CHAPTER 23
SCARLETT P.O.V.
The bruise on my inner thigh was turning a sickly shade of yellow, like old parchment.
I traced the outline of it in the full-length mirror, my fingers cold against the heated skin.
It looked ugly. It looked painful. But the fucked up thing was, looking at it didn't make me want to cry.
It didn't make me want to scream or throw the heavy crystal vase across the room like I had two weeks ago.
It made me feel… grounded.
That mark was his signature. A receipt. Evidence that I was worth the effort of violence.
I shifted my weight, testing the soreness in my lower back, and let my hand drift up to the diamond choker tight against my throat.
The metal was heavy, a constant, choking reminder of who paid the bills and who owned the air I breathed.
I used to claw at this thing until my nails bled.
Now? I just ran my thumb over the clasp, feeling the solid, unbreakable reality of it.
I noticed a loose thread on the seam of my ruined silk slip—the one he’d torn off me the first night. I grabbed the end of it and pulled. The sound was a tiny, sharp rip in the silence of the Red Suite. I watched the fabric unravel, a perfect mirror for whatever sanity I had left.
My father, that coward Aris, he would have sold me for parts if the price was right.
He traded me to Nikolai like I was a distressed asset, a line item in red ink he needed to clear.
He didn't care if I bled, as long as the ledger balanced.
But Nikolai? Nikolai broke into a gala, killed four men, and dragged me out by my hair because he refused to let anyone else have me.
That’s the difference. One didn't give a shit. The other gave too many shits, just in the darkest, most twisted way possible.
I walked over to the window, the silk pooling around my ankles.
I pressed my palm against the glass. It was thick, bulletproof, soundproof.
Outside, the city was a blur of lights, a world that had forgotten Scarlett Vance existed.
And honestly? I didn't miss it. That world was fake.
It was polite smiles and backstabbing over cocktails.
In here, with the monster, everything was honest. Brutal, sure. But honest.
I hated myself for the thought, for the way my pulse jumped when I heard the heavy, distinct click of the door lock disengaging.
Stockholm syndrome. That’s what the textbooks would call it. A survival mechanism. But standing there, feeling the heat rise in my chest, it didn't feel like survival. It felt like a choice.
I didn't scramble for a robe. I didn't dive under the covers to hide my body or the marks he’d left on it. I just turned my back to the door, picked up the silver hairbrush, and watched his reflection in the mirror as he walked in.
Nikolai looked like hell.
He was wearing one of those bespoke black suits that probably cost more than my first car, but he wore it like armor that had seen too much war.
His shoulders were tight, his buzz cut severe under the harsh lights.
He tossed his jacket onto the velvet armchair with a force that suggested he wanted to throw it through a wall.
I kept brushing my hair. One, two, three strokes.
He paused. He was waiting for the flinch. He was waiting for the fear. When he didn't get it, his eyes narrowed, shifting from weary to predatory in a heartbeat. He unbuttoned his cuffs, rolling the sleeves up over forearms that were thick with muscle and mapped with veins.
"Get dressed," he said. His voice was gravel, low and scraping. "We need to talk."
I didn't move. I just watched him through the glass. "What are you looking at, Nikolai?"
He walked over to the bedside table and set down a small orange vial of pills. Painkillers. For me. A gesture of care wrapped in a threat.
"Don't test my patience tonight, Scarlett," he warned, his hand lingering on his belt buckle. "I’m not in the mood for your bratty little games."
I turned around then. I dropped the brush on the vanity. It clattered loudly, a gunshot sound in the quiet room.
"I waited for you," I said.
He froze. His hand stilled on his waist. "Is this another trick? Did you find a sharp object to hide under the pillow?"
"No tricks."
I started walking toward him. My legs ached, my body screamed at me to keep my distance, but I ignored it. I walked right up to him, close enough to smell the unique mix of expensive tobacco, sandalwood, and the metallic tang of gunpowder that always seemed to cling to him.
His jacket had slid off the chair onto the floor. I stepped on it. I ground the heel of my foot into the expensive wool, destroying the fabric, maintaining eye contact the entire time.
Nikolai looked down at my foot on his jacket, then back up to my face. His jaw clenched. "I thought you said you were done running."
