Chapter 22
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
SOFIYA
“Wake up, Sofiya.”
Nikolai’s harsh tone slices through the fog of sleep, yanking me awake.
Not this shit again.
I stare up at him, taking in his disheveled appearance. He’s still dressed in today’s clothes, his hair mussed, shadows under his eyes.
What could this be about? Does he know about the phone call to Roman and Liza? A sick knot forms in my stomach.
I push myself into a sitting position, my whole body tense. “What do you want?” I ask warily. “Have you been drinking?”
Nikolai exhales and rakes a hand through his hair. “I haven’t had a drink in hours. This is about lighting a fire under your brother-in-law’s ass. He has to see what his indecision is costing you.”
His words send a chill through me. “Why… why now?” I whisper, my throat tightening.
He grabs my chin and angles my face to meet his stony one. “Because I am sick of waiting, Sofiya. If using you is the only way to get a message to the Syndicate, so be it.”
The edge in his voice sends a tremor through me. Something triggered this, but at least he hasn’t mentioned Valeria’s cell phone. If he knew I stole it, he’d say so.
My thoughts drift back to Igor Bocharov’s visit earlier tonight. Nikolai seemed so tense. Could this have to do with me interrupting his meeting? It was stupid of me to go down to Nikolai’s office wearing a leotard. I only wanted to thank him for the gifts. Roman told me to stay on his good side, after all.
“I’m sorry I interrupted your meeti?—”
He shakes his head. “I’m not looking for apologies. I’m looking for you to come with me.”
His eyes stay locked on mine as he yanks the covers off me. I perch at the edge of the bed but refuse to rise and join him. If he’s going to act like this, he at least has to tell me my fate.
I hug myself tightly, acutely aware of how exposed I am in just a thin nightgown. “What are you going to do to me?”
He doesn’t respond but continues to stand over me, his expression flat. For all he’s trying to block me out, I see his hesitation. It’s like he’s forcing himself to play a role, and all I can do is try to get through to him before he does something terrible.
I push myself onto my knees and trail my fingers over the smattering of dark hair on his chest. His eyes squeeze shut, his body rigid under my touch. “Look at me… Look at me!” I demand, and he does, his eyes wary. “I don’t think you want to hurt me, Nikolai.”
Anyone from the outside might call me insane, but I mean every word. He’s trying to prove something to himself, but it’s costing him. His eyes drop to where my hand lingers, his breath faltering.
Then he blinks, and his expression goes flat once again. He grabs my wrist, pushing my hand away.
“I can carry you downstairs, or you can walk, but either way, you’re coming with me.”
“Don’t do this,” I plead. “It won’t make a difference. The Syndicate will do what’s best for the Syndicate. Roman isn’t the only voice that matters.”
He shakes his head, brushing me off, and moves to pick me up, but I hold up a hand to stop him. Been there, done that, and I’d rather walk on my own, my head held high. Some part of me still hopes I can reach him. He hasn’t crossed a line—yet.
I don’t fight. Sliding off the bed, I follow him down the stairs to the basement. The air feels heavier here, wrapping around me like a warning. Goosebumps ripple over my arms, though I’m not sure whether it’s from the temperature or my nerves.
At the end of a hallway, he pushes open a heavy metal door to reveal a dank, dimly lit room with a single chair in the center, chains dangling from its arms. When he gestures to it, a heavy knot forms in my gut.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I misjudged what he’s capable of.
I start to tremble and back away from him until I hit the wall. I scan the room for a weapon, anything to fight him off, but I come up empty, and there’s no way I can overpower him.
“Sit,” he orders.
I swallow hard, my throat like sandpaper, as I shake my head.
“I said sit.” His voice is lower this time, and he wraps a hand around my arm and forces me into the chair. Saying nothing, he crouches before me, his warm fingers brushing over my wrists.
“Please don’t,” I whisper, tears pooling in my eyes. I look up at the ceiling, trying to prepare myself for the cold bite of chains. But instead, I feel something soft and smooth wrapping around my wrists. When I glance down, I see he’s tying my forearms to the chair with silk rope.
