Chapter 23
NIKO
“W hat are you doing here?” Darian asks, even though I was always supposed to be attending the two meetings we have scheduled.
I raise an eyebrow at him. "My job. Why wouldn't I be here?"
Darian purses his lips, his brow furrowing. "I assumed you'd be with Lyah. After everything that happened..."
"Lyah's fine," I cut him off sharply. "She’s seeing Dr. Zelensky as we speak. Let's focus on business."
The others file into the room, taking their seats around the long mahogany table, but I can feel Darian's eyes on me as I begin the meeting, discussing our latest shipments and territory disputes with our brigadiers. I keep my voice steady, my face impassive. Just another day.
Still, an hour later, Darian’s on me as soon as everyone leaves. “So, what did Lyah say happened? Did you pick up any clues from her account? Was she able to tell you anything useful?”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “I haven’t spoken to her yet,” I admit, not looking him in the eye.
When he stays silent, I feel the urge to explain. “She was exhausted last night. It was late. And this morning she’s seeing the doctor.”
Sounds reasonable enough. Compassionate even.
Darian's eyes narrow, his gaze piercing through my carefully constructed facade. "You're being awfully cold about this, Niko. This is your wife we're talking about. She’s been through an ordeal, that much is obvious, for Christ's sake."
His words hit me like a punch to the gut, because being cold is the last thing I feel. If anything, I'm burning up inside, a volatile mix of rage, worry, and something else I can't quite name, but which threatens to consume me if I make one wrong step.
But I can't let it show. I can't let it affect my judgment.
I open my mouth to respond, but my phone buzzes in my pocket. Grateful for the distraction, I pull it out, frowning at the number on the screen.
"Nikolai Radaeva speaking," I answer curtly.
"Mr. Radaeva, this is Dr. Zelensky." The doctor's voice is tense, setting me on edge immediately. "You asked me to contact you about your wife’s medical.”
“Yes, how is she?” I ask, ignoring Darian’s shameless eavesdropping.
“Mrs. Radaeva is in remarkably good health, both physically and mentally, all things considered,” he says, his tone causing alarm bells to ring. “But I could have done with some advance warning that she’d been drugged with chloroform. I would have been more prepared.”
My blood runs cold. "Chloroform?" I repeat, my voice hoarse as Darian’s eyes pin me with a look of absolute disgust.
Fuck! I’m messing everything up. I should have asked. I should have gotten every detail before letting her go about her day. I should have insisted on an immediate checkup, even though she declined…
But I was too busy thinking about myself.
"Yes, traces were found in her system," Dr. Zelensky continues, oblivious to my inner turmoil.
"But the levels were minimal, and the scan showed everything is normal. There’s no lasting damage.
However, I'd recommend monitoring her closely for the next few days in case she has any lasting symptoms from the concussion she sustained.”
“Concussion, right,” I repeat, trying not to seem like a complete asshole, even though Darian’s glare isn’t letting me get away with it.
“If she has any unusual symptoms, get in touch immediately."
"Of course," I manage, struggling to keep my voice even. "Thank you, doctor. I'll let you know if anything comes up."
I end the call, my mind racing. Chloroform.
Concussion. Someone drugged her, hurt her.
Logically, I knew she was abducted, even though I’ve disregarded the details.
Now the rage I've been suppressing threatens to explode.
I clench my fists, fighting to maintain control while Darian's accusatory stare burns into me.
"You didn't even ask her what happened, did you?" he accuses, his voice low and dangerous.
I stand abruptly, unable to face him. "I need to go."
"Damn right you do," Darian spits, shaking his head, and I can feel his disdain, even though he says no more.
“You’ll have to take the meeting with Million on your own,” I tell him as I gather my things. “He’ll have Catriona with him.”
Any other time, I might be amused by his mumbled curses at that piece of news, but today I stride out of the room, my mind a chaotic whirlwind.
How could I have been so careless? So selfish?
Lyah should have been my priority, but I stayed away from her, and why?
Because I was scared of everything I was feeling.
Thinking of myself when I should have been thinking about her.
The drive from Manhattan to Brighton Beach is interminable in the late lunch-time traffic, but despite the time it takes, when I finally reach the compound, I still don’t know what to say to her or how to explain my behavior.
