Chapter 11 Holly
HOLLY
I don't see Nikolai until dinner.
He’s standing by the fireplace in the dining room when I come down the stairs. He's traded the custom suit for dark dress pants and a black sweater that hugs his frame in ways that should be illegal. The polished mobster is gone, replaced by something more dangerous—a man who looks almost normal.
A man who would turn my head in the real world.
The dining room is nothing like the cavernous space where we had breakfast. This is intimate. A small table set for two beside a roaring fireplace, with flickering candles, and wine glasses that catch the firelight and throw it back in ruby sparks.
I hover in the doorway, suddenly very aware that we're about to have dinner together like this is a date instead of a hostage situation.
"Holly." Nikolai's voice is warm, his smile dangerous.
He pulls out a chair for me, and after a moment's hesitation, I sit, while he settles into the chair opposite me.
"I hope you're hungry."
I shouldn't be. I’ve been eating like I’m training for a food eating contest all day thanks to Katya.
But on the table, are two plates of beef stroganoff that smell so incredible my mouth waters instantly.
“It smells delicious,” I say. I already know it tastes delicious because Katya insisted I sample it earlier. But I don’t tell Nikolai that, or about hanging out with Katya and Andrei in the kitchen most of the day because I’m pretty sure it’s something he wouldn’t approve of.
I pick up my fork and take a bite.
“Oh my God,” the words burst out of me before I can stop them. The stroganoff tastes even better than before when Katya insisted I taste test it.
The beef is tender, the sauce is rich and creamy, and the mushrooms are perfectly seasoned. It's the kind of meal that makes you close your eyes and forget everything else exists.
When I open them again, Nikolai is watching me with an amused expression.
"Good?" he asks.
"Amazing," I admit. "Katya is a magician."
"She is." He takes a sip of his wine.
I reach for my own wine glass and take a sip and—sweet baby Jesus, the wine is out of this world. Smooth and full-bodied, with notes of dark cherry and something earthy that makes my taste buds sing.
I put down my glass and try not to act like I’ve just tasted heaven.
Instead, I focus on the stroganoff and try not to make assumptions in my head of what happens next.
We eat in silence for a few minutes, before Nikolai speaks. "Did you enjoy spending time with Katya and Andrei?"
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. "How did you—"
"My house. I know everything that happens here."
He probably has cameras everywhere.
"They're wonderful. Warm. Kind." I stab a mushroom with more force than necessary. "Shame about their boss."
His eyes gleam with amusement. "Is that so?"
"Don't worry, they only had nice things to say about you. Which is strange, considering."
"Considering I'm a monster."
"Exactly."
He leans back in his chair, swirling his wine. "Maybe I'm only a monster to people who deserve it."
"And I deserve it?" I ask, picking up my glass and taking a big mouthful.
“Am I treating you like a monster?”
“You mean apart from the kidnapping bit?”
“Yes, apart from the kidnapping bit,” he says, barely stopping the smile on his lips. “Although, I did fly you in luxury while I was doing it.”
“And then proceeded to drug my vodka.”
“You were gripping the leather seats so tight your knuckles were going to snap. It was a mercy dosing.”
I stab another mushroom with my fork. “Keep telling yourself that.”
The wine has loosened my tongue. But it’s not just the wine. It’s the way Katya spoke about him today, with affection and kindness. And love. Her fondness for him makes him less scary and me less afraid.
Which is stupid.
Because I’m sure there's just as much monster as man in Nikolai Morozov. Maybe more.
“If I’m such a monster would I open my home to you and give you free rein. Has it been an abysmal experience so far?” He asks.
I think of my luxurious bedroom and the 5-star mountain lodge that I would never experience in my everyday world. And about Katya and Andrei and all the delicious food Katya has been feeding me all day.
And this dinner couldn't be more perfect. Delicious food. Mind-blowing wine.
Although the company is a bit iffy.
“No, I suppose not,” I murmur. I take a big mouthful of wine as I glance around the room. “Although, it’s not very Christmassy in here, is it?”
It’s a petty jab, but right now, I'll take what I can get.
He raises an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
I take another drink of wine. I should slow down. But the alcohol is making everything feel softer, and easier. And less terrifying.
"It's three days until Christmas, and you don't have a single decoration. No tree. No lights. Nothing." I gesture around the room with my wine glass. "You really are a Grinch. The least you could do is put up a tree."
"Considering your current situation, I wouldn’t think a Christmas tree is high on your list of concerns."
"Well, it is. Considering you’ve already ruined Christmas for me. The lack of a tree is just driving the nail in really.”
He looks at me like he can’t believe his ears. “You know a lot of people don’t surprise me, malyshka. But you surprise the hell out of me.”
He studies me for a long moment, and something passes between us. Something warm and inviting that makes my chest flutter in a way I absolutely hate.
I drain my glass and try to ignore it.
“So why do you hate Christmas?” I ask.
“Who says I hate Christmas?”
I gesture to the room again.
