CHAPTER 12
SCARLETT P.O.V.
I woke up because the silence was too loud.
It wasn't the heavy, humid quiet of the estate, where the walls seemed to sweat old secrets. This was a sterile, vacuum-sealed silence. I blinked, my eyes adjusting to a room that looked less like a bedroom and more like an operating theater designed by a billionaire with a god complex.
White marble. Chrome. Floor-to-ceiling glass that let the sun slice through the space like a laser.
I pushed myself up, the sheets tangling around my legs.
High thread count, smelling of nothing. Absolutely nothing.
I rubbed my wrists instinctively. The silk ties Nikolai had used last night—rough handling, he’d call it; I called it surviving him—hadn’t left bruises, but my skin felt tender, a phantom burn that wouldn't fade.
My body ached, a deep, bone-weary throb that had less to do with the physical exertion and everything to do with the fact that I was still here. Still his.
I swung my legs out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold floor. It was a shock to the system, grounding me in this new, expensive hell.
I walked to the window. We were high up. Absurdly high. The city below was a sprawling grid of grey and glass, moving along without me. From up here, the people were invisible, the noise non-existent.
"Aris," I whispered, my breath fogging the glass for a second before fading. "You didn't save me, you bastard. You just upgraded my cage."
My father’s attempt to blow us all to hell had backfired spectacularly.
instead of freedom, I got a penthouse fortress and a Nikolai Smirnov who was somehow colder, sharper, and more terrifying than before.
He wasn't just a brute enforcer anymore; he was a king fortifying his castle, and I was the crown jewel he’d dragged out of the fire.
A soft whoosh behind me made me spin around.
The door slid open. No knock. No warning. Just Nikolai.
He stepped inside like he owned the air I was breathing.
He was impeccable. Fresh black suit, tailored to within an inch of its life, hugging those broad shoulders that I’d clawed at hours ago.
His buzz cut was sharp, his jawline like granite.
He looked like he’d never sweated, never bled, never fucked.
Two men followed him—silent, bulky shapes carrying garment bags and sleek, black boxes. They moved like robots, placing the items on a chrome valet stand with efficient, terrified precision.
I pulled my tattered slip tighter around myself. It was ruined, stained with sweat and the grime of the estate, but it was mine. It was the last thing I had that felt familiar.
Nikolai didn't look at me. Not yet. He watched his men work, his eyes scanning the placement of the boxes like he was auditing a ledger.
"Leave," he said. His voice was a low rumble, devoid of any inflection.
The men vanished. The door sealed shut with a soft, final click.
Then, he turned.
His gaze hit me like a physical blow. It was clinical. He swept his eyes from my messy hair down to my bare feet, dissecting me. He wasn't looking at a woman; he was checking for damage on a high-value asset.
"They are gone," he said, the words flat.
"Always the grand entrance, Smirnov," I snapped, crossing my arms. "Did you bring an audience to watch me bleed today, or is this a private viewing?"
He didn't take the bait. He walked over to the valet stand, running a single, large finger over the fabric of a garment bag. The sound was a rasp in the quiet room.
"Your previous skin is no longer suitable," he said, ignoring my question. "It served its purpose. Now, you require a different armor."
My stomach tightened. "My skin?"
"The rags you’re wearing." He finally looked me in the eye, his expression unreadable. "You are collateral, Scarlett. Nothing more. But valuable collateral demands presentation. You look like a refugee. That ends now."
The audacity of this man. He drags me through hell, burns down a mansion, nearly gets us blown up, and now he’s critiquing my fashion choices?
"Am I your new doll, Nikolai?" I spat, stepping away from the window. "Is that it? You want to play dress-up with your little syndicate display piece?"
He paused, his hand resting on the zipper of the bag. "Property must be maintained. Its value preserved. If you want to act like a feral animal, I have cages for that. If you want to exist in my world, you will look the part."
"I don't want to exist in your world."
"That choice was made for you," he said coldly.
He unzipped the bag. The sound was sharp, tearing through the tension. He pulled out a dress.
It was emerald green. Silk. It poured from his hands like liquid money. Even from here, I could see the construction was masterful—a plunging neckline, a back that would leave nothing to the imagination, and a slit that screamed danger. It was beautiful.
And I hated it.
"Emerald," he stated, not asking. "It complements the eyes."
"It's a uniform," I countered. "A brand."
"Stand," he commanded. Softly. The kind of soft that’s scarier than a shout. He gestured to my tattered slip. "Strip."
My heart hammered against my ribs. No. Every cell in my body wanted to scream no. To fight him. To make him tear the clothes off me if he wanted them gone so badly.
But my wrists still throbbed. I remembered the cold steel of his gun, the weight of his body, the absolute, crushing reality of his power. Resistance right now wouldn't get me freedom; it would just get me hurt. And I was tired of hurting.
I stared at him, letting the hate boil in my chest, keeping it hot.
"I won't tell you twice, Scarlett."
I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached. Slowly, deliberately, I reached for the hem of my slip. I didn't break eye contact. I pulled the ruined silk up and over my head, letting it drop to the marble floor in a sad, grey puddle.
I stood naked before him.
I didn't cover myself. I didn't hunch my shoulders. I stood straight, chin up, thrusting my chest out slightly. Look, I thought. Look at what you stole. I’m not broken.
Nikolai didn't move. He stood frozen, holding the green dress, his eyes locked on me.
For a second—just a micro-second—the mask slipped.
