Chapter 22 – Niko
Smoke hangs heavy, curling through the broken beams of light that filter into the warehouse. Noelle’s face flashes through the haze—wide-eyed, trembling, but alive. That’s all I need.
Two rogues rush me from the left. I don’t hesitate. My gun rises, two sharp cracks splitting the air, and they collapse before they even touch the ground.
That sound—the echo of their bodies falling—is the signal.
Chaos erupts. Anton and Kirill’s men surge forward, a disorganized but vicious tide of rogues hungry for blood.
My soldiers meet them head-on, trained precision clashing against wild brutality.
The air fills with gunfire, shouting, the metallic stench of blood already sharp.
But I don’t care about the noise. My eyes lock only on two men.
Anton. Wild-eyed, reckless, stupid.
Kirill. Calculated, smug, the puppet master.
I push forward, rage burning in my veins, while Lev and the others carve a path through the storm. Every step feels inevitable. I’ve waited for this moment, for this reckoning.
“Anton!” My voice cuts through the gunfire, low and lethal. His head snaps toward me, and for the first time, I see something flicker there—fear.
Good.
Because this ends tonight.
Before I can respond, the two men dash out of my view, scrambling toward the back, where there’s probably an escape route. I nod at Demyan, who immediately nods back and chases after them. He’s an ex-special forces agent, and Anton and Kirill are no match for him.
Demyan moves like a wolf unleashed—quiet, efficient, deadly. In the blur of gunfire and screams, he peels through the chaos and corners Anton and Kirill against the far wall of the warehouse.
“Nowhere to run,” he growls, his gun leveled.
Anton lunges first, stupid as ever. He swings at Demyan, but Demyan ducks, slamming his elbow into Anton’s ribs before sending him sprawling with a sharp kick. I don’t give him time to breathe. I close in, my fist connecting with his jaw, the satisfying crunch echoing even over the din of battle.
Kirill isn’t reckless like Anton. He moves with the bitterness of experience, pulling a knife from his coat and coming at me with surprising speed for a man with a gut.
I sidestep, block with my forearm, then drive my knee into his stomach.
He snarls, slashing, the blade nicking my jacket but not my skin.
Demyan drags Anton up and slams him against a steel beam, pinning him there with a forearm across his throat. Anton thrashes, spitting curses, but Demyan doesn’t budge. He’s a wall.
I grab Kirill’s knife hand, twist until the blade clatters to the floor, then slam him down on his knees. His eyes widen as I press my gun to his temple.
“You think you can touch what’s mine?” My voice is ice, steady even with blood dripping somewhere in the chaos behind us. “You think you can take her?”
Kirill bares his teeth, but I see the tremor in his jaw. Fear.
Behind me, Anton gags as Demyan pins him to the steel beam, one hand crushing his throat.
Anton thrashes, nails clawing at Demyan’s arm, but Demyan’s face is stone.
His other hand pistons into Anton’s ribs, punch after punch until the wet snap of cartilage and bone fills the air.
Blood sprays from Anton’s mouth as he wheezes my name—“Niko—!”—but it’s broken, pitiful.
I don’t turn. My gun stays where it belongs, pressed to Kirill’s skull.
Kirill’s eyes burn up at me, hate twisting what’s left of his dignity. I holster the gun. A bullet is too clean for him. Too merciful.
My fist smashes into his face. Once. Twice. Again. Bone cracks under the assault, his nose collapsing, cheek splitting open. His blood sprays hot across my knuckles, but I don’t stop. I hammer him until his features blur into ruin, until his smug mouth is nothing but torn flesh and broken teeth.
He groans, body sagging. One last punch drops him flat on the floor, his head bouncing off the concrete. He twitches, blood pooling, his face a mangled mask.
I step back, chest heaving. He’s breathing, but barely. Weak. Ruined.
Demyan still has Anton pinned, his forearm crushing Anton’s windpipe. Anton’s eyes bulge, his face blotched purple, spittle running down his chin as he claws uselessly at Demyan’s arm.
“Don’t kill him,” I order, my voice sharp enough to cut steel. “Not yet.”
Demyan glances at me, then eases his hold just enough for Anton to gasp and sputter, dragging air like a drowning man. Blood pours from his split lip, his chest heaving. He looks like he wants to beg, but he’s too far gone for words.
I stare at both of them—Kirill broken on the floor, Anton trembling in Demyan’s grip. The balance has shifted. They wanted to be kings in my world, but all I see now are carcasses waiting to be burned.
“No—Niko!”
