11. Nikolai
11
NIKOLAI
T he detailed report on my tablet makes my jaw clench as I stare at the photos of the mangled car wreck that claimed Sofia’s foster parents’ lives two years ago. The investigator’s findings show that brake lines are cleanly cut and staged to resemble an accident. Professional hit.
I consider the sealed adoption records hidden behind layers of bureaucracy that even my connections can’t penetrate. Yet. Three investigators work from different angles, but Sofia Henley’s origins remain a mystery.
Through the tinted windows of my car, I watch her emerge from her brownstone, wrapped in a cream cashmere coat. She pauses to adjust her boot, and I drink in the graceful arch of her neck, the way the morning light catches in her honey-blonde hair.
“Sir, the background check revealed unusual gaps in her childhood medical records,” my head of security murmurs from the front seat. “And her adoption file was sealed by direct order from?—”
I raise my hand, silencing him. Sofia’s walking her usual route to the coffee shop on 7 th Ave. Like clockwork, she’ll order her cappuccino and extra shot, then spend twelve minutes reading the news on her phone before heading to the gallery.
My Sofia is so precise and controlled. Every detail of her life is mapped out in my files—her shopping habits, evening runs, and the wine she prefers.
But those sealed records taunt me. Someone went to great lengths to hide her true identity. The same someone, perhaps, who ordered the hit on her foster parents.
“Keep digging,” I order. “I want everything. Every detail of her past, every secret.” My eyes never leave her image on the screen.
Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours since I last spoke to her after the break-in. The surveillance videos tell me she’s recovered well, but it’s not the same as seeing her in person.
I tap my leather-gloved fingers against the car door. “Park around the corner. I’ll walk from here.” Anton parks and allows me to get out. I button my coat, stride around the corner, and down the street to her usual coffee shop.
The bell chimes as I enter. The rich aroma of fresh espresso fills the air, and she is perfectly poised at her usual corner table, cappuccino untouched as she scrolls through her phone.
Her reaction to my approach is instantaneous—her head lifts, and those mesmerizing green-gold eyes narrow in a display of defiance that amuses me. “Mr. Ivanov.”
“Sofia. What a pleasant surprise.” I gesture to the empty chair across from her. “May I?”
She sets down her phone, lips pressed into a thin line. “Is it really a surprise?”
“I was in the neighborhood?—”
“Don’t.” She leans forward, voice dropping. “Ever since we met, black cars have been following me. Men in suits watching my gallery. My phone acting strange.” Her fingers curl around her cup. “I’m not stupid, Nikolai.”
The steel in her voice sends a thrill through me. I shed my coat and take the seat anyway. “Have you been researching me?”
“Trying to. Most records are mysteriously incomplete or sealed.”
“Like your own?”I ask.
Her jaw clenches, and a flash of fear enters her eyes. “So you’ve been digging too.”
“I prefer to know who I’m dealing with.”
“And who exactly am I dealing with?” She meets my gaze without flinching. “Because right now, all I see is a man who’s having me followed and invading my privacy.”
“Careful, Sofia.” I lean closer, invading her space. “That sharp tongue of yours might get you in trouble.”
She stands abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. “I’m leaving.”
I catch her wrist before she can move past me. “Sit. Down.”
“Let go of me.” Her voice trembles with rage.
“Make me.”
She yanks her arm, but I hold firm. The café patrons studiously avoid looking our way—smart of them.
“You entitled bastard.” Color rises in her cheeks. “You think you can just waltz into my life and start controlling everything?”
“I think you need someone to control you.” I pull her closer, my lips brushing her ear. “Someone to take you in hand when you act like a spoiled brat.”
Her breath catches. “I am not?—”
“No?” I trace my thumb over her pulse point. “Then why are you shaking? Why is your heart racing?”
“Because I’m angry,” she hisses.
“Because you need discipline.” I lower my voice. “I’d love nothing more than to put you over my knee right now and teach you some manners.”
She tries to step back, but I hold her in place. Her pupils dilate, and her chest rises and falls rapidly.
“You’d fight it at first,” I continue. “But we both know you’d end up begging for more, wouldn’t you, malishka ?”
A small whimper escapes her lips before she can stop it. Her free hand clenches into a fist.
“That’s what really makes you angry, isn’t it? Not that I’m controlling—but that part of you craves it. Needs it.”
“You’re delusional.” But her voice has lost its edge, replaced by breathless want.
“Am I?” I stand, towering over her. “Then why aren’t you pulling away anymore?”
Her lips open, but no sound escapes, and the anger in her eyes has transformed into something hungry and dark.
I release her wrist but maintain my position, caging her between my body and the table. Her defiance only fuels my need to break through that polished exterior.
“Such a bratty little girl,” I murmur against her ear. “Is that why you’re acting out? Looking for attention from Daddy?”
She stiffens, a full-body shudder running through her. “Don’t?—”
“Don’t what?” My fingers trail up her arm. “Don’t point out how desperate you are for someone to take control and give you what you need?”
“I don’t need anything from you.” But her voice wavers, betraying her.
“No?” I grip her chin, forcing her to meet my gaze. “Then why do you lean into my touch? Why do those pretty eyes get so dark when I call you a good girl?”
Her breath hitches. She tries to turn away, but I hold firm.
“Stop,” she whispers, but her body arches closer.
“Say the word.” My thumb traces the seam of her mouth. “Run from this. Tell me I’m wrong about us.”
Instead of pulling back, she presses into my touch. Her eyes flutter closed, a soft whimper escaping.
“That’s what I thought.” I release her chin. “Such a needy little thing under all that polish. Fighting so hard against what you want.”
“I hate you.” But there’s no conviction behind the words.
“No, you hate how well I see through you.” I step back, letting cold air rush between us. “How easily I can make you fall apart.”
She grabs the edge of the table to steady herself, chest heaving. The war between desire and resistance plays across her face.
“We’re in public,” she manages, glancing around the café.
“And yet you’re still here, aren’t you?” I smile. “Not running away. Not calling for help. Just trembling and wet, desperate for Daddy’s attention.”
A strangled sound escapes her throat, her knuckles white against the table.
I straighten my tie, savoring how Sofia’s chest rises and falls with each ragged breath. The flush on her cheeks and the darkness in her eyes tell me everything her lips won’t admit. My little brat fighting so hard against what she needs.
“I’ve enjoyed our chat.” I brush imaginary lint from my sleeve. “But I have meetings to attend.”
She swallows hard, still gripping the table like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. The sight sends satisfaction coursing through me.
“I’ll pick you up at eight tonight. Wear something elegant. And Sofia?” I lean close, letting my breath ghost across her ear. “Don’t let me down.”
Those green-gold eyes follow my movements as I shrug on my coat and straighten my cuffs. The power of her gaze burns into my back as I stride toward the door, but she remains rooted in place.
Just before I exit, I glance over my shoulder to find she hasn’t moved an inch, still trembling against the table, watching me with a mixture of desire and defiance that makes my blood sing.
Perfect.