Chapter 26 Leanna
LEANNA
The chimes ring, signaling it’s time to take our seats.
Still no sign of Nik. My eyes scan the room as we make our way to our table.
Everyone sits with their own families, neatly grouped, as if this is truly a civilized affair.
A night of solidarity for leaders who spend the rest of the year at each other’s throats over money, turf, and ever-shifting alliances.
And then I spot him.
He’s in a tuxedo, the one I know for damn sure wasn’t hanging in the closet this morning. And he’s devastatingly sizzled in it. The sharp line of his jaw glints with a shadow of stubble, his dark hair slicked back just enough to look dangerous.
My heart stutters, and I’m clenching my thighs beneath the table.
Because I know what it feels like when that beard scrapes the tender skin of my inner thighs. The way pleasure and pain blur together under his mouth.
Nik is a master of both.
And tonight, I don’t know which version of him I’ll face.
“Leanna?” My father’s voice pulls me back.
I turn and see him looking at me expectantly. “Oh, sorry,” I say, forcing a smile. “Long day. What was it, Dad?”
He studies me a second too long, his scrutiny just a little too sharp. Anxiety flips in my stomach. Did he catch me staring at the Barkov heir? I force myself to appear calm and casual. Really, Dad, I’m fine. Tired. Long day. I need him to believe that.
When his expression finally eases, I let myself breathe.
“I was saying that you did well in the day’s meetings,” he says.
“Oh. Thanks.” Heat creeps into my cheeks before I can stop it. I hate that I glow under his praise when guilt’s already twisting in my gut. All of these smiles, nods, and the illusion of loyalty are temporary. Once graduation comes, I’m gone.
I glance up from the roll I’ve been buttering and find Vince watching me. His eyes are dark, flinty, and gleaming with a devious light. He’s plotting; I can feel it. His attention makes my skin crawl.
The table tonight is just the four of us, plus three of Dad’s top men and their wives. The wives are polite and quiet. I’ve met them before outside of this; they can be warm, even kind. But in this setting, everything is Formal. Stiff. Like we’re actors reading our lines at a play no one enjoys.
It makes the whole dinner feel unbearably awkward. I want to crawl out of my own skin, just to feel something different.
Anxiety sparks in my chest, hot and consuming. I want to excuse myself, slip upstairs, curl up with a book, and disappear.
The confidence I had earlier? Gone.
Slipped away like sand through my fingers.
Now I’m nothing more than a dressed-up doll, smiling when expected, nodding on cue, hoping no one sees how out of place I feel.
Four painfully slow courses later, I’ve barely eaten, and my sense of fight or flight fills my ears with a rushing sound that makes it hard even to pretend to be part of conversations about Russian expansion and territory negotiations.
I’m beyond grateful when the music starts and Trace finds me immediately, eager to beat the line he thinks will form for opportunities to dance with me.
My father shakes Trace’s hand and nods his approval, and I let Trace lead me out onto the dance floor. A few other couples are already swaying, the music dated and stiff.
We do an awkward turn, his hand resting lightly at the small of my back, the other holding mine at shoulder height. He maintains a polite two-inch buffer between us, which I appreciate.
I study him as we move. A spray of freckles dots his nose and cheekbones, softening his features, giving him a boyish edge.
One of his teeth is slightly crooked. He talks about his work in IT security, noting that his father oversees cybersecurity for Campisi, and that he’s training to take over when his father retires.
Trace is older than I expected. Thirty-two. A full decade ahead of me, and it shows. He carries himself with more maturity than the other one—Luke, or Lucas, or whatever his name was.
I like that about him.
But as we move across the floor, polite and pleasant, I feel nothing. No spark. No heat. Not even the whisper of interest.
Nothing at all.
“This must be awkward for you,” Trace says as we dance.
“Why so?”
“The whole arranged marriage thing?”
“Well,” I reply, keeping my tone light, “I haven’t been betrothed, at least not to my knowledge.
My father gave me a dossier with five profiles, but I’m not required to choose any of you.
So really, it’s more awkward for you than for me.
I’m not the one doing a dog-and-pony show like some weird reality dating show. ”
He barks a laugh. “Good answer.”
I roll my eyes, already done with the conversation.
Then a large hand lands on Trace’s shoulder—a looming shadow behind him.
“Can I cut in?”
Trace turns, eyes widening as he recognizes him. “You’re—”
“Nikolai Ivanov. Reapers winger,” Nik says flatly. “And no, I won’t take a selfie with you. Now, can I cut in?”
Trace stammers. “I, uh… is this okay with you, Leanna?”
I nod once. “Thanks. Nice to meet you.”
The dismissal is clear.
