CHAPTER 16
NIKOLAI P.O.V.
The encrypted datapad was a fucking mess of red lines and bullshit demands.
I read the same sentence three times, the words blurring into a headache that sat right behind my eyes like a loaded gun.
The Council. The old men in their high towers thinking they could run a syndicate from behind mahogany desks while I was out here in the gutter, keeping the wolves at bay.
"They’re getting loud, Nikolai."
Hassan was standing by the door. He looked like shit, which meant I probably looked worse. He didn't fidget—Hassan knew better than to show nerves around me—but the set of his jaw told me the news wasn't just bad. It was insulting.
"Let them get loud," I said, my voice scraping out of my throat like gravel. I scrolled past a threat about liquidating assets. "Noise is just noise until someone pulls a trigger."
"They're calling her the 'Smirnov distraction,'" Hassan said. He dropped the words into the room like a grenade. "They say she's a weakness. That you're keeping the collateral for personal use instead of leveraging the debt."
I stopped scrolling. The silence in the study was instant and heavy, broken only by the crackle of the burning cedar in the fireplace. I gripped the edge of the datapad until the casing creaked.
"She is a debt," I said, low and lethal. "And they will call her what I allow them to call her."
"It goes beyond the Vance debt now, Smirnov. They think you've gone soft. They think you're fucking the inventory instead of managing the portfolio."
I looked up. Hassan held my gaze, though I could see the instinct to look away warring in his eyes. He was right to be afraid. The accusation wasn't just disrespectful; it was a challenge to my leadership. A challenge to my ability to keep the animals in line.
"And Aris?" I asked.
Hassan hesitated. That was my second warning.
"Aris is desperate," Hassan said. "He's moving money. Offshore accounts we thought were dead. He's trying to hire out. High-level mercenaries. Extraction teams."
"To retrieve her?"
"To steal back his property before you can trade her. He thinks if he gets her back, the leverage is gone."
I was holding a heavy crystal tumbler of whiskey in my right hand. I didn't make a conscious decision to squeeze. I just felt the rage spike, a hot, blinding flash of red that obliterated the logic of the ledger.
Crunch.
The thick glass shattered in my grip. Whiskey and blood sprayed across the leather blotter on my desk. A shard of crystal dug deep into my palm, biting into the meat of my hand.
Hassan didn't flinch. He just watched the blood drip onto the expensive wood.
"He thinks money can buy her back?" I looked at the mess in my hand, the stinging pain sharpening my focus. "He’ll get blood instead."
"Nikolai—"
"Get out," I snarled. I didn't look at him.
I was done with words. I was done with politics.
The walls were closing in, the Council was breathing down my neck, and the rat Aris was trying to steal what I had already claimed.
"Secure the perimeter. No one disturbs me.
If a fly buzzes too loud in this hallway, kill it. "
Hassan gave me one last look—a warning he was smart enough not to voice—and slipped out the door.
I was alone.
I ripped a silk handkerchief from my breast pocket and wrapped it around my hand, tightening it until the white fabric turned crimson. The pain was good. It was real. It was the only thing in this room that wasn't a lie or a negotiation.
I walked over to the bank of monitors on the wall. The feed from the Red Suite was live.
There she was. Scarlett.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, reading a book. Completely unaware that the city was burning down around us. Unaware that her father was sending killers to drag her back to his hole. She looked calm. Too fucking calm.
It pissed me off.
Why should she have peace when I had this noise in my skull? Why should she sit there, pristine and untouched, while I bled for her safety?
I crumpled the blood-soaked handkerchief into a ball and tossed it onto the desk. It landed with a wet thud next to the shattered glass.
"Mine," I whispered to the empty room.
I didn't bother with the suit jacket. I stripped it off as I walked out of the study, leaving it in a heap on the floor.
I tore at my tie, loosening the knot until I could breathe, until the jagged scar on my throat was exposed to the air.
I unbuttoned the cuffs of my shirt and rolled the sleeves up, revealing the thick, corded muscle of my forearms.
I wasn't the Enforcer right now. I wasn't the businessman. I was the animal they all whispered about but were too terrified to name.
The hallway was long and silent. My boots hit the polished stone with a heavy, rhythmic thud that echoed off the walls. I wanted her to hear me coming. I wanted her to feel the vibration of my approach in the floorboards.
I needed to sink myself into something real. I needed to wreck something beautiful to remind myself that I still had the power to destroy.
I reached the door to the Red Suite. I didn't knock. I didn't pause. I slammed the heavy oak door open with enough force to shake the frame.
Scarlett jumped. She dropped the book, her hands flying to her chest. She was wearing one of those silk slips I’d bought her—ruined luxury, just like her. She looked up, her hazel eyes widening as they landed on me.
She saw the blood on my hand. She saw the sweat on my brow. She saw the darkness that had swallowed my pupils.
"Nikolai?" she asked, her voice soft.
I didn't answer. I grunted, a guttural sound that had no words in it. I kicked the door shut behind me, sealing us in.
She didn't run. That was the thing about Scarlett. A smarter woman would have backed into the corner. A weaker woman would have started crying. She just sat there, her chin lifting slightly, bracing herself. She knew the language of violence better than she knew English.
"You look..." She trailed off, her gaze dropping to my clenched fist.
I stalked toward her. I felt huge in the room, a dark cloud expanding to fill every inch of space. I stopped right in front of her, my shadow falling over her face.
"You will forget the world, Scarlett," I growled. My voice sounded like chains dragging over concrete.
