CHAPTER 6
NIKOLAI P.O.V.
The ice in my tumbler clinked against the glass. A sharp, annoying sound in the dead silence of the surveillance hub. I watched the monitors. The glow of the screens turned the amber liquid in my hand into something that looked like piss or poison. Probably both.
On screen three, she was pacing. Back and forth. Like a fucking leopard in a cage too small for its spirit. Scarlett.
I ran my tongue over my lower lip. It stung.
The little feral cat had bitten me. Actually broke the skin.
I touched the spot with my thumb, feeling the rough edge of the scab, and took a sip of the bourbon.
It burned going down, but not as much as the heat in my groin that hadn't faded since I left her room hours ago.
"Still pacing," I muttered to the empty room. "Sit the fuck down, Scarlett."
She didn't, obviously. She couldn't hear me.
She just kept walking that line between the bed and the window, her ruined silk slip clinging to her like a second skin.
Every time she turned, the fabric pulled tight across her ass.
I watched. I shouldn't be watching. I had work to do.
Hassan had dropped the audit files on my desk—a stack of digital misery that spelled out just how deep Aris Vance had dug his grave.
I set the glass down on the console. Hard.
I turned my chair to the main workstation.
The holographic interface flickered to life, a blue wash of numbers that made my eyes ache.
Fifty million. That was the headline. But the devil was in the details.
Aris wasn't just a thief; he was a magician.
The money wasn't gone; it was buried. Hidden under shell companies, ghost accounts, layers of digital bullshit that would take a team of forensic accountants a year to unravel.
I didn't have a year. The Syndicate didn't have a year.
My finger tapped on a flickering projection of a Swiss bank logo. The "Aethelred" account. It was the only lead that didn't dead-end into a Cayman Island PO box. But it was locked tight. Encryption keys. Biometrics. The works.
I needed the keys. And the only person who might have them was currently wearing a torn slip and pacing a hole in my expensive carpet upstairs.
If I couldn't get the money, the bosses would demand liquidation. Not of assets. of her. They’d trade her. Sell her off to some Slavic human trafficker to recoup a fraction of the loss.
The thought hit me like a punch to the gut. Cold. Violent.
"Fuck that," I growled.
I stood up. The chair rolled back silently. I adjusted my cuffs. Black suit. Bespoke. Armor. I needed to go back in there. I needed to be the enforcer. The monster. I needed to scare the codes out of her before my own people decided she was more valuable as spare parts.
But under the pragmatic need for the numbers, there was something else. A darker pull. I wanted to be in the room with her. I wanted to smell that jasmine scent mixed with her fear. I wanted to put my hands on her and see if she’d bite me again.
I walked out of the office. The corridor was cold. My footsteps echoed on the polished granite. I stopped at the door to the Red Suite. My hand hovered over the biometric scanner.
Control yourself, Smirnov. She’s an asset. A ledger entry.
I didn't believe a word of it.
The scanner beeped. The lock disengaged with a heavy thunk.
I pushed the door open. No knock. I don't knock in my own house. Especially not when entering a room that houses my property.
Scarlett was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window. She didn't turn. Of course she didn't. She stood there, a silhouette against the city lights, the faint glow outlining the curve of her spine through the silk. She was ignoring me. A small, petty act of defiance.
It worked. A muscle in my jaw jumped.
I walked in. The carpet swallowed the sound of my shoes. I could smell her. Jasmine. And something sharper. Sweat. Fear. Anger.
"Sit," I said. My voice was low. Steel wrapped in gravel.
She turned slowly. No fear in those eyes. Just hate. Hazel eyes burning like flares. Her chin was tilted up.
"I prefer to stand," she said. Quiet. Firm.
I closed the distance. Two strides and I was in her space. I towered over her. She had to crane her neck to look at me, but she didn't step back. Not yet.
"You forget your place," I said, looking down at her. "You think because I haven't chained you to the radiator yet, you have rights? You don't."
"I remember perfectly, Smirnov," she spat. "I'm the collateral. The furniture."
"Furniture doesn't talk back."
I moved past her to the dining table. It was black obsidian. Cold. Shiny. I pulled the encrypted tablet from my jacket pocket and slapped it onto the surface. The sound was loud in the quiet room. I flicked my wrist, sending the list of shell companies scrolling across the screen.
