Chapter 3 – NIKOLAI
NIKOLAI
Something soft and warm presses against my chest.
That's the first sensation that penetrates the darkness. My body feels like it's been dragged behind a truck through the Outer Reaches, every muscle screaming, every nerve ending raw.
But that softness...
It doesn't belong in the realm of pain I've been floating in.
My hands move instinctively, fingers grazing over something smooth and warm. Something that yields beneath my touch in a way that feels... familiar.
A thigh?
The fog in my brain struggles to clear. Am I still in that deathlike place where Geo's bullets sent me?
I force my eyes open, blinking against the dim light.
Silver hair. Violet eyes.
A knife.
Cosima sits perched on my chest, thick thighs straddling my torso, her burgundy dress hitched up and the tip of a blade balanced delicately between her index finger and thumb. She's studying it with academic interest, like a curator examining a particularly fascinating artifact.
I blink again.
Yeah, I'm having another one of those fever dreams. But this one sure as hell beats the last one.
The Knight opening me up like a tuna can with those giant claws and then popping my insides—and my eyeballs—into his jaws like popcorn chicken.
I'm not eager to wake up from this particular hallucination anytime soon.
"Tell me something, Nikolai," Cosima says absently, not looking at me as she rotates the knife, catching the light along its edge. "What is it that makes alphas such unrepentant, lying, cretinous bastards?"
I can't help the dry chuckle that escapes my throat, though it feels like sandpaper scraping against raw flesh. "That's a menacing thing to hear from a dream sitting on your chest with a knife in her hands."
Her lips curl into a smirk, but there's something in her eyes I haven't seen before. An edge, sharp as the blade she's toying with. This isn't the prim and proper omega I first encountered, nor the unhinged omega in heat who'd nested in my tower. This is someone else entirely.
"I thought you would know," she says, voice deceptively light. "Considering you're the most typical alpha at my disposal at the moment."
My hand is still resting on her thigh, I realize. She hasn't killed me for it. Yet. And I'm enjoying the lush weight of her on me too much to risk reminding her by moving it. If only she'd scoot about a foot forward, we could really have some fun.
"I'm flattered," I murmur, voice still rough from disuse. How long was I out? The last thing I remember is trying to follow Raven out of the room, then the floor tilting precariously under my feet. I must have managed to haul my ass back into bed before I dropped again.
The knife moves, its cold tip tilting my chin up until my eyes meet hers directly.
"It wasn't a compliment," she says, and I realize she's not fucking around.
The fog clears from my brain a bit more. This isn't a dream. She's really here, really sitting on my chest with a very real knife. And I'm still in Geo's fucking shithole underground.
"I'm going to ask you a question," Cosima continues, her voice dropping to something nearly intimate. "And you'd better fucking give me the truth, because I'm not in a mood to be lied to."
The profanity sounds strange in her cultured voice, like hearing a church choir suddenly break into a drinking song. But it suits her, somehow. Especially with that familiar accent we share growing thick and lush on her tongue.
"What do you want to know?" I ask, genuinely curious beneath the dull throb of pain radiating from my back.
Her eyes narrow, searching my face. "Did you know who Azarel was?" she asks in Vrissian.
I raise an eyebrow. "What, your mate?" I ask, switching to our mother tongue as well. A small, bitter snort escapes me. "I figured, considering you mutter his name in your sleep."
Her eyes flash, violet fire that burns right through me. She seems to be searching my face for deception.
"That's all?" she presses. "Nothing else about who he is or where he's from? You're a mercenary. You must hear things. Know things."
What is she getting at?
"I don't know shit about Azarel," I say firmly, watching her reaction carefully.
"But if the asshole managed to put you in such a bad mood when he's not even here, perhaps you should consider getting a new boyfriend.
" I can't resist adding, "At least the metal monster doesn't piss you off this much. "
The knife digs in, just enough to let me know she's not amused. But I've been threatened by worse. The issue is making sure I don't hurt her while I disarm her, but my opportunity presents itself soon enough.
With one quick motion, I shift our positions, flipping her onto her back and pinning her wrists to the bed. The knife falls from her hand and bounces off the bed, clattering to the floor.
She looks shocked for a second, eyes wide, lips parted. But then I see something in her eyes that feels like a punch to the gut.
Not fear.
Acceptance.
Like she was expecting this all along. Waiting for the mask to drop, for the monster to show its true face. How many alphas have hurt her like that? Used their strength against her?
The thought stirs a fire in my chest that makes the fever that was raging through my veins recently seem frosty in comparison, and I have to swallow the growl building in my throat.
"I lied," I mutter, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "I do know something about Azarel."
Hurt and realization flash in her eyes, but I'm not finished.
"If he let you fall into the Ghosts' hands, and whatever else has happened to made you think every alpha you encounter is going to fuck you over in one way or another, he's useless." My voice drops to a growl. "Completely fucking useless."
Fury erupts across her face, color flooding her cheeks. "You don't know shit," she spits, struggling against my grip.
I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "I'm an alpha," I remind her, loosening my hold on her wrists enough to show I'm not trying to hurt her. "I may be an absolute scumbag, but I'd die before I let someone else touch my omega. Hurt her."
I start to get off her, not wanting to linger in this position any longer than necessary and prove all her assumptions right. But her hands catch my wrists, pulling me back. And then her lips are on mine, hot and demanding.
