Stalk Me (Beautiful Monsters #1)

1. Nikolai

1

NIKOLAI

I stand in the shadowed alcove of the gallery, observing the spectacle before me. The white walls gleam under strategic lighting, each masterpiece basking in a spotlight, but they don’t hold my attention.

She does.

Sofia Henley moves through her gallery like a queen holding court. The golden silk of her hair catches the light as she gestures toward a massive canvas, explaining its intricacies to a cluster of admirers. The emerald silk of her dress shifts with each movement, revealing endless glimpses of her legs.

I sip my champagne, letting the bubbles dance on my tongue while I catalog every detail of her. The slight furrow in her brow as she considers a question posed by a possible client and how her entire face lights up when she laughs. The way her fingers trail the stem of her glass when she listens—artist’s hands, elegant yet strong.

This is my first time encountering Sofia Henley, and I can’t believe how addicted I am to watching her. I visited her gallery by chance after someone mentioned that she has some of the best art for sale in the city.

“The brushwork here reveals...” Her voice carries across the space, cultured and confident. I detect the hint of steel beneath the polish. Interesting.

She turns, and those stunning eyes sweep past my corner. I remain still, letting the shadows cloak me. Not yet. First, I need to understand what makes Sofia Henley tick.

A potential client steps into her path, drawing her attention. The smile she offers him is perfect—professional and warm, yet maintaining distance. She’s learned to navigate these waters well. But there’s something else. A flash of something darker when she thinks no one’s watching.

I set my empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray. I fight the urge to map the delicate curve of her jaw with my fingertips—patience has always been my greatest weapon.

Sofia gestures to another piece, and I note how the gallery’s security responds to her subtle signals. She’s created quite the fortress here. A shame she doesn’t realize it’s already been breached.

The crowd parts as Sofia approaches a stark contemporary piece—geometric shapes in shades of crimson and obsidian. Her explanation of the artist’s technique and historical context is flawless. There are no reference notes, no hesitation because this isn’t rehearsed knowledge—she lives and breathes it.

“The interplay of light and shadow creates a sense of movement,” she explains to the group. “Notice how the brushstrokes...”

I step forward, emerging from my corner. “What’s your opinion on the authentication controversy surrounding his earlier works?”

She turns, and I catch her look of surprise before her professional facade returns. Those green-gold eyes meet mine directly.

“The debate centers around his use of specific pigments.” Her chin lifts. “But having examined several pieces personally, I can confirm the chemical composition matches the period.”

“Interesting.” I move closer, letting my presence fill her personal space. The subtle scent of her perfume hits me as I tower over her smaller frame. “Consider it sold.”

“The piece isn’t?—”

“Price is irrelevant.”

A slight narrowing of her eyes. She doesn’t appreciate being interrupted. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“Nikolai Ivanov.” I extend my hand, noting how she meets my grip with equal pressure. “I have a particular interest in controversial art.”

“Mr. Ivanov.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Why don’t we discuss the details in my office?”

I follow her through the gallery, watching the subtle sway of her hips. She leads with confidence, but there’s tension in her shoulders. She knows she’s being hunted, even if she doesn’t understand why. Yet she walks straight into her office with me, making her very brave or foolish.

The door softly clicks closed after us.

“Now then.” She moves behind her desk with practiced grace, though her fingers betray a slight tremor as she reaches for the contracts. “Shall we discuss terms?”

I smile, letting a hint of predator show through. The game begins.

Lowering myself into the opposite chair, I maintain eye contact. “Name your price.”

Sofia pulls out paperwork, her movements precise. “The piece is valued at three million.”

“Four.” I lean forward. “Consider it compensation for expedited processing.”

Her eyes snap to mine, and a flush creeps up her neck, but her voice remains steady. “That’s generous.”

“I can be very generous, Ms. Henley.”

Electricity crackles between us as she shifts in her chair, crossing her legs. The whisper of silk against her creamy skin draws my attention.

“The paperwork will take a few days.” She slides a contract across the desk. Her perfume drifts across—something subtle, expensive.