"The 'Aethelred' account," I said, pointing at the highlighted line. "I want the decryption keys. Now."
She glanced at the screen. A flicker of something crossed her face. Confusion? Recognition? I couldn't tell. She looked back at me, her lip curling.
"My father never trusted me with anything more complex than a credit card," she scoffed. "You’re a bastard for thinking I’m in on this."
"Don't lie to me." I leaned against the table, crossing my arms. "Aris is a rat, but he's a sentimental rat. He uses birthdays. Anniversaries. He wouldn't leave his favorite daughter without a lifeboat."
"Lifeboat?" She laughed. It was a jagged, ugly sound. "He left me here to die. He traded me for his own skin. You think I’d protect him?"
"I think you'd protect yourself," I said. "Where is the money, Scarlett?"
"I don't know!" Her voice rose. "He didn't tell me! He never told me anything!"
"Bastard," she muttered under her breath. "Absolute bastard."
I pushed off the table. I started to circle her. Slow. Predatory. Like a shark in a tank.
"You know what happens to collateral that proves... unproductive?" I asked softly. "The Syndicate doesn't like dead weight. If you can't pay the debt in cash, you pay in trade."
Her eyes tracked me. She shifted her weight, turning to keep me in view.
"There are markets, Scarlett," I continued, letting the words hang in the air. "Men who pay handsomely for a woman like you. Unbroken. High society. A woman with spirit."
"What are you talking about?" Her voice strained.
"I'm talking about shipping you off to a place where the sun doesn't shine and the men don't speak English. They'll break you in ways I haven't even dreamed of."
"Don’t threaten me, Smirnov." It was weak. She was scared. Good.
"It's not a threat. It's a business plan."
I lunged.
She tried to dart to the side, fast for a rich girl, but I was faster. I slammed my hand against the wall next to her head. Thud.
She gasped, freezing. I brought my other hand up, encircling both her wrists in one grip, pinning them high above her head. I pressed my body against hers, crushing her into the plaster.
"Stay," I growled.
"Let me go, Smirnov!" She struggled, twisting her wrists, but my grip was iron.
"Running isn't an option, Scarlett. You don't listen, do you?"
I leaned in. My chest against her chest. I could feel her heart. It was hammering against my sternum. Thump-thump-thump-thump. Like a bird trying to batter its way out of a cage.
"You're lying," I whispered into her ear. "Your pulse is screaming against my palm."
I tightened my grip on her wrists. I could feel the blood pumping there too. Fast. Erratic.
"My heart will scream a lot louder when I’m free," she gasped.
"Free?" I laughed darkly against her neck. "You're never going to be free. You belong to the debt. You belong to me."
I shifted my weight. I brought my knee up, forcing it between her legs. She tried to clamp her thighs shut, but I was stronger. I wedged my knee in, separating her legs, pushing the silk slip up.
"Do you remember the Audit, Scarlett?" I murmured, my lips brushing her earlobe. "When I checked the merchandise? I know every inch of you. Every freckle. Every scar."
She shuddered. A full-body tremor. "Stop it, Smirnov. Please."
"I found that small birthmark... right here." I moved my free hand down her side. The rough wool of my suit jacket rasped against the thin silk. I let my hand rest heavy on her hip, my thumb digging into the soft flesh.
"You have no secrets from me."
"That was different," she whispered.
"Was it?"
I pressed my knee harder. I could feel the heat radiating from her. Damp heat. Her body was betraying her. She hated me, she feared me, but her physiology was reacting to the dominance. To the proximity.
"I have all night, Scarlett," I said, my voice dropping to a rumble. "And I will pull the truth out of you. One way or another."
She squeezed her eyes shut. "What do you want?"
"The name of his lawyer in Zurich. The Oracle Vault will need a point of contact."
Her eyes snapped open. Blazing. "Fuck off, Smirnov."
She spat the words. Actually spat. A little droplet of saliva hit my cheek.
For a second, I just stared at her. Then, a dark, twisted amusement curled in my gut. She had balls. I'd give her that.
"Zurich, Scarlett. The name."
"I don't know it."
"Don't make this harder than it has to be."
