Chapter 8 – Niko
She’s asleep. Finally.
The sheet barely clings to her skin, and still I can see every mark I left. Bruises rising like shadows along her throat, my handprint stamped into her hip, bite marks blooming across her breasts. She’s wrecked. My doing.
And yet—she doesn’t look ruined.
She looks whole.
Her chest rises and falls in a slow rhythm, lips parted, lashes resting on soft cheekbones. She’s not trembling anymore. She’s not fighting. She’s at peace. Because of me.
My hand curls into a fist at my side, fighting the urge to touch her again.
To push her awake, drag her back under me, see just how much further she can break before she shatters.
But there’s no breaking her, is there? Noelle isn’t fragile porcelain.
She’s steel wrapped in silk. Every time I push, she bends, she yields, but she never breaks. And it drives me mad.
I trace her face with my eyes, memorizing every detail—her messy hair sticking to her cheek, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to her skin, the faint red scrape on her collarbone where my teeth caught too hard. My mark. All of it mine.
Something ugly and dangerous twists in my chest. She shouldn’t make me feel like this. She shouldn’t make me believe in anything more than control. With a low, angry growl, I pull back from the bed, forcing space between us before I lose myself in her again.
My gaze catches on the crumpled paper on the floor. The note. The insult. The threat.
The bride bleeds next.
The words sear into me, sharper than a blade. My jaw clenches, rage burning through my veins. Whoever sent this thinks they’re clever—thinks they can get to me through her. Maybe it’s an enemy with old debts to settle. Maybe it’s someone inside my own ranks, a traitor with a death wish.
It doesn’t matter.
They want her because of me. They want her blood as leverage, as punishment, as bait.
I expected this. Hell, I knew it would happen sooner or later. Noelle wearing my name, my ring, makes her a target. But not this fast. Not when she’s barely taken off her wedding dress.
The timing is a message in itself. A declaration of war.
My hands curl into fists. A part of me welcomes it—the challenge, the bloodshed, the chance to crush whoever thinks they can touch what’s mine. But then I look back at her, sleeping, bruised and marked from me, not from them. She doesn’t even know what storm is circling outside these walls.
My wife.
I swear on everything I am, everything I have built, that she will never bleed for me. Not for them.
They want her? They’ll have to go through me.
And I’ll kill every last one of them before I let that happen.
***
I wake from a deep, dreamless sleep to find Noelle still beside me. She’s curled on her side, hair a dark tangle across her face, lips parted. For a moment, I just…watch her.
I don’t know how long I’ve been out, but it’s long enough to hate myself for it. I should never sleep this deeply. Not when enemies are circling. Not when she’s under my roof.
I swing my legs off the bed and pull on my clothes piece by piece. Shirt. Jacket. Holster. Every movement is quiet, practiced, automatic. But when I straighten, I glance back down at her—and something sharp catches in my chest.
I almost lean down. Almost press my mouth to her cheek. Almost give in to that weakness.
My hand clenches at my side, nails biting into my palm.
No. That’s not who I am. Not what I do.
I turn and leave the room without a sound, closing the door behind me. I make it halfway down the stairs before I see him—sitting like he owns the place, long legs stretched out, an easy smirk tugging at his mouth. Lev Rusnak.
Of course.
I’m not surprised Demyan or the others didn’t stop him from coming in. Lev has never needed permission to walk into my house. He’s one of the few people closest to me.
“Lev?” I frown, slowing my steps. “When did you get back?”
At twenty-nine, Lev is young, but he’s always carried a wisdom and maturity beyond his years. Even as kids, we were close.
For the past decade, Lev has been in London, ten years spent studying international finance and turning it into a fortune.
There, he built the perfect pathways to turn all the family’s black money into white.
He’s the brain of the Rusnak family when it comes to such things.
To most, he’s always been the golden boy—charming, brilliant, untouchable.
Many in the hierarchy underestimated him, dismissing him as just a young, pretty face. But Kaz knew better. So did I.
Lev smirks and rises fluidly from the chair, sliding one hand into the pocket of his dress pants like he’s walking out of some glossy London magazine instead of my living room.
“Who would I be if I didn’t show up to wish my favorite cousin a happy married life?”
I roll my eyes.
Lev, of course, looks amused by my lack of enthusiasm. He steps closer and claps a hand onto my shoulder, giving it a firm, brotherly pat. His grin is easy, but his eyes are sharp, already dissecting me like he’s two steps ahead in a game I didn’t ask to play.
“So, tell me,” he says smoothly, “did you really settle for an arranged match?”
I meet his gaze, unflinching. “I did.”
Lev laughs under his breath, shaking his head like I’ve just confirmed his worst suspicions. “Idiot.”
I arch a brow, but he doesn’t give me a chance to bite back.
“The mess you wanted to control by marrying Noelle?” he continues, voice low and cutting, “It will only grow bigger. Because now she’s not just a woman in your bed—she’s your wife.
And that makes her leverage. Direct leverage.
If anything goes wrong, if anyone wants to get to you, Noelle’s life is the first one that will be threatened. ”
His words hang heavy between us, sharp enough to slice through the morning calm. I think about the crumpled letter upstairs in our room and force myself into silence. No need to hand Lev more ammunition to gloat. He already sees more than most.
The truth is obvious anyway: I did this out of desire, not just duty, no matter how hard I try to convince myself otherwise.