Noelle’s scream rips through the din, sharp enough to cut through the haze of blood and gunpowder. My head jerks toward her voice just in time to catch the glint of steel—a barrel leveled at me from behind.
I pivot hard, muscles firing on instinct. The shot cracks, deafening in the confined space, but it doesn’t hit me.
Anton’s scream tears through the warehouse instead. The bullet rips into his thigh, shredding flesh and bone, and he drops like dead weight, writhing on the floor beside Kirill’s bloodied body. His cries echo against the concrete, raw and broken, while blood gushes across the ground.
Kirill is still down, barely conscious, his face swollen and ruined. Now Anton’s body thrashes against the floor right next to him, their groans and curses blending like some pathetic chorus of failure.
I snap my gaze back to the shooter. He doesn’t get a second chance. My gun is up, and one precise shot shatters his skull, spraying the wall with the last mistake he’ll ever make. His body crumples into the dirt like it was never meant to stand.
My chest heaves. The ringing in my ears fades enough to hear Noelle again—her voice ragged, desperate.
I holster my gun, eyes never leaving the two broken men writhing at my feet. They thought they could touch what was mine.
Not anymore. Not ever again.
I turn to Demyan, my voice low and final.
“Arrest them. I’ll make them regret ever crossing my path.”
Demyan doesn’t argue. “Yes, Boss.”
He jerks his chin, and two of our men peel out of the smoke, weapons raised, moving to drag Anton and Kirill out like the filth they are. Their groans fill the air, pitiful and small, as chains and zip ties clamp down on their wrists.
I don’t watch. I’ve already sentenced them.
Instead, I storm forward, the haze parting, my boots heavy against the blood-soaked floor, toward Noelle.
She’s still strapped to the chair, trembling, her eyes wet but locked on me like I’m the only solid thing in this hell. My chest squeezes at the sight, rage and relief colliding so violently I almost stagger.
I close the distance in three long strides, the rest of the war behind me dissolving into static. As I near her, I realize nothing exists but her.
My chest seizes, a violent ache that nearly drops me. I’ve stared down death a thousand times, felt bones break under my fists, but nothing—nothing—has ever gutted me like this.
I should be furious. She left. She walked right into the jaws of the wolves I’ve spent years keeping at bay. The thought of her slipping past my guards, of her choosing to trust anyone but me, should have me spitting fire.
But the fury collides with something else—relief so sharp it hurts. She’s alive. Still here. Still mine.
My hands curl into fists at my sides, the urge to break, to kill, to punish burning through me. But when I look at her trembling lips, the way her chest shudders as she tries to steady her breathing, all I want to do is pull her into me and never let go.
The war is still raging behind me, but for this moment, it’s just us. Her heartbeat, her fear, her stubborn strength. And my vow, silent but carved into my bones: I will never let her out of my sight again.
When I’m finally in front of her, I stop. Just to look. Just to breathe her in.
Her wrists are red, raw from the ropes, her hair a mess around her face. She should look broken. She should look defeated. But she doesn’t. She looks at me like I’m salvation—and damn it, maybe I am.
I crouch low, bringing myself eye level with her. My hand hovers near her cheek before I force it back down, because if I touch her now, I’ll lose myself completely.
“You’re safe now,” I murmur, my voice rough, barely more than gravel. “I’ve got you, solnishko. No one will ever touch you again. Do you hear me? No one.”
Her lips part, trembling like she wants to speak, but nothing comes. So I lean closer, letting her see it in my eyes, letting her feel the vow I’m carving into the air between us.
“You ran from me once,” I continue, low, dangerous, but threaded with something softer that only belongs to her. “Don’t you ever do it again. You’re mine. And I will burn the whole fucking world before I let anyone take you from me.
Her breath hitches, a single tear slipping down her cheek. That’s all I need. I take out my knife, slice through the ropes in one clean motion, and catch her wrists gently, like they’re made of glass.
The second she’s free, she collapses forward, and I wrap my arms around her without hesitation, pulling her against my chest like she belongs there—because she does.
“I thought I was going to die,” she whispers, the words breaking, shattering. Her breath is hot against my skin, her fingers digging into me like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she lets go.
I close my eyes, holding her just as fiercely, one hand splayed across her back, the other cradling the back of her head. My chest aches, and not from the fight. From her. From almost losing her.
“Shh, ogonek,” I murmur into her hair, my voice rough but steady, as if sheer will can make it true. “No. Never. Not while I’m breathing.” I pull her tighter, crushing her to me. “I will never let that happen. Not on my watch. Not ever.”