Chapter 6 – Niko
By the time the brunch is done and the last glass of champagne has been cleared, I lead Noelle back through the estate’s halls, my hand resting lightly against her back. The world feels unnervingly steady, as if everything I’ve ever known has shifted half a degree and is still settling into place.
I’m married.
I have a wife.
The words circle like crows in my head, sharp and unreal. I keep my face smooth, every thought and flicker of doubt locked behind the mask I’ve worn for years. She doesn’t need to see the chaos stirring beneath it. No one does.
We step into the suite, the heavy door closing behind us with a final, quiet thud. For a moment, neither of us speaks. The room is large, drenched in soft afternoon light, and the silence stretches until it feels alive. I gesture toward the lounge.
“Sit.” My voice comes out calm, clipped, like I planned this moment down to the second.
She obeys, lowering herself onto the couch with quiet grace. The skirt of her wedding dress spills around her like liquid ivory, the lace catching on the light. I take the chair opposite, the distance deliberate, necessary.
And then I make the mistake of looking at her again.
She’s beautiful. Painfully so. The kind of beautiful that makes a man’s chest tighten until it hurts to breathe. The crown of flowers in her hair, the faint flush on her cheeks, the way her eyes—sharp, wary, unyielding—still manage to soften the room.
My wife.
I school my features into indifference, but inside, the realization claws at me.
I almost can’t believe it.
She clears her throat and meets my eyes. That fire is there again—the same one that drew me to her. If only she knew how much it turns me on.
“I’m tired,” she murmurs, her voice low but firm. “I’d like to go in and rest.”
“Soon.” I nod once, as if this is already settled. “I just need to set some rules.”
Her eyes flash, sharp and suspicious. “Rules?”
“Yeah.” I lift one shoulder in a careless shrug, though every word I’m about to say is anything but casual.
“You don’t step outside the estate without an escort.
Two soldiers minimum. You don’t invite anyone in unless they’ve been cleared—security checks, background, the works. I won’t risk you becoming a liability.”
Her lips part, outrage flickering across her face, but I keep going.
“And the clinic?” I lean back, studying her, waiting for her reaction. “You can quit. You don’t need to work anymore. You don’t need to make money anymore. That’s my job now—to provide for you. That’s what a husband does.”
The word husband tastes strange on my tongue. Strange, but final. Oddly enough, I like it.
Noelle lets out a humorless chuckle, the sound scraping against my chest like broken glass. “You didn’t marry me to own me,” she says, eyes burning into mine. “You married me to shut me up. To put a neat little bow on the Anton case. So stop acting like this is anything more than that.”
She rises before I can respond, her skirts brushing against my leg as she moves away. My hand shoots out, fingers closing around her wrist.
She jerks free, the defiance in her spine unmistakable as she keeps walking.
I push back from the table, the chair legs screeching against the floor, and cross the space in two strides. My hand finds her before she reaches the door. I spin her, pressing her against the wall, my palm sliding up to cradle her throat. Not choking. Just holding. Containing. Claiming.
Her breath catches. Mine does too. Our faces are mere inches apart, heat radiating in the thin air between us.
I can feel the pulse hammering beneath my fingers, and for a dangerous moment, I can’t tell if it’s hers or mine.
My voice is low, rough, meant for her alone. “I married you because you belong to me. And when someone touches what’s mine, I bury them.”
Her eyes widen, defiance sparking hotter than ever.
I tighten my hold just enough to remind her who she’s dealing with.
“It’s your duty to listen. To follow my rules.
Do exactly as I say, and things will stay beautiful.
But if you don’t”—I lean closer, letting my breath brush her lips—“it won’t look good for you. ”
Her laugh is sharp, bitter. “Fuck off, Niko.”
The words slice through me, but instead of fury, it ignites something darker. Our mouths are suddenly so close, breaths colliding, anger and heat knotting between us like a live wire. For a split second, I almost close the distance.
Almost.
Her pupils are blown wide, her chest rising fast, her lips parting as if she’s waiting for me to do it. The world shrinks down to this—her mouth, my hand on her throat, the promise of destruction if either of us moves an inch.
But I don’t.
I pull back first, slowly, deliberately, like a man in complete control. My face shutters cold again, calculated, untouchable.
“Careful, wife,” I murmur, finally releasing her. “Don’t mistake defiance for power. It won’t end well.”
The air between us is still charged, sharp as broken glass, but eventually the fire dims enough that we can breathe without tearing into each other. She presses her back harder into the wall, as if to ground herself, then finally speaks.
“I’m not quitting the clinic,” she says, her voice steady despite everything that just passed between us. “It’s important to me.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why? You don’t need the money. You don’t need the hassle. Why were you even working there?”
I expect a lie, an excuse. Instead, she lifts her chin, that proud defiance softening just enough for honesty to slip through.
“Because I’m saving for medical school,” she says quietly. “I had to quit after one year. I’ve been working every hour I can, putting money aside so I can go back.”
For a moment, I’m silent. The admission hits harder than I thought it would. I study her face—no mockery, no manipulation. Just truth.