“Did you come here to gloat?” I mutter, moving toward the foyer where the bar gleams in polished glass and crystal.
Lev follows, his low chuckle irritatingly smooth. “I came because I missed you—and yes, to gloat. I thought you were smarter than Lukin, Adrian, and Kaz. Turns out you stepped into the same marriage trap as the rest of them.”
I pour two fingers of whiskey into each glass, hand him one, and throw mine back in a single swallow. Lev does the same, then immediately refills his.
“So,” I ask, keeping my tone casual, “when did you get back?”
He shrugs, swirling the liquid before downing it again. “I left London a few weeks ago. Been cruising through Italy since then—old friends, old flames, unfinished business. Came to Chicago the moment I heard about your wedding.” He winks, and it grates. “Can I see your wife?”
“Hell no.”
“Why not?” He clutches his chest in mock injury. “She should meet her brother-in-law, shouldn’t she?”
I don’t take the bait. Instead, I set my glass down with a soft clink and lean against the bar. “Tell me something, Lev. London. International finance. How did you manage to make all that dirty money look so clean? I’ve always wondered.”
His eyes sharpen with interest—exactly as I hoped. He straightens, eager, already forgetting his line of teasing.
“Ah,” he says, a smile creeping in, “you want to know how the magic works?”
“Indulge me.”
Lev sips from his glass before launching into it, hands moving as he explains.
“It’s all about pathways, cousin. You build shell companies—fronts that look squeaky clean.
Real estate, luxury imports, tech startups.
You filter the money through layers of legitimate trade until no one can trace the rot at the core.
By the time it hits the banks, it’s as white as snow. Even the Feds can’t touch it.”
I nod slowly, letting him revel in his own brilliance, pushing him further. “And London was the perfect place to do this?”
“The perfect place,” he says without hesitation.
“Loose regulations, desperate investors, and a city that worships old money but thrives on new. I turned our family’s blood-soaked empire into something that could sit at the same table as Wall Street.
That’s why they call me the golden boy.” His grin is pure arrogance.
“Everyone underestimates me until their fortunes depend on me.”
I pour him another drink, watching him talk, his ego carrying him further and further away from the subject of Noelle.
Exactly where I want him.
Until a figure appears in the doorway.
I look up—and there she is. Noelle.
Lev hasn’t noticed her yet, but I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s dressed in one of the pajama sets I had Demyan purchase. It clings in places it shouldn’t, fitted where she wants it loose. She probably hates it. I, however, think it’s absolutely fucking sinful.
Her gaze collides with mine across the room. That charged moment we shared earlier stretches between us, thickening the silence. I want her again—right here, against the wall, until she’s wrung dry and forced back into another beautiful sleep.
Lev finally follows my line of sight. His grin sharpens the second he sees her. He rises fluidly, all charm and practiced ease, and drifts toward her like a man born to disarm.
“You must be Noelle?” His tone is velvet, the same gentle ease that got us out of trouble so many times when we were kids.
“Yes.” Her voice is soft but steady as she places her hand in his. He raises it smoothly to his lips and kisses it, his gallantry infuriatingly effortless.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “I’m Lev Rusnak. Your husband’s cousin.”
Husband.
I’m her husband.
Noelle flashes him a polite smile—one that twists something sharp inside me, too close to jealousy for my own liking. “It’s nice to meet you, Lev.”
My jaw tightens. “Noelle, come here.”
Her eyes flick toward me, narrowing in irritation. She glares—defiant, unyielding—before nodding politely at Lev and making her way across the room. Every step drips with challenge, but eventually, inevitably, she reaches me.
“Did you sleep well?” I ask, my voice low.
She nods, but her eyes are restless. “What about the letter?” Her brows knit with worry. “Who wants me dead? Is it Anton?”
“Whoa.” Lev’s head snaps toward her, confusion shadowing his grin. “What letter? What’s she talking about, Niko?”
My jaw flexes. I don’t want to, but I don’t have a choice. With clipped words, I tell him about the letter—the crude threat, the warning that landed in our room like a snake in our bed.
Lev listens, silent, his expression sharpening with every detail. By the end, his jaw is taut, eyes hard with thought. He’s angry. I can see it. But he’s also calculating, already chasing threads in that mind of his.
What hurts me more than his reaction, though, is hers. Noelle.
Her face is pale, her eyes wide and glassy with fear. She looks…fragile in a way that makes my chest ache. And it guts me, because I hate seeing her like this. Because if I could, I would set the world on fire—reduce it to ash—just to keep her safe.
I tilt her chin up, trying to make her meet my eyes. “Noelle…I won’t let anything happen to you. I’ll keep you safe. That’s a promise.”
Her lips press together, trembling at the edges, but she doesn’t look convinced. If anything, her fear deepens, like she already knows I can’t control every bullet, every betrayal, every ghost crawling out of our past.
Demyan rushes into the room, pausing the moment his gaze lands on Noelle. I instinctively step in front of her, taking her hand. “Demyan, what is it?”
“I need to speak to you in private, Boss,” he says, his voice low but urgent.
I contemplate leaving with him, but Noelle wraps a hand around my wrist, holding me in place. The gesture makes me pause.
“You can speak,” I murmur.
Demyan hesitates for a beat, lips pressed tight, before nodding. “Anton Vostrikov…he’s managed to escape custody.”