Chapter 9
Nadia
The darkness dragged me under again.
That rusted equipment room door slammed open and shut in my dreams, over and over. Each bang hit like a blunt weapon against my skull. Trent's laughter flooded in from everywhere—sharp, vicious, like a murder of crows tearing at my flesh.
"You were pathetic in there."
"The crazy bitch who pisses herself when the lights go out!"
"No one's coming to save you—"
I pounded on the door, nails breaking, blood streaming down the wood, but it wouldn't budge. The oxygen thinned, my lungs burned like they were on fire. I opened my mouth to breathe, but only managed broken whimpers—
"Nadia."
A voice cut through the darkness, low and steady, like an anchor dragging me back from the abyss.
"Wake up, sweetheart. You're dreaming."
My eyes flew open. I gasped for air, heart threatening to burst from my chest.
An unfamiliar ceiling. A crystal chandelier cast soft, warm light over this room I didn't recognize.
Velvet bed curtains, silk sheets, the faint scent of cigars mixed with expensive cologne—
I was still at Eden.
"Breathe, Nadia."
I whipped my head around.
Roman sat in an armchair beside the bed, leaning forward, hands braced on his knees.
He'd shed his suit jacket. Shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, collar unbuttoned, exposing his throat and a glimpse of solid chest. His hair was slightly disheveled, jaw shadowed with stubble.
He looked more tired than usual, but also more... sexy.
He watched me with those deep brown eyes, stripped of their usual predatory edge. Something complicated flickered there instead, something I couldn't read.
"Exhale." That same steady, grounding tone.
I obeyed. Once. Twice. Three times.
My heartbeat slowed. My breathing evened out. Cold sweat plastered my back to the pillow, sending a chill through me.
"Good." A trace of relief threaded through his voice. "Keep going. You're doing great."
I stared at him, throat too dry to speak.
Why was he still here? Why hadn't he left? Why the hell was he using that goddamn gentle tone with me?
"Why are you still here?" My voice rasped like a broken bellows.
"Because you needed someone to be."
Roman stood, his tall frame blocking out the harsh light. He moved to the nightstand, poured a glass of water, returned to sit on the edge of the bed, and brought the glass to my lips.
"Drink." An order, but unexpectedly gentle.
Instinct screamed to recoil, but I froze when I saw his right hand. White bandages wrapped his palm, crimson seeping through. The marks he'd earned outside that nightmare storage room.
I licked my cracked lips and took two sips from his hand. The warm liquid soothed my burning throat, bringing back a thread of sanity.
"Your hand..." My voice was steadier now. "You should get that looked at."
"Already did."
"It's still bleeding."
He glanced at his palm like he'd just noticed the dark red stains. Then his gaze returned to my face. "Doesn't matter."
Heavy silence filled the air, oppressive as the calm before a storm. I could feel unspoken words circling between us—questions about last night, about fear, about why he'd done all this.
I couldn't stand the suffocating weight.
"Doesn't matter?" I forced a weak smile, trying to lighten the crushing atmosphere.
"That's your trigger finger, Mr. Sokolov.
If you get tetanus and your hand shakes at the wrong moment, or God forbid you die young, I'll be stuck running your mafia empire.
Fair warning—I don't even know how to collect protection money.
Your enemies will probably chop me into pieces and dump me in the Chicago River for the fish.
As your brand new wife, that's way too much responsibility. "
I expected him to respond with his usual cold laugh or fire back with darker humor.
He didn't.
He just looked at me. Those deep brown eyes held no laughter, no trace of that habitual, distanced scrutiny.
Chicago's lights spread like a blurred ribbon of light outside. He sat at the edge of that glow, the dark red at his bandage's edge softened by the warm yellow lamplight.
"You always do this, Nadia." He set the glass on the nightstand and sat on the bed's edge. "Is this how you talk every time you're scared or overwhelmed?"
The air froze for several seconds. The rustling leaves outside, distant voices—everything faded to background noise. Only his words remained, like a stone dropped into my heart, rippling outward in endless circles.
I instinctively tried to avoid his gaze, but there was nowhere to go in this room. He sat too close, those deep brown eyes like two dim lamps, pinning me in place. My fingers curled unconsciously, gripping the sheets until my knuckles turned white.
Finally, I managed to speak. "No. I just don't want things to get too heavy."
"Heavy is okay." He said. "You don't have to lighten everyone else's load all the time."
