Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
nyx
The only sound through the eerie silence is the crunching of my heels through the gravel driveway, piercing through the pre-evening lull as I approach the pale stone stairs.
Noc’s house isn’t huge, but it’s hardly modest. It sits tucked away in a tree lined street, wrapped in a fortress of wrought iron bars and concrete walls.
The amber glow from within is the only warmth that radiates from the cold exterior.
I pause just before the large wooden door, taking in the sight.
The weathered stone walls stand out against the darkening sky, the storm brewing in the distance.
The arched doorway and black angular window frames add a chill to the air with their gothic vibes.
The three-story home towers above me, its roof jutting out in sharp peaks, standing fierce and unyielding – just like its owner.
I reach for the door, ready to knock, when I notice the intercom tucked discreetly to the right, a security camera perched above.
Keeping a vigilant eye on anyone daring enough to step inside what might well be the closest thing to hell on earth - especially after what I’m about to do.
There it is, the unease creeping over my skin, raising goosebumps.
A mixture of nerves, anticipation, and the slow, bitter seep of betrayal.
No. He’s the one who betrayed me, lied to me, hid himself for so long.
Letting the world believe he was dead, when in truth, he had shaken hands with the devil and walked willingly into the flames of the underworld.
I take a slow, steady breath, forcing my spine straight, letting cold resolve smother any lingering weakness. I can wear a mask, too.
I smooth down my black satin gown, its floor-length fabric stopping just above my black heels.
A daring split runs all the way up my left leg, exposing skin with every movement.
As I press the intercom, the response is instant.
“You're late, Brodie.” His midnight-toned voice cuts through the silence, wrapping around me in a way that makes my thighs clench involuntarily. Damn him. I steady myself, forcing air back into my lungs. “Maybe if you chopped down a tree or two, I wouldn’t have spent half the night searching for this place.” I try to match the velvet richness of his voice, slipping into the game I need to play.
If I falter - even for a second - he’ll know something’s wrong.
“Come in. I'm in my office.” The intercom goes dead.
A soft click sounds - the door unlocking. This is it.
My hand presses against the cool surface, pushing it open to reveal a moody hallway.
The dark wooden floor stretches beneath me, their polished sheen a shade darker than the wooden paneling lining the walls.
The place gives off an old-money elegance wrapped with heavy secrets.
My heels echo as I move towards the staircase, the grand steps climbing the left-hand wall, its ascent partially hidden by a massive black chandelier.
The walls are all bare, no artwork or family portraits.
Nothing to betray the mystery of the man who lurks in this house.
A door opens to my left into a library, and to my right, a seating area peeks out.
The oversized television mounted in the center of the wall, and a black velvet sofa seeping into my peripheral vision.
My gaze shifts to the final door straight ahead; it’s the only one closed.
Just as I approach, it swings open. A small, older woman bursts out, adjusting her polka dot raincoat and securing a plastic rain net over her head.
“Ah, Miss Voss. Mr Morozov is waiting for you in his office.” She says with a warm smile, her thick Russian accent curling around me.
My curiosity flickers. Is she family, or something else?
Then I spot the vacuum she swiftly tucks into the cupboard beneath the stairs.
A cleaner? Servants? The idea of Noc employing house staff almost makes me scoff.
She turns back to me. “His office is the last room on the left. Forgive me for not showing you myself. I’m hoping to make it home before the rain begins.
” Her tight smile is brief before she rushes toward the front door, disappearing into the night.
Through the open doorway, I glimpse the pale stone concrete outside, the first drops of rain darkening its surface like scattered ink.
I turn and head up the stairs, my fingertips grazing the sleek black marble banister - this place must have cost a fortune, even if it’s rented.
But of course, it suits Noc perfectly, and I hear crime pays well.
I make my way toward his office, the low light from within spilling out beneath the door.
Just as I reach for the handle, my gaze shifts to the end of the hall, where a towering floor-to-ceiling window stands.
