CHAPTER 14
NIKOLAI P.O.V.
She looks like a fucking tragedy. A very expensive, very broken tragedy.
I’m standing by the bay window, the glass thick enough to stop a bullet or a scream, watching her. She hasn’t moved from the marble floor where I left her. Her knees are pulled up to her chest, that ruined silk robe hanging off her frame like a flag of surrender. It’s pathetic. It’s perfect.
Scarlett Vance. Fifty million dollars of debt wrapped in pale skin and auburn hair.
Her hand is trembling. Just a little. A subtle vibration in her fingers as she traces the floral pattern on the Persian rug. Over and over. Like she’s trying to dig a hole through the floor with her fingernail.
"Are you cold, collateral?"
She flinches. It’s a full-body jerk, a spasm of nerves. Good. I want her jumpy. I want her nerves stripped raw so the only thing she feels is me.
She doesn't look up. Her hair curtains her face. "I'm fine."
"Liar."
I turn away from the city skyline. It’s grey out there. Decaying. In here, the air conditioning hums a steady, artificial winter. My shoes click against the marble as I close the distance. It’s a sharp sound. Authoritative. I want her to know exactly how close I am.
"Look at you," I say, stopping two feet from her. "Reduced to a calculation on the floor. Your pride took a hell of a beating yesterday, didn't it?"
She stops tracing the rug. Her knuckles go white. "Go to hell, Nikolai."
"Already there. And I brought you with me." I slide my hands into my pockets. "Good. The anger is still there. I’d be bored if you were completely broken. But pride? Pride is a weakness here. Pride gets you hurt."
She stays on the floor.
"Stand up."
She hesitates. That split second of defiance. That tiny pause where she weighs the cost of disobeying against the exhaustion in her bones. I see the calculation in the tension of her shoulders. She knows she can’t win.
"I didn't ask," I say, my voice dropping an octave. "I gave an order. Up. Now."
Scarlett pushes herself up. Her movements are stiff, heavy. The silk robe slips off her left shoulder as she rises, exposing the start of a bruise—my fingerprint—blooming dark purple against her clavicle. I put that there. A receipt.
"Walk to me."
She drags her feet. Every step is a protest. But she moves. She stops right in front of me, breathing hard, smelling like high-end soap and the bitter, copper tang of pure anxiety.
I reach out and grip her jaw. Hard. I tilt her head back until her eyes are forced to meet mine. Hazel. Burning. Wet.
"Your eyes still burn," I mutter, running my thumb across the crease of her lower lip. It’s dry. "Good. I prefer a woman with spirit, provided that spirit is caged."
"I hate you," she whispers. It’s automatic. A reflex.
"Irrelevant." I let go of her jaw and smooth a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The gesture mimics tenderness, but we both know it’s a threat. "You taste of failure, Scarlett. And salt. Stand still."
She freezes.
I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out the silver box. I set it on the side table with a heavy thud. The sound makes her blink. I flip the lid open.
Inside sits a strip of black silk. Nothing fancy. Just a blindfold.
Scarlett stares at it. Her throat bobs as she swallows.
"The debt is physical now," I tell her, watching her pupils dilate. "Every nerve ending is calculated interest. We are past games, Scarlett. Past the negotiations. Today, we train the reflexes."
"What are you doing?" Her voice cracks.
"I’m teaching you that your pleasure is a weapon only I am permitted to wield." I pick up the silk. It runs through my fingers like water. "I need obedience in the muscles, not just the mouth. I need you to crave the discipline."
I point to the bedroom door. "Move."
She doesn't argue this time. She walks into the bedroom, and the silence in there is absolute. The soundproofing is military grade. You could fire a shotgun in here and the maid in the hallway wouldn't drop a towel.
I follow her in. The bed is massive, the linens starched and white. A clinical altar.
"Strip."
She turns to face me. "Nikolai—"
"Do not waste my time with unnecessary modesty. I’ve seen everything you have to offer. I own everything you have to offer. Drop the silk."
Her fingers are shaking so bad she can’t work the tiny buttons of her slip. It’s pathetic to watch. She’s fumbling, her breath hitching. It takes her a full minute to get the robe off, and another to slide the straps of the slip down.
When the fabric hits the carpet, it makes a soft, defeated sound.
She stands there, naked, pale, shivering in the climate-controlled air. She tries to cover herself with her arms.
"Arms down," I command.
She drops them to her sides. fists clenched.
I pick up the blindfold and step behind her. I can feel the heat coming off her skin. She’s terrified. Good. Fear heightens the senses.