He steps back, rubbing the back of his neck, face twisted with worry, like he thinks he’ll get in trouble with my father for letting a Barkov cut in, for allowing a Barkov to touch me.
Little do they know.
A small smile tugs at my lips as Nik pulls me into his arms. He’s far more forceful and possessive than he is smart in a room like this. His body presses flush against mine, no gap, his hand straying low enough that they’re nearly on my ass.
“You should cool it,” I murmur, keeping my smile in place. “This is already scandalous. Everyone’s staring.”
He doesn’t cool it. Not even a little. He’s enormous, scowling, radiating menace, and I know no one in this room is going to challenge him. He knows it too.
“I’d call this a diplomatic effort,” he says finally, after scanning the room.
We turn, and my eyes land on my father. He’s trying to mask his reaction, but the tight downturn of his lips betrays him.
Worse are my brothers, who look absolutely disgusted.
Nik takes it all in on the next rotation and chuckles darkly. “Interesting.”
“Pissing off my dad and brothers isn’t part of the game,” I hiss.
“A bonus, then,” he answers, seemingly unbothered.
I scoff, but can’t think of a good comeback.
To be honest, I want to melt into him.
Where I felt nothing with Trace, with Nik it’s the opposite—everything burns.
I have to hold myself rigid to keep from showing too much of the electric attraction I feel.
This is already too dangerous. Any wrong move on my part will be problematic in ways I might not be able to diffuse.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Trace on the edge of the dance floor.
His expression has shifted from worry to something closer to jealousy.
When our eyes meet, he tilts his head, gaze wide, like he’s trying to send me a message.
I look away quickly, my heart pounding. I can’t tell if it’s because of Nik’s heat, our chemistry, or the weight of an entire room’s scrutiny.
“Are you fond of that man?” Nik asks quietly.
“No,” I say firmly. “I don’t even know him. He’s just one of my father’s five potential matches.”
“Hmm,” he hums. “Then he’ll be dead by morning.”
I choke on a noise of disbelief. “What? Why?”
“Because he touched you.”
“I’m not your property,” I snap.
“I beg to differ,” he answers.
“Why? Because you paid me to come all over you? Now you feel some ownership over me? Well, you can disabuse yourself of that notion. That arrangement is over.”
“Obviously,” he says. “But I don’t think we are over. Not nearly.”
A chill runs through me, equal parts tantalizing and terrifying. I don’t want us to be over either, not even close. But his earlier words echo in my head. He could take me. Use me as leverage. Not being done with me might not mean what I think it does.
Relief and disappointment knot together when another man steps forward, asking to cut in. The dance floor is filling up, and it’s not safe to keep dancing with Nik like this.
When the man, from one of the New York families, asks to step in, Nik gives him a look so sharp it could slice a jugular. The man is undeterred, though, holding his gaze with confidence.
Nik finally frowns, nods, and steps away. He gives me a look that tells me our conversation is far from over.
I force myself to dance with a few more men, smiling, laughing, playing the part until my feet are screaming in protest in those gold shoes. When I finally make my way back to the table for my handbag, my father doesn’t even glance up before saying, “I’ll have security walk you upstairs.”
I wave it off, and he says, “Leanna, I saw how Nikolai Ivanov looked at you. I did not like it.”
“It’s this stupid dress,” I say quickly. “Dad, if I were in my usual sweatshirt, jeans, and Ugg slippers, I promise he wouldn’t look twice.”
My dad clenches his jaw, but nods and tells me to be careful. “You’re a beautiful woman, Leanna,” he says. “Men will want you. They will want to control you.”
The irony nearly makes me laugh. I want to tell him that he, too, is guilty of that same need to control. But I don’t have the energy for a fight with him.
I just want to go to my room. I want to know if Nik will be there.
So I kiss my father’s cheek, murmur goodnight, and slip away, and I’m grateful my brothers have already disappeared into whatever bottle they chose for the evening.
My heart beats wildly in my chest as I enter the room.
Somehow, since I left for dinner, Nik has made a bed on the couch, and for some reason, it enrages me. After everything today, the intense staring and posturing and possessive bullshit, he’s going to sleep on the fucking couch?
And where is he? I was certain he’d follow me up here.
I wait. Five minutes stretched into ten. Every second stokes a storm of words, building sharp and ready to unleash the moment he walks through that door.
When the lock finally clicks, I’m already primed to attack. But as soon as I see him, big and perfect and scowling, all words vanished because he’s taking one step, then two, and then he’s picking me up. My legs wrap instinctively around his waist, and his lips crash onto mine.
His mouth, his mouth, his mouth.
It’s everything. It’s the only thing that exists.
I cling to him, drowning in the heat of it, and I know tonight will be my undoing. My control is gone.
My virtue? Already lost.