His pupils dilated. A muscle in his jaw jumped. The cold, shark-like indifference fractured, and underneath it, I saw something else. Hunger. Raw, starving, violent hunger. It wasn't the look of a man assessing an asset. It was the look of a man who wanted to devour something whole.
Heat flushed through me—shame, yes, but something else too. A sudden, dizzying rush of power.
He wasn't immune. He acted like a machine, like ice and steel, but right now, looking at my bare skin, he was just a man. A dangerous, obsessed man.
And that gave me an opening.
I didn't wait for him to hand me the dress. I walked toward him. The marble was cold under my feet, but my blood was hot. I stopped inches from him, close enough to smell the cedar and expensive scotch clinging to him, close enough to see the grey flecks in his eyes.
I reached out and took the hanger from his hand. My fingers brushed his. He was burning up.
"Let's see if it fits," I said, my voice low, a dare wrapped in silk.
I turned my back to him and stepped into the dress. I pulled the fabric up, feeling it slide over my skin like cool water. It was tight. Unforgiving. It molded to my hips, my waist, my breasts, holding me in a grip that felt possessive. It was a second skin, alright. His skin.
The zipper was at the back. A tiny, delicate thing. I reached behind me, fumbling with it. It stuck at the small of my back. I twisted, trying to force it, sighing in frustration.
The light in the room shifted. A shadow fell over me.
"Stop," he said.
I froze. He was right behind me. I could feel the heat radiating off his chest, soaking into my bare back.
"Hands down," he ordered.
I lowered my arms, my breath hitching.
Nikolai’s large, rough hands settled on my waist. The shock of his touch was electric.
His palms were calloused, warm, a stark contrast to the cool silk.
My body betrayed me instantly, a shiver racing down my spine, my nipples hardening against the fabric.
I hated him for it. I hated my body for responding to the monster who kept it caged.
But he didn't zip the dress. Not yet.
He moved one hand to the center of my back. He dragged a single finger up my spine. Slowly. Agonizingly slowly. He traced the indent of my backbone, vertebra by vertebra, claiming the territory. It wasn't sexual—it was territorial. He was signing his name on my skin.
I bit my lip to keep from making a sound, my head tilting back involuntarily.
His finger reached the nape of my neck. He paused there, his knuckles grazing the sensitive skin under my hair. The air in the room felt thick, heavy enough to choke on.
Then, he grasped the zipper. One smooth, upward motion. The metallic zzzzzp sound was loud in the silence. The dress sealed me in.
He didn't step away. He kept his hands on my shoulders and turned me around.
"Look," he said.
He marched me toward the wall of mirrors.
I stared at the reflection. The woman staring back didn't look like Scarlett Vance, the socialite daughter of a thief. She looked lethal. The emerald silk clung to every curve, the dark auburn hair tumbled messily around her shoulders, and her eyes... her eyes looked like they could start fires.
Nikolai stood behind me, a towering wall of black. He looked at my reflection, his gaze dark, possessive.
He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
"You look like something worth the blood I’ve spilled, Scarlett," he murmured. The vibration of his voice traveled through my skull. "My prize."
A prize. That’s all I was. A trophy to be polished and put on a shelf. The thought should have crushed me. Instead, it sharpened me.
I watched him in the mirror. I saw the way his hands lingered on my shoulders, the way his eyes tracked the pulse in my neck. He thought he owned me. He thought the clothes, the penthouse, the threats made me his.
But he was the one who couldn't look away.
I leaned back. Just an inch. I pressed my back against his chest, letting my head rest against his shoulder. It was a dangerous move. Suicidal, maybe.
"And you," I whispered to his reflection, "look like you want to tear it off."
His hands tightened on my shoulders. Painful. Sharp. His fingers dug into my flesh, bruising the perfect picture. In the mirror, his eyes narrowed, the hunger flaring up again, violent and bright.
Got you.
For a second, I thought he might do it. I thought he might rip the silk down the middle and take me right there against the glass, proving my point. My heart slammed against my ribs, a mix of terror and adrenaline.
But Nikolai Smirnov was nothing if not disciplined.
He inhaled sharply, the sound harsh in his throat. Then, the mask slammed back into place. The fire in his eyes turned to ice. He released me abruptly, stepping back as if I burned him.
"Wearing my clothes doesn't make you my equal, Scarlett," he said, his voice dropping to that terrifying, flat timbre. "It only makes you my most visible debt. Don't mistake adornment for power."
The loss of his heat left me cold. I wrapped my arms around myself, turning to face him, but he was already walking to the door.
He paused at the threshold, not looking back.
"Be ready," he commanded. "I expect you downstairs in an hour. We have business. And you are the centerpiece."
The door slid shut.
I was alone again.
I looked down at the emerald dress. It shimmered in the sunlight, expensive and heavy. I walked over to the valet stand and ran my fingers over the other items—leather, lace, silk. All of it high-end. All of it chosen by him.
He wanted to dress me up. He wanted to show the world his collateral.
I sat on the edge of the bed, the silk bunching around my thighs. I looked at the mirror again.
He was right about one thing. I wasn't his equal. Not yet.
But I had seen the crack. I had felt the tremor in his hands when I leaned against him. He was obsessed. He was starving. And a starving animal, no matter how dangerous, can be baited.
A slow, cold smile touched my lips.
If he wanted a prize, I’d be the most dazzling thing he’d ever owned. I’d wear his silk. I’d play his game. I would let him think he had me wrapped in his emerald cage.
But while he was busy looking at the dress, he wouldn't see the knife until I was close enough to cut.
"Okay, Nikolai," I whispered to the empty room. "Let's play."