"Close your eyes, collateral." I wrap the silk over her eyes and tie it tight at the back of her head, careful not to snag her hair. "I want you to remember nothing but my voice. I am eliminating all distractions. You will feel, Scarlett. You will only feel."
She sways a little as the darkness takes her. I grab her by the hips—her skin is cool, soft—and guide her to the edge of the bed.
"Sit."
She sits. Her posture is rigid. She’s waiting for a blow.
"Calm down." I place my hand flat against her diaphragm, feeling the erratic, rabbit-quick thump of her heart. I press down, forcing her to exhale. "Breathe. You will need the air for later."
She sucks in a breath, ragged and thin.
"Every flinch will be noted," I warn her. "Control yourself. The fear is useless now. Only sensation matters."
I run the back of my index finger down her neck, over her shoulder, down the curve of her arm. The fine hairs on her skin stand up. Gooseflesh ripples across her chest.
"Here are the rules," I say, my voice low, right against her ear. "You are forbidden from making a sound. No gasps. No moans. No begging. Unless I ask you a direct question, your mouth is shut."
She nods, a jerky little movement.
"Silence is respect, Scarlett. Only my pain is worthy of voice. You will ache, but you will not scream. Your tongue is my property for now. Keep it locked."
I trace a line down to her inner thigh. She jerks.
"Don't." I pinch the tender skin there. Hard.
She bites her lip, choking back a cry.
"Good girl." I immediately soothe the spot with a slow, heavy caress. Pain, then pleasure. The pavlovian loop. I want her brain to short-circuit. I want her to associate my violence with her relief. "You choose the reward. Feel that tension? I created it. And I am the only one who can undo it."
I press a button on the bedside console. The door locks engage with a heavy mechanical click. We are sealed in.
"Your father traded your worth for fifty million credits," I say, leaning in close, smelling the sweat blooming on her skin. "I intend to collect on every cent of interest. Do you feel the cost, Scarlett? It feels like this."
I push her back onto the mattress.
She lands softly. Her hands grip the sheets, knuckles white. She’s staring up at a ceiling she can’t see.
I climb onto the bed, straddling her hips but not touching her center. Not yet. I lean down and scrape my teeth against the pulse point of her neck.
"I want to hear the silence when I do this," I whisper.
I move lower. My mouth finds her breast. I don't kiss her. I bite. A sharp, stinging nip right on the sensitive flesh, followed immediately by a long, wet drag of my tongue.
She arches her back. Her mouth opens.
"Ah," I warn. "Quiet."
She snaps her mouth shut. I can hear the air whistling through her nose.
I unfasten my cufflink. The cold metal is heavy in my hand. I drag the silver edge across her nipple. It’s hard as a diamond. She shudders, her hips twisting involuntarily.
"Tell me you feel the price, Scarlett."
She nods frantically.
I slide my hand down her stomach, past the navel, and cup her. She’s soaking wet. Of course she is. Her body knows who owns it even if her mind is still trying to fight the paperwork.
"You are ready for me before I even touch you." I slide two fingers inside her. She’s tight, hot, and slick. "You are already mine. See how well I know your structure?"
I curl my fingers, hitting that spot deep inside her that makes her toes curl. I pump my hand. Slow. Agonizingly slow. The wet, slapping sound is loud in the quiet room.
Her hips buck up. She’s chasing the friction. She wants the finish.
I stop.
I pull my hand out completely.
The loss of contact is sudden. Scarlett gasps, her body seizing up as the pleasure vanishes, replaced by the cold air of the room. She looks confused beneath the blindfold, her head turning side to side.
"Wait," I say. "You do not finish until I allow it. Hold that tension. Breathe it in."
She’s panting now. Her chest heaving.
"Tell me what you want," I command.
Silence.
I tap the side of her head. "I can't hear you, collateral. Use your voice. Beg for what I took."
"Don't stop," she rasps. Her voice is wrecked. "Please."
"Louder. Tell me what I control."
"My body," she chokes out. "You control my body."
"That's right."
I go back to work. But this time, I use my tongue. I separate her folds and find the clitoris. I flick it. Fast, relentless strokes while my thumb presses inside her.
She starts to lose it. Her head thrashes against the pillow. Her hands are clawing at the sheets, tearing at the expensive cotton. She’s close. I can feel her muscles tightening, the spasms starting in her thighs.
"You are so close to breaking," I murmur against her wet skin. "Don't fight it."
Just as the first contraction hits, I pull away.
I sit up.
Scarlett makes a sound like a wounded animal. A frustrated, broken whine.
"No," she whispers. "No, please."
"Patience, Scarlett. The best prizes wait."
