Chapter 12 - Dani
The numbness I feel is almost worse than the grief at times.
Crying or pacing myself sick with anxiety made me feel connected to something real at the very least. The pain reminded me that this actually happened.
That Dad is gone, my life detonated in the span of a single day, and I somehow ended up trapped in the home of a man whose real name I didn’t even know until yesterday.
But the numbness makes me feel empty, and I don’t know what to do with it, or how to push past it.
After Nikolai left for the day, I managed to get some sleep, but everything feels just as heavy when I wake up. My thoughts feel slow and distant, more like I’m disconnected from my body. For a long while, I just lie in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the house around me.
Even thinking about his name feels strange in my mind, like it’s too sharp compared to Liam, which now feels embarrassingly fake in hindsight. Like I should have noticed sooner somehow.
Maybe the signs were there all along, but maybe I just wanted someone to believe in while my world felt like it was collapsing.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I roll onto my side and force the thought away before it can drag me back under again.
I can’t keep doing this…lying here, rotting in grief and confusion while my thoughts eat me alive. Regardless of what I’ve lost, it’s only getting worse the longer I sit in my despair.
Eventually, I push myself upright and wander toward the ensuite bathroom. To get myself right again, I splash cold water against my face before staring at my reflection.
I look awful. My hair is tangled, my skin has paled, and my eyes are shadowed from a lack of sleep.
Gripping the edge of the sink harder, I pull in a deep breath and force myself to get back on track.
Today, I just want to feel like myself again, even if it’s only for an hour. Even if I can only manage the bare minimum before working myself into more. That’s what finally pushes me into motion.
Back home, before all of this, yoga had always been a way for me to reset. Whenever I had a rough day at work, or the weight of Dad’s appointments got the better of me, I’d drag my mat into the living room and force myself to breathe through it.
So I do that now, as well as I can.
There’s no mat in the guest room, but the carpet is soft enough, so I use it as my starting point.
At first, my body protests the usual movements immediately. My muscles pull tight during the stretches, still weaker than they should be, but gradually, movement starts to loosen the tension sitting under my skin.
I focus on breathing rather than thinking, allowing myself to follow the rhythms that feel the most natural, like I’m finally listening to my body again.
For the first time in days, my mind quiets.
It isn’t a complete fix, but it’s enough that I don’t feel like I’m drowning inside myself, and even for a little while, I forget about Nikolai or what he represents. I forget about the scammers and all the pain I’ve been carrying ever since.
By the time I’m finished, warmth has returned to my limbs, my pulse is steady rather than frantic, and while the numbness hasn’t vanished, there’s a big enough crack for a semblance of hope to come through.
Enough that when I wander downstairs after having a shower, I let myself take in the kitchen and the potential it holds. Without warning, another impulse hits me.
The space is far bigger than one I’ve ever used before, and every inch of stainless steel gleams perfectly under the light. From what I’ve gathered, Nikolai doesn’t use it often; at least, he doesn’t make the most involved meals.
The kitchen looks untouched, and that alone springs the idea into my mind.
I should bake.
It was something I used to do constantly.
My dad used to call it stress baking, since anytime I was upset, the kitchen would end up smelling like cinnamon and vanilla or melted chocolate.
Without fail, I’d put my energy into it just to give myself a mental break, and now more than ever, I need that.
I don’t even realize how much I missed it until I start moving through the room.
The kitchen is absurdly beautiful with all dark stone countertops and expensive appliances I’ve only ever dreamed of using.
I hesitate at first, wondering if I’m even allowed to touch anything before immediately getting annoyed with myself. If Nikolai plans on keeping me here, then he had better get used to me staying occupied somehow.
Still, I move carefully, opening cabinets until I find flour and sugar, then butter, vanilla extract, and baking powder.
Before long, the familiarity settles over me slowly as I work, measuring, mixing, and portioning out the right amounts.
It feels automatic in the best possible way, and I continue as the sound of the mixer hums softly through the room while afternoon light spills through the windows, warming the countertops and my back while I work. For a while, I lose myself in it completely.
With no hospitals, Bratva, or death to consume me. Just butter softening beneath my fingers and the smell of vanilla blooming into the air.
It feels dangerously close to normal, and by the time I slide the tray into the oven, I actually feel lighter.
Not happy, necessarily. I don’t think I know how to be happy right now, but feeling human again is exponentially better than rotting away in a room I never asked to be in.
I’m leaning against the counter, waiting for the cookies to cool, when I hear the front door open, and instantly, the fragile sense of calm fractures.
My shoulders tense automatically as footsteps echo faintly through the house, both measured and heavy in a familiar way.
Nikolai.
Part of me wants to retreat upstairs before he sees me, while another part refuses to run, so I stay where I am with my arms crossed lightly over my chest as he walks into the kitchen.
He stops the second he sees me, and there’s a brief flicker of surprise across his face. It’s subtle and gone almost immediately, but I notice it anyway.
Then his gaze shifts around the kitchen, to the flour dusting the counter, the cooling rack, and the tray on top of the stove.
“You baked.”
I resist the urge to scoff at how absurdly suspicious he sounds about it, regardless of how innocuous it is. “I did. I promise it’s not a criminal offense.”
His mouth twitches faintly, not quite forming a smile, but it’s close enough. “That depends. What did you make?”
“Chocolate chip cookies.”
“See…that’s dangerous.”
I snort softly before I can stop myself, and the sound surprises both of us a little.