"I'd rather die than tell you anything."
"Is that so?"
I moved my hand. I slid it from her hip, down over the curve of her thigh. I felt her muscles clench. I kept going until my palm was flat against the wall, right between her thighs. My knuckles brushed the inside of her leg.
"Feeling it now, Scarlett?"
She gasped, her head falling back against the wall. "Please... stop."
"Your body remembers my touch. It knows who owns it."
I flexed my fingers. Just a subtle movement. My knuckles grazed the silk right over her center. She bucked. Involuntary. A jerk of her hips towards my hand.
I watched her face. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated so much her eyes looked black. Her mouth was open, panting. A flush was creeping up her neck, red and splotchy.
I was hard. painfully hard. My cock strained against my trousers, aching to bridge the gap, to bury myself in that heat. I wanted to rip that slip off and take her right here against the wall. Screw the money. Screw the Syndicate.
Dangerous. The thought flashed like a warning light. You’re losing it, Smirnov.
But I didn't stop. I leaned in closer, until my nose brushed her jawline. I inhaled.
"You want this, don't you?" I whispered.
"No," she whimpered. "I hate you."
"Liar."
I moved my hand higher. The friction was intense. I pressed the heel of my hand against her through the silk. She let out a broken, strangled sound, half-sob, half-moan.
"The codes, Scarlett. Tell me the codes, or I'll find a more thorough way to ask. A way your body won't forget."
She was shaking now. Vibrating. She was on the edge. I could see it. The sensory overload was breaking her brain. She couldn't focus on the lie when her body was screaming for release.
"I don't know..." she sobbed. "My father never told me!"
"Think!" I ground my hand against her. Cruel. relentless. "Give me something!"
Her head thrashed against the wall. Tears leaked from her eyes.
"The Oracle Vault..." she gasped. "My mother... my mother's maiden name... Vance."
I froze.
Vance. It was a start. A key to a key.
"Vance?" I murmured. "That's not a code."
"It's the key... to the key," she whispered, her voice fading. "The vault... it's linked."
She slumped. All the fight drained out of her in a rush. If I wasn't pinning her to the wall, she would have slid to the floor.
I looked at her. Her face was wet with tears. Her chest was heaving. She looked wrecked. Beautifully, tragically wrecked.
And I wanted to consume her.
I pulled my hand away. Abruptly.
The loss of contact was jarring. Cold air rushed into the space between us. I stepped back, releasing her wrists.
Scarlett’s legs gave out. She slid down the wall, hitting the floor in a heap of silk and pale limbs. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering violently.
I stood over her, breathing hard. My fists were clenched at my sides. I needed to leave. Now. Before I did something I couldn't undo. Before I dropped to my knees and finished what I started.
I adjusted my tie. A mechanical motion. It helped ground me.
"You have until morning, Scarlett," I said. My voice sounded strange to my own ears. Hoarse. "To remember the entry code for the Oracle Vault. Or our routine will become... significantly less luxurious."
She looked up at me. Her eyes were glazed, shocked. She looked like she’d been in a car crash.
"I understand," she said. Flat. Dead.
"Morning, Scarlett. Don't disappoint me."
I turned on my heel and walked out.
I didn't look back. I couldn't.
The door clicked shut behind me. The sound was final.
I marched down the hallway, ignoring the throbbing in my groin, the pounding in my blood. I burst into my office and went straight for the decanter.
I poured a glass of bourbon. Didn't bother with ice this time. I downed it in one gulp. The burn was good. It was real.
I paced the room. The image of her against the wall, head thrown back, hips bucking into my hand... it was burned into my retinas.
"Fuck," I hissed.
I wasn't just doing a job anymore. I knew that. Hassan would know it too if he saw me right now. I wasn't interrogating an asset. I was playing with my food.
And I was starving.
I walked to my desk and picked up a file. It slid open, revealing a glossy photo. Scarlett at some gala. Diamonds. Gown. Fake smile.
I looked at the girl in the picture. Then I thought of the woman on the floor in the Red Suite. The one who spat at me. The one who trembled when I touched her.
I tossed the photo back onto the desk.
The girl in the photo was dead. The woman in the other room... she was mine. And I was going to own every broken, defiant inch of her.