I freeze, not expecting that, but instinct takes over and I return the kiss, desperate and hungry. Her taste explodes across my tongue, sweet, sinful moonlight, and something inside me roars in triumph.
But it's not right.
Something about this is wrong.
I'm the one who breaks away, pulling back enough to see her face. Her lips are swollen, her eyes wild, her hair a silver halo against the pillow.
"What's wrong?" she demands, voice ragged. "I see the way you look at me. You've wanted to fuck me from the moment we met."
I don't deny it. Can't deny it. But... "Not here," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. "Not like this."
She laughs, a bitter sound that doesn't sound like her. "Why not?" She gestures around at the relatively plush surroundings. "The ambiance of Geo's underground chateau isn't to your liking?"
I get up, ignoring the protest of my injured body, and put some distance between us. "Not when you're not yourself," I clarify.
The words seem to catch her off guard, eyes widening slightly.
And that enrages me more than anything. Because why the fuck should that surprise her?
How shitty are the alphas she's known that the bare minimum of decency is shocking?
That she acts surprised when one doesn't want to fuck her when she's clearly not in a good state of mind?
Before she can say anything further, the door opens and Raven walks in, carrying a pitcher of water and some vials that must be medicine. He stops short at the scene before him—Cosima disheveled on the bed, me standing shirtless a few feet away, clearly agitated.
"Oh, you're alive," Raven says, his tone suggesting he's not entirely pleased with this development. His gaze slides to Cosima in the bed, and his expression cycles through flustered, jealous, and murderous in rapid succession. "Pardon the interruption," he grits out, his lip curling.
"You weren't interrupting a damn thing," Cosima mutters, slipping past us both and out the door before I can say another word.
The moment she's gone, Raven slams the pitcher down on a side table and has me pinned against the wall, forearm pressed to my throat before I can fucking blink.
My movements are still sluggish, but I'm not sure if it's from the lingering effects of the fever, or the shit they've been giving me during those brief flickers of lucidity.
"What the fuck did you do?" he hisses, face inches from mine.
I throw my hands up in frustration. "What did I do? I woke up to her sitting on my fucking chest with a knife in her hand!"
Raven's face goes blank, the fury draining away to be replaced by something that looks almost like indignation. He steps back, releasing me.
"Why is fortune always wasted on the least deserving?" he mutters, more to himself than to me.
I roll my eyes, brushing past him to try to find clothes. The drawers of the wooden dresser are empty, and I grumble my frustration. "I need something to wear."
"First things first, you need a shower," Raven bites out.
He's not wrong. My hair and skin is sticky with dried sweat and blood. At least I know he hasn't been giving me sponge baths. The only thing worse than that would be Geo.
Actually, wait, no.
The Knight.
But there's something else bothering me, something about Cosima's expression as she fled the room. "What happened?" I ask, turning back to face Raven.
He hesitates, fidgeting with one of the medicine vials. "She didn't know," he says finally. "About Azarel. Who he is. Where he's from."
"And who is he?" I press, more curious than I want to be about a guy I'd happily shoot first and ask questions later. Now it sounds like I might actually have a justification beyond the fact that he's touched her.
Raven's eyes meet mine. "Crown prince of Surhiira. One of them, at any rate. Apparently, he neglected to tell her."
Huh. So that's what she was upset about. "She seems like the type who'd be thrilled," I remark dryly. "Tiaras and all that fancy royal bullshit."
Raven scoffs. "You know nothing about omegas if you think that," he says, shaking his head. "She's upset he lied, obviously."
I consider that. Makes sense, especially in light of her cryptic little remark. "Since she hasn't taken off, maybe she'll finally give up on the douchebag," I mutter.
Raven's expression turns strange, almost nostalgic. "Don't be so sure," he says cryptically. "Some douchebags are harder to get over than others."
I stare at him, trying to read whatever's behind those words. But before I can pursue it, he clears his throat and says, "I'll leave a change of clothes outside the shower. I'm sure I have something you can wear."
I grunt acknowledgment and move toward the bathroom to start the shower up before I lose my cool.
The hot water stings my wounds, and so does the soap, but it's a good kind of pain. As the steam rises around me, I find my thoughts returning to Cosima. To the look in her eyes when I pinned her wrists. To the desperate heat of her kiss.
I'm alive, and she's still here.
Two miracles.
But it's definitely the wrong fucking time to tell her she's my mate. She's angry, hurt, confused. And she's still hung up on her alpha prince, even if she's pissed at him right now.
The thought of her belonging to someone else makes something dark and primal stir in my chest. Something that wants to hunt down this Azarel and tear his throat out, maybe feed his trachea to the Knight, if only to put Cosima out of her misery.
But I push it aside.
I don't need to give her yet another reason to hate me.
When I emerge from the bathroom, towel wrapped around my waist, I find a set of clothes neatly folded outside the door as promised. But as I unfold them, I realize Raven wasn't just being a hospitable host.
The shirt is a sheer purple fabric that would leave nothing to the imagination.
Even he wouldn't be caught dead wearing shit like this.
Hell, it's probably left over from his whoring days.
And a pair of skintight pants made out of some kind of hide.
Something reptilian I don't even want to know the origin of.
"Is this a fucking joke?" I bellow, loud enough to echo down the hallway.
There's no answer, of course.
Fucking asshole.