I barely have time to wonder why before Nikolai steps back, his hooded eyes sweeping over me like he’s savoring every detail. His tongue grazes his bottom lip, and a slow smile curves across his face.
Without breaking eye contact, he shrugs out of his shirt, letting it fall carelessly to the floor. Reluctantly, I take in his sculpted shoulders, chiseled pecs, and a light trail of hair that disappears into fitted black pants that hang low on his hips. With his black hair and light eyes, he reminds me of Hades come to life.
“Bound and ready for me,” he drawls. “I think I like you like this, Sofiya.”
I ignore the implication in his words as he moves behind me. Metal gleams in the periphery of my vision. My stomach knots, and I press back against the chair, frozen as the blade comes into view.
The knife grazes my throat, my pulse thundering beneath it. His hand is steady as it trails lower, skimming over my collarbone before sliding down between the swell of my cleavage. I tense, and a small cry escapes between my lips.
What is he willing to do to me? How far is he willing to go?
The weapon only brushes against me, a whisper of threat, but I know he wants my family to see this. To see my fear and imagine my pain.
Somewhere in this room, I bet a camera is capturing everything, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction of breaking.
The blade lingers at the curve of my breast, its sharp edge pressing into me. With deliberate precision, he drags it upward, teasing my nipple until a whimper catches in my throat.
He lets the metal travel down again, following the rapid rise and fall of my breath, tracing over the dip of my waist and teasing the edge of my hip before gliding back between my breasts. Each calculated touch is an exercise in control, like he's soaking up my reaction, and no matter how much I try, I can't hide the trembling of my body.
The air grows heavier, and I can’t tell where my fear ends and this unwanted desire begins. My body betrays me—a subtle arch, a sharp inhale, goosebumps rising in the knife's wake. His eyes flick down and darken, noticing everything.
“You like the danger,” he murmurs, the sharp edge grazing my breast again. “It excites you.”
“You’re wrong,” I gasp.
“Am I?” His eyes glint with challenge before he leans in, his tongue blazing a path along my throat—a contrast to the sharp edge tracing my flesh. He lingers, tasting me as though he has all the time in the world.
My nipples tighten into aching peaks, and I squeeze my legs together to ease the need building between my thighs. It’s useless. Nikolai knows what he’s doing; knows exactly how to make my body burn for him.
The point of the knife catches the neckline of my nightgown, slowly dragging the fabric down. My breath catches as the cool metal teases my skin, exposing me inch by inch. My nipples are impossibly hard, aching under his gaze. His tongue darts out, wetting his lips, and his low hum of approval sends heat pooling deep in my core.
“Shit. I think I need a taste of you,” he grits out.
He lowers his head, and his mouth closes over one of my stiff peaks. My thoughts dissolve, the feel of his hot mouth all-consuming. My head falls back, the silk bindings biting into my forearms, each rough scrape against my skin only heightening my need. I’m drowning in sensation, powerless against the pull of him.
A little voice breaks through. I can’t let this go further. I can’t lose myself to him, not when he’s using me to send a message to my family.
“Nikolai,” I say shakily, my body at war with my mind. “Stop.”
He stills, studying me.
I don’t know where I find the courage to test him, but I do.
Slowly, I tilt my chin up, baring my throat. “If this is the only way for you to get your message across, then hurt me. I’d rather they see my pain than my pleasure.”
With a glower, he slides his hand into my hair, twisting it tight until my neck bows, leaving me utterly vulnerable to him. I brace myself, expecting the sharp kiss of steel against my throat. Instead, his warm lips trace a path down my neck.
“Do you really think I could hurt you, moya sladost?” he asks, his warm breath ghosting across my sensitive skin.
“I don’t know what you’re capable of right now.”
“Then let me show you.”
In one fluid motion, the blade slices through the front of my nightgown. He yanks the fabric apart, exposing my bare breasts and the wet heat between my thighs to the room’s chill.
Dropping to his knees, he pushes my legs apart and presses the handle of the knife inside me, sliding it deep and filling me completely.