“Ah, the missing tree,” he says. “It might surprise you, but this isn’t my home.”
I put down my fork. “You don’t live here?”
“Only on occasion. This used to be where my father brought my mom and me when I was a child and he wanted to escape city life. I haven’t been here in some time.”
“Where is home?”
“New York. A penthouse in Manhattan.”
We fall into silence again.
Nikolai opens a second bottle of wine and refills my glass. It's probably my third. Maybe my fourth. I've lost count, and the edges of the room are starting to blur in a pleasant way.
"So," I say, suddenly hating the silence between us.
Because in the silence I feel things I shouldn't.
Like the heat blooming low in my belly when he smiles.
And the need to press my thighs together when he drops his voice to that low, rough rumble that vibrates through my entire body.
My fingers tighten around my glass. "What's it like being the boss of a bratva?"
He pauses, wine bottle still in hand, and those piercing blue eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes my heart kick.
"It means everyone answers to me," he says, his voice dropping lower.
"Every decision. Every move. Every breath taken by the bratva goes through me first." He sets the bottle down and leans back in his chair, studying me.
"It means I carry the weight of hundreds of lives on my shoulders.
Their safety. Their families. Their futures. "
"Sounds lonely," I say before I can stop myself.
"Loneliness is the price of power, malyshka. You can have loyalty or you can have equals. Rarely both."
"That's depressing."
His lips curve into a small, dark smile. "That's reality."
I take another sip of wine, bolstered by the warmth spreading through my veins. "So what does the bratva boss do when he's not, you know, kidnapping people?"
"Are you seriously asking me if I have any hobbies?"
"I'm asking if you have a life outside of being a crime lord. Or is it all guns and threats and brooding looks?"
He laughs and the sound does something dangerous to my insides.
"I read. I play piano. I enjoy good wine and better company." His eyes gleam. "And I don't brood."
"You absolutely brood."
"Careful, Holly. Keep talking like that and I might think you're not afraid of me anymore."
The words hang between us, heavy with meaning.
Because he's right.
Somewhere between the wine and the firelight and his confession about loneliness, I've forgotten to be terrified.
I clear my throat.
"So how does someone become the boss of the bratva?"
His lips curve into a small smile. "My father was pakhan before me. When he died, the position passed to me."
"I'm sorry," I say. "About your father."
"It was a long time ago," he says quietly.
"How long?"
"Ten years. Him and my mother. It was a car bomb."
The words are flat, emotionless, but I hear what he's not saying. The grief underneath. The rage. I can hear it because I feel it every single day.
"That's terrible," I whisper. "I'm so sorry."
He drains his wine glass and refills it. "What about you? You said you don't have family."
It's my turn to look away, to stare into the fire instead of at him.
"My parents died when I was twelve. A car accident." I take a shaky breath. "But I don't like talking about it."
When I finally look back at him, his expression has changed. It’s softened. And there's something in his eyes that looks almost like understanding.
"I'm sorry," he says, and it sounds genuine.
"Me too."
We sit in silence, the fire crackling between us, and for a moment, I forget that he's my captor and I'm his prisoner. Like we're just two people who've both lost the people they loved most.
"Can I ask you something?" I say.
"You can ask. I may not answer."
"Am I ever going to get out of here?"
He pauses and the firelight catches in his eyes, making them look almost silver. "I don't kill innocent people."
"But you do kill people."
"Yes."
"Doesn't that bother you?"
"No."
The honesty of it should terrify me. Should send me running from this room.
But it doesn't.
Maybe it's the grief we both carry. Maybe it's the way he's looking at me right now, like in another life this could be something.
Or maybe I'm just losing my mind.
A sound from somewhere in the lodge makes us both pause. A door opening and closing. The sound of voices.
Nikolai's posture shifts slightly, his attention sharpening even as he maintains his relaxed appearance. His phone buzzes on the table, and he glances at it.
He stands. "Excuse me for a moment."
He disappears into the hallway, and I hear the low murmur of voices. Male voices. One is Nikolai’s deep rumble. The others I don't recognize.
My wine-fogged brain struggles to make sense of it.
Who would be arriving this late?
A few minutes pass. Five. Maybe ten.
Then Nikolai returns to the doorway, and there's something different in his expression.
"He's here," he says quietly.
I blink at him, confused. "Who?"
"The priest."
The wine makes my thoughts sluggish, and I stare at him blankly. "Why is a priest here?"
"He's presiding over the ceremony."
"Ceremony?" I shake my head slightly, trying to clear the fog. "What ceremony?"
Nikolai's eyes lock onto mine, and I see something in them that makes my stomach drop.
"Our wedding."
I laugh. The sound bubbles up from my chest, slightly hysterical. I could've sworn he just said our wedding.
"I'm sorry, what?"
He moves back into the room, his steps measured and deliberate. When he reaches the table, he picks up my wine glass and holds it out to me.
"Drink up, malyshka," he says, and there's something dark and final in his voice. "We're about to get married."