I grab her arm and haul her into a sitting position. She’s dizzy, disoriented, naked, and frustrated to the point of madness. I adjust her blindfold, taking my time, making sure not a sliver of light gets in.
"Look at you," I say, my voice devoid of pity. "Waiting on my command like a starving dog. This is what dependency feels like."
She’s shivering violently now. The sweat on her skin is cooling in the AC.
"Lie down. On your stomach."
She hesitates.
"Now."
She rolls over. She buries her face in the pillow. I grab a fistful of her hair and yank her head back, exposing the long line of her throat.
I mount her from behind. No preparation. No warning. I drive into her in one hard, deep thrust.
She screams. She can't help it. It’s a muffled, shocked sound that dies in the pillow.
I hold myself still inside her. I’m deep. I fill her completely.
"Stay quiet," I growl. "Feel the full weight of the debt inside you. You will take my size, and you will learn to enjoy the silence."
I start to move. Grind. Not thrusting, just rotating my hips, letting the friction build slowly.
"Imagine this," I say, leaning down so my chest presses against her back. "Imagine kneeling in my office tomorrow night. My men at the table. Hassan pouring drinks. And you, under the oak desk, waiting for my signal. Imagine begging for my permission to move."
She sobs. "Just... please."
"Tears are cheap, Scarlett. They don't buy you anything. Cry for me. Let the weakness flow out."
I speed up. Shallow thrusts. Just the tip, then deep. Teasing. Torturing.
"You want it so badly you could scream, couldn't you? Hold it in."
She’s clawing the mattress. She’s trying to push back against me, trying to force me to go deeper, harder.
"I own the release," I snarl. "You own the struggle."
I flip her over. Fast.
I pin her wrists above her head with one hand. Her armpits are exposed, her vulnerability total. I hammer into her now. Raw. Primal. The bed frame slams against the wall with every thrust. Thud. Thud. Thud.
"This is not a truce!" I shout over the sound of our skin slapping together. "This is a claim! Fight it! Let me hear your defiance turn to need!"
She’s gone. Her head is thrashing. She’s mouthing words I can’t hear. She’s right on the edge again.
I stop.
Her eyes fly open behind the silk. Her body goes rigid.
"Say it," I demand, holding myself hovering just outside her. "Say it like you mean it, cunt! Say your name is mine!"
"I..." She’s gasping, choking on air. "I'm yours."
"Not good enough! Who owns you, Scarlett? Answer me now!"
"You do!" She screams it. "Nikolai! You own me!"
"A prize must obey. Say 'I obey.'"
"I obey! Please! Just finish it!"
I see the break. It’s not just physical anymore. It’s in the tone of her voice. The absolute, desperate surrender.
"Take it!"
I bury myself in her. I drop my head to her neck, sucking the skin, marking her, while I pound into her with everything I have. I let her come.
She screams. A long, broken wail that tears through the room. Her legs wrap around my waist, locking me in, milking me. She shudders, her inner walls clamping down on me like a vice.
"It belongs to me!" I grunt, matching her rhythm. "Every shudder is mine!"
I let go. I groan, a low, guttural sound as I pour into her. I pin her into the mattress, my weight crushing her, my grip on her jaw bruising as I ride out the finish.
"Mine," I pant against her ear. "Fully mine."
We collapse. The room spins. The silence rushes back in, heavy and thick, smelling of sex and sweat.
I stay on top of her for a long minute. I need her to feel the crushing weight of reality returning.
Then, I reach up and untie the blindfold.
I peel the silk away.
Scarlett blinks. Her eyes are red-rimmed, dilated, wet. She looks shattered. Beautifully, violently shattered.
A drop of sweat falls from my brow onto her cheek. It tracks through her tears like oil.
"Open your eyes, Scarlett. See the aftermath of your surrender."
She looks at me. There’s no fight left. Just exhaustion. And something else. Need.
"Do you feel cured of your foolish pride yet?"
She doesn't answer. She just breathes, her chest rising and falling against mine.
I roll off her. The moment is over. I’m done being the lover; I’m back to being the broker.
I stand up and walk to the bathroom, grabbing a warm, damp cloth. I come back and clean her up. Efficient. Impersonal. Like I’m detailing a car. I wipe her thighs, her stomach. She lets me do it. She’s limp.
I pick up her ruined slip from the floor. I look at the torn lace, then toss it into the waste bin.
"You are clean now, collateral. The training is complete."
I toss the cloth onto the side table.
"Tomorrow, you will wear my collar," I say, turning for the door. "Be ready. I expect perfection when I showcase my property to my men. The slightest mistake, and we repeat this lesson."