"I was," I said softly, stepping closer until my chest brushed against his shirt. "Until you locked me in again. But then I realized something."
"And what’s that?"
"My father tried to buy me back to silence me. You bought me to keep me." I reached out and grabbed the lapels of his shirt, smoothing them down with a possessiveness that made his breath hitch. "I choose the monster I know, Nikolai."
He grabbed my chin, his fingers digging in hard, his thumb pressing into the corner of my mouth. He was looking for a lie. He was looking for the deceit he was so used to seeing in everyone else.
"Are you looking for more pain, Scarlett?" he growled.
I leaned into his grip. I didn't pull away. I let his rough, calloused thumb slide over my bottom lip. "I'm looking for a reason to stop fighting."
"Don't confuse fear with loyalty," he snapped, though he didn't let go. "I don't play games with obedience, collateral."
"It's not loyalty. It's self-preservation." My voice dropped to a whisper, husky and real. "And maybe a little bit of insanity."
I took his free hand—the one that had bruised me, the one that had fed me—and placed it over my heart. It was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"Feel that?" I asked. "This heart beats for you now, whether I like it or not. I am your collateral, Nikolai. Prove it."
I slid his hand down, over the soft curve of my stomach, pressing his palm flat against my skin. The heat radiating from him was intense, burning through the thin air between us.
"I won't run again," I promised. And for the first time since he dragged me out of that penthouse, I wasn't lying.
Nikolai’s eyes darkened, the pupils blowing wide until there was barely any iris left. He grabbed my waist, hauling me against him with a sudden violence that knocked the breath out of me. He lifted me slightly off the floor, his face inches from mine.
"If this is a lie, Scarlett," he whispered, the threat vibrating through my bones, "I will break more than your spirit. I will dismantle you piece by piece until you don't even remember your own name."
"I understand the terms," I said.
"Don't disappoint me, little pawn."
I reached down for his belt buckle. My fingernail snagged on the cold metal, a sharp clink in the heavy atmosphere.
Nikolai’s hands clamped over mine, stopping me. "What do you think you're doing?"
I ripped my hands free from his grip and went right back to the buckle. I looked him dead in the eye, channeling every ounce of defiance and desire I had left.
"I don't want to be punished, Nikolai. I want to be marked."
He went still. "Tell me what you want."
"I want you to make sure I never forget this choice," I said. "I want you to ruin me for anyone else."
He let go of my hands. It was the first time he had ever relinquished control.
I undid the belt. I unzipped his trousers. I reached up and shoved the shirt off his shoulders, exposing the jagged scar that ran across his throat—a souvenir from a knife fight years ago. I leaned in and pressed my lips to the scar tissue.
"You always look better when you’re dangerous," I murmured against his skin.
Nikolai shuddered. A full-body tremor that told me I had him. The predator was caught in the trap of his own obsession.
"Take it all, Scarlett," he rasped. "I want to see what you hide beneath the suit."
I sank to my knees. The carpet was rough against my skin, echoing the position he’d forced me into last night. But this time, my head was high. My eyes were open.
"This is what I am now," I said.
I ran my tongue along the sharp line of his jaw, tasting the salt of his skin, before trailing lower. His hands tangled in my hair, gripping tight, not pushing but holding on like I was the only solid thing in a world that was burning down.
"Say my name, Scarlett," he commanded, his voice breaking. "Say it like that."
"Nikolai."
He growled, a low, animAlistairtic sound deep in his chest. His control snapped. He hauled me up by my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh with bruising force, and crashed his mouth down on mine.
The kiss wasn't gentle. It tasted like copper and desperation. It was a collision. He slammed me back against the red velvet headboard, the wood groaning under the impact, and I welcomed it.
"You belong to me," he snarled against my lips.
"Yes, bastard, I belong to you," I spat back, grabbing his hair and pulling his face closer. "Show me, Scarlett. Show me the choice."
He ripped the silk slip the rest of the way down. The sound of tearing fabric was the only music we needed. His hand traced the line of my hip, lingering over the faded yellow bruise, owning the damage he’d caused.
"Look at me, Scarlett," he demanded, pinning me to the mattress. "Tell me who owns you."