It’s never been something I’ve felt the need to do before…
maybe I won’t need to now. Emylyah knows what I’m like, after all. She’s lived with me for long enough.
As I step into the huge, cheerless compound, the silence is deafening. I pause, listening for any sign of movement, but there's nothing, the staff and guards all out of sight.
Has it always been so unwelcoming?
I’ve always viewed it as a functional, utilitarian space. Fortified and protected. That’s all I’ve ever needed it to be.
But now, as I stand in the cavernous foyer, I'm struck by how cold and impersonal it feels. Like a fortress rather than a home. Is this how Lyah sees it? What our child will experience?
I shake off the unsettling thought and make my way upstairs, my footsteps echoing in the emptiness.
My heart races as I take the steps two at a time. "Lyah?" I call out, unable to keep the worry from my voice. I don’t even know why. It’s just one of those crawling gut feelings I know better than to ignore.
As I approach our suite, I hear a soft rustling from within. My hand hesitates on the doorknob, uncertainty gripping me for the first time in years.
Taking a deep breath, I push the door open. Lyah is there, her back to me as she sorts through her clothes. It looks like her entire wardrobe is strewn around the suite, and my heart stalls as I wonder if she’s packing up to leave.
There’s a cold, ancient part of me that rises up at the thought. My lizard brain kicks in and decides I simply will not allow it.
Lyah isn’t just anyone. She’s not a mistress I can replace, an asset I can liquidate, or a rival I can remove. She’s my wife; the closest thing to a conscience I’ve got left.
I’ve built this entire cage to keep her safe, and if she thinks she can just walk out, she has no idea what I’ll do to stop her.
I just got her back and now the mere possibility of her absence is abhorrent, and I won’t tolerate it, especially after coming so close to losing her through my own stupidity.
I clench my jaw, the old-school Radaeva blood surging through my veins, set on possession and reclamation. No one - least of all the woman who is carrying my child - walks away from me.
But even as I burn with the conviction to keep her, I feel something almost as intense.
Terror.
Not for her safety, even though that’s always in the back of my mind, but for the unfamiliar, desperate ache gnawing at my chest. The same one I’ve been struggling to suppress.
The idea of Lyah deciding that being with me is worse than whatever else is out there…
it’s a humiliation I can’t process. I’ve never lost before. Not like this.
Deep down though, I know it’s not all about losing.
It’s about these dratted, unwanted feelings that keep bombarding me, making each step I take towards her a silent war between my instinct to dominate and my absolute dread of what I might find in her eyes…
disgust maybe, or worse, indifference. I’d almost prefer her hatred.
At least then I’d know I still matter to her.
It’s a revelation to realize I want that.
Lyah is hunched over the bed, trying to zip a suitcase that’s already straining at the seams. The sight nearly undoes me.
I want to storm in, rip the suitcase from her grip, demand an explanation, make it clear that she belongs to me.
I want to kiss her until she forgets why she ever wanted to leave.
But I don’t. Not yet. Instead, I pause in the doorway, every muscle taut.
"Lyah," I say softly, my voice catching in my throat.
She turns, her eyes meeting mine, clear and unworried, like she’s not about to run out on me.
"Nikolai," she replies, her tone completely neutral. "I didn't expect you home so early."
Did she plan to sneak out while I was gone?
I take a step closer, my eyes scanning her from head to toe. “Dr. Zelensky called…”
"Ah," she interrupts, turning back to her clothes. “You needn’t have interrupted your plans. Everything is fine.”
“What are you doing, Emylyah?” I ask instead of responding. She shrugs carelessly. “I’m just having a clear out. With the pregnancy, then baby days followed by running after a toddler, I need a more practical wardrobe.”
So she’s not leaving me then? Everything inside me relaxes, but only for a moment. The relief is quickly replaced by a new tension as she continues.
“And while I’m thinking of the future, we need to talk,” she tells me in no uncertain terms.
For no good reason, my heart starts to pound. "Talk about what?" I manage to ask, keeping my voice as steady as possible.
Lyah turns to face me fully, her eyes meeting mine with a determination I've rarely seen. "About us. About the life we're currently living. And about the kind of future I want for our child."
I notice she says I instead of we, and alarm bells go off in my brain.
The tension in the room thickens, and I feel my defenses rising. "What about our life?" I ask, my tone sharper than intended.