I lean back slightly, my brows pulling together. “Medical school.” A beat. “I can pay for it.”
Her eyes flash, fierce again, but not with the same fire as before. Something rawer, more fragile.
“No,” she says immediately, shaking her head. “I’ve never taken money from anyone. I don’t want to start now just because I suddenly have a rich husband.”
Her voice softens then, the edge bleeding away, leaving something that twists deep in my chest.
“This is important to me,” she whispers. “Please.”
Her “please” lingers in the air between us, softer than anything she’s said all night. I don’t know what the hell happens, but something in my chest shifts, loosens, melts against my will.
I drag a hand down my jaw, trying to mask it with indifference, but the words slip out before I can stop them.
“Fine,” I say at last, my voice low, steady. “You can go to the clinic.”
Her brows lift, surprised, almost suspicious.
“But not without an escort,” I add firmly. “Wherever you go, you don’t step outside this house without my men. That’s not negotiable.”
For a beat, she just stares at me, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m tricking her. Then she nods slowly.
“Okay,” she murmurs. “If that’s the price, I’ll take it.”
Something eases inside me—strangely, dangerously. I don’t tell her that. I just lean back, keeping my expression cool, hiding the fact that her voice, that single word, almost feels like victory.
“Go get changed out of that dress,” I tell her finally, my voice sharper than I intend. The sight of her in white—mine, but not mine—does something I don’t want to name.
She presses her lips together, hesitates like she might argue, then turns and disappears into the bedroom.
I exhale through my nose, slow and controlled, and head into my office.
It’s a compact room tucked into the suite, lined with dark wood and a steel desk. The glow from the monitors washes over me as I sink into the chair. On the screens, the world divides neatly into grids of moving pieces. A courtyard. A driveway. A hall.
And then her.
Her old apartment in Chicago flickers in one feed. Still intact. Still under watch. I lean back, arms folded, eyes locked on the image. She thinks walking down the aisle makes her free of ghosts, of enemies, of Anton’s mess. She has no idea how wrong she is.
Or how closely I’ve been watching.
I don’t know if it makes me feel powerful. Or guilty. Or both.
“What is that?”
Her voice cuts through the hum of the screens, sharp and sudden. I swivel in the chair.
Noelle stands in the doorway, changed into a baggy lounge set that swallows her frame. For a split second, I almost see relief—like she’s shed the weight of the wedding dress. But then her eyes snap to the monitors, to the grainy feed of her Chicago apartment glowing on the far left screen.
Her face drains.
“Have you been…watching me?”
I don’t flinch. I don’t look away. “Anton was on the list. And then you made your sudden move. That made you a suspect, too.”
She stares at me like I’ve slapped her, mouth opening and closing before words come out. “Do you watch all suspects like this?”
“No,” I say evenly, letting the truth hang between us. Then, softer, deliberate: “Just the ones I like.”
Her eyes widen. Horror. Disbelief. A flash of something else I can’t quite name.
“This is…creepy,” she whispers, shaking her head. “Creepy and stalkerish.”
I rise from the chair slowly, deliberately, not bothering to defend myself. “Maybe,” I say. “Call it whatever you want. It kept you alive.”
Her jaw tightens. “You’ve been watching me in my own apartment, Niko. Do you even hear yourself? That’s not protection. That’s control.”
A cold smile tugs at my mouth. “And what’s the difference? You’re mine either way.”
Her eyes flash wide, fury sparking. “I’m not yours. You married me to shut me up, not to own me.”
I take two slow steps toward her, each one deliberate, forcing her back a fraction until the wall is at her spine.
I lower my voice, sharp and cutting. “Noelle, don’t delude yourself.
You wear my ring; you live under my roof.
Whether you like it or not, you belong to me.
We’ve had this conversation too many times for my liking. Let it sink in this time.”
She stares at me, chest rising and falling fast, her voice breaking with rage. “You think this makes you a man? Watching me shower? Eating takeout on my couch? Do you enjoy treating me like some lab rat in a cage?”
There are no cameras in her bathroom, so I haven’t watched her shower. Even I won't do that. But she doesn’t have to know, since she wants to act like she’s my boss.
I tilt my head, eyes dragging down her face, unbothered. “Not a rat. A prize. And yes…I enjoy it.”
Her breath catches—half disbelief, half disgust. “You’re sick.”
“Maybe.” I lean in closer, my breath brushing the shell of her ear. “But I know everything about you. What you eat, when you sleep, how long you stare at yourself in the mirror before you finally turn away. I know you better than anyone ever has. Tell me—doesn’t part of you like being seen?”
Her face twists, fury trembling through every muscle. She raises her hand, the movement sharp and unhesitating. But before her palm can connect, my hand shoots up, fingers closing tight around her wrist.
The sound of her gasp fills the silence between us. Her pulse hammers against my grip, wild, defiant.
I hold her there, close enough that she can’t look away, close enough that her rage has nowhere to go but inward. My voice drops, low and dangerous.
“Try that again,” I murmur, eyes locked on hers. “I dare you.”