I scan the document, aware of her gaze on me. The way she taps her pen against the desk. The slight intake of breath when I look up.

“Everything appears in order.” I sign with deliberate strokes. My hand brushes hers as I return the papers, and she jerks back as if burned. Fear and something darker flash in her alluring eyes.

“Your reputation precedes you,” I say, watching her file away the contract with methodical precision. “Particularly your expertise in art authentication.”

“I’m thorough.” Sofia straightens a pen on her desk that’s already perfectly aligned. The movement draws attention to her slender wrists and the delicate bones beneath her smooth skin.

“Thorough enough to spot a Malevich forgery that fooled Christie’s experts last year.”

Her fingers freeze. “You follow art world gossip?”

“I follow excellence.” I rest my elbows on her desk, invading her space without moving from my chair. “Tell me, what gave it away?”

“The canvas.” Our eyes lock, and I detect a challenge in them. “The weave pattern was period-correct, but the threading showed micro-variations consistent with modern manufacturing.”

I let my approval show. “Most would have missed that.”

“Most don’t look closely enough.” Her tongue ghosts her lower lip. “Is that why you’re here, Mr. Ivanov? To discuss thread counts?”

“Nikolai,” I correct her, noting how her pupils dilate. “And I’m here because you intrigue me.”

“Professional curiosity?” Her attempt at casual dismissal fails when I lean closer.

“Let’s call it personal interest in professional matters.” My fingertip grazes her planner on the desk. “Have dinner with me.”

“I keep my business and personal lives separate.”

“And yet here you are, alone in your office after hours with a client.” I stand, smoothing my jacket. “Shall we say tomorrow? Eight o’clock?”

Sofia rises too, her heels bringing her closer to my height. Her scent hits me again—jasmine and something sweet underneath.

“I haven’t agreed.”

“You haven’t refused either.” I reach for her business card holder, selecting one with deliberate slowness. Our fingers brush as she tries to hand it to me. This time, she doesn’t pull away.

“Unfortunately, I have a private showing tomorrow evening.” Sofia’s fingers drum against her desk, betraying her tension. “Several important clients.”

“Another night then.” I step closer. “I’m a patient man.”

“Mr. Ivanov?—”

“Nikolai.”

“I appreciate the invitation, but my schedule is full.” She shifts, angling her body away. A defensive gesture that only draws my attention to her shapely figure.

“You haven’t even checked your calendar.” I nod toward the leather-bound planner. “Surely you can spare one evening.”

Her lips part, then press together. “I’ll have to check my commitments.”

“Of course.” I extend my hand. “I’ll be in touch.”

That slight pause betrays her wariness before she commits to the contact. Lightning courses through my veins at her touch—soft elegance meets my calculated strength. Her handshake reveals the steel beneath her sophistication.

I hold the handshake a fraction longer than necessary, letting my thumb brush across her knuckles. A small sound catches in her throat.

When she attempts to retrieve her hand, I hold tighter for a moment— long enough to establish dominance. Her eyes dart to mine, recognition flashing in those depths.

I release her hand, and she immediately tucks it behind her back. As if she can hide the effect of my touch.

“Good evening, Ms. Henley.”

Her voice follows me to the door. “Good evening, Nikolai.”

Hearing her say my name sends blood straight to my cock. I pause at the threshold, my hand tightening on the doorframe. How she said it softly and almost breathy strips away any pretense of professional distance.

My cock hardens against my tailored slacks. I adjust my jacket to hide the evidence, grateful for its precise cut. The urge to turn around, to push her against that pristine desk and show her exactly what that voice does to me, nearly overwhelms my control.

I draw a measured breath, letting the predator inside me savor her scent one last time. Jasmine and vanilla—an intoxicating combination that makes my mouth water.

It’s an effort to force myself to walk away, each step measured and controlled despite the growing ache between my legs. The click of her door closing behind me reverberates through the now-empty gallery. My hands curl into fists, imagining her silk dress bunched between my fingers.

Soon. Very soon, Sofia Henley will understand the repercussions of refusing Nikolai Ivanov.