"You know the answer, Smirnov."
He didn't wait. He shoved my legs apart and drove into me with a single, punishing thrust that knocked the air from my lungs. I gasped, my hands gripping the headboard until my knuckles turned white. It was too much, and it wasn't enough.
I pushed against his chest, catching him off guard, and flipped us. I straddled his lap, the diamond choker swinging against my collarbone. I grabbed the leather of the headboard for leverage and started to move, setting a pace that was frantic and angry.
"This is my truce, Nikolai," I hissed, grinding down on him.
"Don't think this changes the rules, Scarlett," he gritted out, his hands gripping my hips to keep me steady.
"It changes everything."
He let me have control for exactly ten seconds before he couldn't take it anymore. He flipped us again, pinning me flat. He buried his face in the crook of my neck and bit down—hard. Sharp teeth breaking the surface of my skin, leaving a mark right above the collarbone where everyone would see it.
"You are mine," he breathed against the stinging wound. "Only mine."
"Harder!" I screamed, my nails digging into his back, scratching lines down his spine. "Prove it, Nikolai!"
The blankets were kicked onto the floor.
We were a tangle of limbs and sweat and raw friction.
I arched my back, wrapping my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, needing to feel him hit every wall inside me.
I needed him to erase the memory of the escape.
I needed him to burn out the memory of my father.
"I need you to erase last night!" I cried out.
"Let go of it, Scarlett," he commanded, his rhythm relentless. "Only this exists."
He dragged me across the bed, pinning my wrists above my head with one massive hand. He looked down at me, his face slick with sweat, his expression one of pure, unadulterated worship mixed with madness.
"You are collateral, Scarlett," he said, his voice raw. "But you are my most prized asset. Your father won't silence you now. I protect what is mine."
"Never let me go, Nikolai," I whispered, reaching up to brush a damp strand of hair from his forehead. "Never."
The tenderness of the gesture seemed to break something in him. He moved faster, harder. He grabbed the choker, pulling it tight enough to make me choke, cutting off my air just enough to make the world spark at the edges.
"Just say 'yes', cunt," he growled. "Say 'yes' to this."
"Yes! God, yes!"
We were the same. Two broken things that only fit together because of our jagged edges.
He lifted me to the edge of the bed, my legs dangling. He was relentless. I curled my toes into the carpet, grounding myself as he drove us both toward the cliff.
"Tell me you love it when I break you," he demanded.
"I love you."
The words slipped out. They hung in the air, heavy and terrifying. I didn't mean to say them. But I didn't regret them.
Nikolai froze for a split second, his eyes widening, before he grabbed my face. "Lie to me," he whispered harshly. "Say you hate me."
"I can't."
I grabbed the choker and pulled him down, kissing him with everything I had. It was messy and wet and tasted of tears I didn't realize I was crying. He wiped a tear from my cheek with his thumb, his touch suddenly gentle.
"Look what you've done to me," he murmured. "I have made you real, Scarlett."
He grabbed the sheet and pulled it over my head, shrouding us in darkness, cutting off the sight of the room, the world, the cage. Under the sheet, it was just heat and sound and him.
"Don't look away from this," he ordered in the dark.
"I can't breathe—"
"Breathe for me, Scarlett. Just for me."
The climax hit me like a freight train. My back arched, lifting off the mattress, my scream muffled by his shoulder. A second later, he followed me, a guttural roar tearing from his throat as he poured himself into me.
He collapsed on top of me, heavy and crushing. He didn't pull out. He stayed there, burying his face in my hair, his breathing ragged. He pulled the sheet down, exposing our faces to the cool air of the room.
"Paid in full," he whispered.
"It wasn't a payment, Smirnov," I said, my voice wrecked. "It was a vow."
We lay there in the silence. It wasn't the empty silence of before. It was dense. Heavy. He reached up and traced the cold metal of the choker with his finger. I reached up and placed my hand over his scars.
"I’m never letting you leave this room again," he said. It wasn't a threat anymore. It was a statement of fact.
I looked at him, really looked at him, and realized the cage door was wide open, and I was never walking out.
"Good," I said. "Because I'm not going anywhere."