Still, Nikolai steps further into the kitchen and shrugs off his jacket before setting his keys down on the counter.
There’s something different about him now, like he’s not hiding his exhaustion anymore.
Maybe not physically tired exactly, but worn down, which is more noticeable given his usual stoicism.
I notice the looseness in his posture, the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the way he exhales slowly like he’s carrying tension he hasn’t figured out how to put down.
And for some reason, despite everything, curiosity wins out over resentment.
“You look tired,” I say before I can think better of it.
His brows lift slightly, since that clearly wasn’t what he expected me to say.
For a second, I assume he’s going to dodge the question completely, but then he leans back against the opposite counter and drags a hand over his jaw.
“I had a conversation with my family that I didn’t want to have yet,” he says.
He doesn’t need to say what about for me to catch on that it had to do with me after last night.
“Oh.”
He nods once. “I had to explain some things.”
I study him carefully, looking to see just how far his honesty will go. “The hidden operations?”
There’s the slightest hesitation in his eyes before he answers. “Yes.”
Something about that surprises me more than it should. A few days ago, he would’ve brushed me off with some vague non-answer, but now, he actually sounds open. Not fully yet, but more than before. Somehow, that feels like a bridge anyway.
“How did that go?” I ask cautiously.
A humorless huff escapes him. “Better than expected eventually.”
“Eventually?”
“Nobody likes finding out they’ve been lied to.”
The words sound far too intentional to be a coincidence, and given the way he looks at me, I know he’s at least trying to be self-aware.
I narrow my eyes at him slightly. “Is that supposed to be an apology?”
“No.”
At least he’s honest, I guess.
“But,” he continues after a moment, more like he’s offering one without saying it out loud. “I understand the feeling.”
Some of the flickering irritation leaves me at that, and while I consider the energy that goes into anger, it doesn’t feel worth it right now, especially not after how hard I’ve tried to return myself to a normal headspace today.
So, I pull a cookie apart absently and watch as steam curls from the center instead. “So your family really had no idea what you were doing?”
“Nope.”
“Why keep it secret?”
He looks thoughtful for a second, gaze drifting toward the window as the light starts to shift into something more golden. “I didn’t want it tied to our business, and I didn’t want opinions on it. My brothers have a way of inserting themselves where they aren’t needed.”
I consider that for a moment, finding myself annoyingly curious about his family, but I push it down. I don’t need to get invested in any way.
“That sounds lonely.”
Nikolai’s eyes flick back to mine, and something shifts there briefly before he schools his expression. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“I’m trapped in a house with a mysterious criminal,” I point out. “Questions feel reasonable to me.”
That actually earns a quiet laugh from him…a real one this time. It comes out low and rough enough that it catches me off guard completely, and it changes his whole face.
God.
That’s unfairly attractive.
Internally, I immediately resent myself for noticing, especially when I have no business seeing something human in this man.
“What?” he asks, catching my expression.
“Nothing.”
“Mm.”
I narrow my eyes as I pick up on the slightly sardonic tone. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Look at me like you know what I’m thinking.”
A faint smirk tugs at his mouth now, and while subtle, it’s definitely there, and absolutely doing more to me than it should. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Liar.
The thought comes automatically, but strangely, it doesn’t hit with the same bitterness it did earlier. That should probably concern me, but right now, I don’t have the chance to dwell on it.
I lean back against the counter and study him more openly now. “So…how does someone even end up in the Bratva?”
There’s no judgment in the question this time, and he seems to notice that too.
“I was born into it. Most of us were.”
“‘Us’ meaning your brothers?”
He nods. “Roman got us in deeper, then the rest of us followed.”
“And you all just run organized crime together?”
His mouth twitches again. “It sounds dramatic when you say it like that.”
“It is dramatic.”
“Maybe.”
I shake my head slightly, still trying to wrap my mind around it and the fact that this is even real. “You don’t really seem like what I expected.”
That earns me a longer look, and one that’s more curious than he has allowed himself before. “What did you expect?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Someone crueler.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, considering his words, then he murmurs, “There’s enough cruelty in the world already.”
It’s true enough, and the sentiment lingers between us, especially because he sounds like he means them, and we can both attest to that one way or another.
Something softer settles over the kitchen after that, and while it isn’t necessarily comfortable, it’s easier than it had been. And maybe that’s why I do what I do next.
Maybe grief has broken my self-preservation, or I just want to see if I can crack through that controlled exterior again, but either way, I pick up another cookie, walk up to him, and hold it out in offering.
He looks at it suspiciously, not even moving.
I scoff when he doesn’t take it. “You think I poisoned it?”
“I wouldn’t put it past you.”
“If I somehow managed to acquire poison in this place, then maybe you’re not as good at your job as you think.”
“Stranger things have happened…”
Rolling my eyes at that, I shove the cookie closer to him. “Just take the cookie, Nikolai.”
The second the name leaves my mouth intentionally, I feel something change in me, or maybe in the room itself.
When his gaze locks onto mine, warmth curls unexpectedly low in my stomach, and I can’t bring myself to pull back.
Then, before I can second-guess myself, I murmur, “Unless hardened Bratva men are afraid to take risks on baked goods.”
For one brief second, I fully expect him to scowl or tell me off for making light of his world.
Instead, he laughs, deep and genuine enough that it startles me.
And somehow, impossibly, it makes him even more attractive.
That is a whole new problem I absolutely do not need.