I step toward it, taking in the view - since I'll likely never set foot in this house again.
Beyond the glass, the garden stretches out to the imposing concrete walls.
The towering trees lining at the perimeter offer absolute privacy, shielding the house from neighboring eyes.
A hidden fortress for a man who thrives in secrets and shadows.
I turn back and find myself face-to-face with another wall.
Only this time, it's made of muscle, clad in a black tailored suit and smells like spicy sins. Noc’s hands catch my arms, steadying me.
“Did I just catch you sneaking around, Brodie?” His smirk is pure mischief, his storm-colored eyes glinting with amusement- mirroring the thunder beginning to rumble above us.
“I was admiring your garden, thank you very much.” I say smoothly, stepping out of his hold. Keep it together, Nyx.
Noc follows me into his office, settling into the chair behind his desk.
He leans back, eyes slowly roaming over me, devouring every inch.
My breath hitches - I’m not used to this kind of attention anymore.
And when I did crave it, it was only ever from him.
Now, here it is. Right when fate has handed us the worst possible outcome.
If only we could rewind. If only we could change it all.
“Take a seat.” He gestures toward the large double armchairs in front of his desk, his voice low, and measured.
“I just need to finish up here, then we can go.” I sink into the chair deliberately slowly, testing him.
“Oh, so technically I’m not the one making us late?
” I cross my left leg over the other, the high slit of my dress exposing skin in a deliberate flash - almost like a Sharon Stone moment.
I want him distracted. His eyes darken, locked onto me, admiring the glimpse I’ve offered him.
I feel the heat in his gaze, the burn of it pressing into my skin.
His lips part, teeth grazing his lower lip briefly before his gaze lifts back to mine.
I overdid the makeup tonight, but that was intentional too - smokey brown eyeshadow, fierce eyeliner sharp enough to cut, making my green eyes more intense.
My lips, a subtle nude pink, ensuring all attention stays on my eyes - my weapon.
My hair falls in dark, messy waves around me.
I’m a vision of sultry intention. And he sees it.
Noc doesn’t even acknowledge my question, his gaze burning straight into my soul.
“You look breathtaking, Brodie.” His words steal my breath, and I try to regain my cool.
“You clean up not so bad yourself, Noc.” I let my eyes rake over him, but my gaze ends up dragging him over, stirring an unawakened hunger in me.
I shouldn’t have done that. His black suit molds to every single inch of his frame, looking a second away from tearing under the strain of his broad chest. His smile is spellbinding, and for a moment, his eyes look like they’re in a battle – wrestling with whether to give in to our pull or look away.
Eventually, he does, shifting his focus on his computer.
The tension in the air thickens around us.
My phone vibrates in my purse, and I pull it out to see its Hawk.
The taxi is parked a few streets away and can be with us within ten minutes.
It'll head to the restaurant I've picked out - he managed to haggle with the person on the phone to book out a room up the stairs on our own.
The rest of the guys will be strategically placed throughout the venue, ready to be called in when I give the signal.
“Ready to go?” I ask, stuffing the device back in my purse as he stands, moving around the desk with that deliberate, predatory grace. I watch him approach as I stand, my breath hitching slightly when I tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
“Our first date. Are you nervous?” he asks, and if that isn’t the most double-barreled question I’ve ever heard.
I struggle down a swallow, losing myself in the storm of his gaze, and whisper, “No.” His hand lifts, fingers curling around my neck, gentle yet firm.
His thumb skims the underside of my jaw, trailing down the center of my throat before applying the slightest pressure.
Heat erupts beneath my skin, my pulse spiking.
My body moves of its own accord, hands sliding from his torso up to his chest, my fingertips tracing the rigid muscle beneath his suit.
The strong, independent woman inside me is furiously rolling her eyes, screaming something about morals, that I've fallen prisoner so quickly to his charm, but the demon inside quickly shoves her away.
She knows the game we need to play here.