She looked up at me, defiant even now. "I never remember it when you're here."
Smart mouth. Dangerous mouth.
I reached out and grabbed her jaw, my fingers digging into her cheeks, forcing her head back. "Say nothing. Just take."
I didn't wait for permission. I hauled her up from the bed, my grip bruisingly tight around her waist. She gasped as her body collided with mine, the impact knocking the air out of her. I buried my face in the crook of her neck, inhaling sharply.
She smelled like vanilla and defiance. It was the only clean thing I’d smelled all day. It went straight to my brain, a hit of dopamine that cut through the stress of the syndicate like a knife.
"H-harder," she gasped, her hands coming up to grip my shoulders. Her fingernails scraped over the scar on my neck.
"No talk," I muttered against her skin, shaking my head. I didn't want words. Words were for liars and lawyers. I wanted flesh.
I spun her around, marching her toward the massive vanity mirror on the far wall. I slammed her back against my chest, locking her in place with an arm across her stomach.
"Look," I commanded, staring at our reflection.
It was a grotesque masterpiece. Me, the dark suit trousers, the white shirt stained with sweat and blood, the buzz cut, the violence etched into every line of my face. Her, the pale skin, the delicate silk, the bruises on her wrist from yesterday.
"Look at the debt, Scarlett," I rasped, my lips brushing her ear. "Look at what you belong to."
She met my eyes in the glass. Her pupils were blown wide. She looked terrified and aroused, a mix that made my blood boil hot in my veins.
"Yes," she breathed. A primal sound of agreement.
I grabbed the strap of her slip. I didn't slide it off. I ripped it. The sound of tearing silk was loud and sharp, a violent punctuation mark in the quiet room. The fabric gave way, falling in ribbons to the floor, leaving her naked in my arms.
"Wasteful," she whispered, shivering.
"I can afford it," I snarled. "I own everything in this room."
I shoved her toward the bed. She stumbled, catching herself on the mattress, crawling backward until her back hit the pillows. I was on her before she could settle. I threw my weight over her, crushing her into the mattress.
The transition was sudden. There was no foreplay. I didn't have the patience for it. I needed to be inside her. I needed to claim the only territory that actually mattered.
"Fuck," I groaned, fumbling with my belt. My hands were shaking. Not from fear, but from the sheer, overwhelming need to bury myself.
She didn't shy away. She opened for me, spreading her legs, arching her back. She knew what I needed. She was the vessel for my rage.
I pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, squeezing until I felt the delicate bones shift under my grip. "Don't move."
She bit her lip, nodding frantically.
I entered her with a single, brutal thrust. No easing in. No testing the waters. I drove into her until my hips slammed against hers, the impact making the antique headboard crack against the wall like a gunshot.
Scarlett screamed. It was a sharp, shattered sound that tore out of her throat.
"Take it!" I roared, the sound vibrating in my chest.
I began to move. Hard. Fast. Relentless. I wasn't making love to her. I was erasing Aris Vance. I was erasing the Council. Every thrust was a declaration of war. Every time I slammed into her, I was proving that she was mine, that no amount of money or mercenaries could take this away from me.
Dust motes danced in the shaft of light cutting across the room, kicked up by the violence of our movement. The bed frame groaned in protest.
Scarlett’s head thrashed against the pillows. She wasn't passive. She was fighting back, meeting my hips, her nails digging into my forearms, drawing fresh blood to mix with the old.
"Bastard," she hissed through gritted teeth. "You bastard."
"Yours," I grunted, sweat dripping from my nose onto her chest. "I'm your fucking nightmare, Scarlett."
I flipped her over. I didn't ask. I just grabbed her hips and turned her, pulling her up onto her knees. I needed the depth. I needed to feel her completely surrounded by me.
I gripped her hair, yanking her head back until her throat was exposed. I pressed my thumb into her pulse point, feeling the frantic, rabbit-kick rhythm of her heart. It was beating for me.
"Mine," I choked out.
The friction was intense, a burning heat that consumed everything. I shut my eyes, visualizing the faces of the men who wanted to take her. I fucked them into oblivion. I used her body to destroy them.
Scarlett was making noises now that weren't human. Low, keening wails. She was clawing at the sheets, tearing the expensive cotton.
"Harder!" she screamed into the pillow. "I said harder!"
I gave her what she wanted. I abandoned all control. The Enforcer was gone. There was only the man, desperate and starving.
She broke first. Her body clamped around me, spasms racking her frame so hard I thought she might snap. She cried out my name—a curse and a prayer rolled into one.
"Oh, shit! Nikolai!"
Her release pushed me over the edge. I groaned, a raw, exhausted sound, and drove into her one last time, pouring everything I had, everything I was, into her. My vision went white. My hearing cut out. For a few seconds, the syndicate didn't exist. The debt didn't exist.
There was only this. The sweat. The heat. The absolute, undeniable fact of her.
I collapsed forward, my weight crushing her into the mattress. I couldn't move. My lungs were burning, gasping for air that felt too thin. I buried my face in her hair, which was damp with sweat and stuck to her neck.
We lay there in the wreckage of the bed. The silence returned, but it wasn't the heavy, threatening silence of the study. It was the silence of a battlefield after the slaughter.
Scarlett let out a soft, defeated sigh beneath me. "Gone," she whispered.
I moved my hand down, my fingers locking around her hip bone in a clamp that was bordering on painful. I wasn't letting go. Not today. Not ever.
"Not gone," I whispered back, my voice barely working. "Held."