parts underneath the armor.

And I'd just rejected her for it.

My phone buzzed. I pulled it from my pocket. Security alert. Motion detected in the east wing third floor hallway.

I pulled up the feed on my phone. Black and white footage. Sophie's door opening. Her small figure emerging, wrapped in that grey sleep shirt and the weighted blanket draped over her shoulders like a cape.

She walked to the window at the end of the hallway. Stood there. Forehead against the glass. Just like she'd done in her room earlier.

I'd put her back in panic mode. I'd saved her from one nightmare just to deliver another with my own hands.

The right thing. I'd done the right thing.

So why did it feel like I'd just destroyed something precious before it had a chance to grow?