The words hit like a dull knife, prying open my tightly sealed shell without warning.
I opened my mouth to argue, but found my throat blocked. The exhaustion of always having to put on a brave face, always pretending not to care—it suddenly became clear and crushing.
I pretended not to care about dropping out. Pretended I didn't miss my warm family home. Used sharp, cold humor as a shield against everyone who wanted to watch me fail. No one had ever told me "heavy is okay."
The room fell into long, suffocating silence.
I bit my lip, blinking hard, trying to force back that weak, burning sensation.
Just when I thought I'd shatter under the tension, Roman released a soft sigh.
"Of course," he leaned back slightly, his striking features relaxing in the golden glow, mouth curving into a lazy, slightly wicked smile, "if you insist on lightening the mood with conversation, I suggest you change topics.
Maybe compliment your husband's taste in suits tonight.
Or how devastatingly handsome he looked kicking down that door.
Always joking about me getting shot or dying young from tetanus, Nadia—it really hurts my feelings. "
"Seriously?" His absurd comment pulled an involuntary laugh from me, nasal and surprised.
"If you hadn't just ignored your actively bleeding hand like some 19th-century serial killer, I might consider petitioning the mayor to give you a 'Chicago Hero of the Year' medal.
As for taste... you're down to one wrinkled black shirt, Mr. Sokolov.
Your suit clearly died alongside your dignity. "
"See? Much better." He laughed softly, his uninjured left hand reaching out, rough fingertips wiping away a tear clinging to my lashes with complete naturalness.
His warmth conducted through skin, that real, living heat finally pulling me completely free of the claustrophobic illusion.
I froze.
I should be wary of this man who terrified Chicago's entire underworld. But reality was absurdly twisted—he was the devil who could orchestrate carnage with a finger snap, yet also the only one who'd kicked through darkness without hesitation tonight and dragged me out of hell.
Looking into those eyes watching me so quietly in the dim light, I suddenly realized something—I was sitting up in bed in this shadowy room, and I didn't feel that familiar panic pressing on my chest.
Because he was here. Because he sat there like a fortress, keeping my fear locked outside.
I looked down at my hands, quietly folded on my knees. The emerald ring caught the light in fragmented glints.
"Ten years ago, the school board chairman's son pursued me for three months.
" I heard my own voice in the quiet room.
Once started, the words I'd suppressed for a decade flooded out unstoppable.
"Flowers, gifts, love letters stuffed in my locker.
I kept refusing because I knew what he was like.
He and his friends, including Trent—they always bullied weaker students. "
I paused. Roman's thumb traced circles on my hand, giving me courage to continue.
"One day, he declared his feelings in front of everyone. The school cafeteria. Covered in roses, with a band. Everyone watching, waiting for me to say yes." I closed my eyes. "But I rejected him in front of everyone."
"The next day, someone planted weed in my locker." My voice started shaking. "Someone reported it. The principal said either withdraw voluntarily or call the police. My parents—they didn't even ask. They chose withdrawal. Because Leon needed money for college."
Roman's fingers tightened, but he stayed silent.
"The day before I left," my voice dropped lower, "Trent and his friends cornered me in the hallway. They said—said they'd teach me what 'knowing my place' felt like."
I opened my eyes. Tears already blurred my vision.
"They dragged me into the gym equipment room. Locked the door. Turned off all the lights."
My breathing quickened, but Roman gripped my hand firmly.
"Then they stood outside the door, listening to me pound on it, listening to me scream, listening to me beg them to let me out." Tears started rolling. "They were laughing. God, that laughter—I pounded until my nails broke, screamed until my throat tore, and they kept laughing."
"Two hours." I choked out. "Two full hours. The darkness was like—like it was alive, pressing in from everywhere. I thought I'd suffocate. I thought I'd die in there. I thought—"
I couldn't continue. My body started shaking.
Roman pulled me into his arms, letting my head rest against his chest.
"Enough." He said quietly, palm moving slowly across my back. "You've done enough."
I buried my face in his shoulder, feeling ten years of suppressed terror finally finding release.
"A janitor finally opened the door," I mumbled against him. "But by then—by then I'd already broken. After that, I couldn't be in darkness anymore. When the lights go out, that door slams shut in my head. Those voices come back."
"So you sleep with all the lights on." Not a question. A statement.
"Yes." I nodded. "I know it's stupid. I know it's been ten years. I should—"