Chapter 10 - Ninel
I closed my eyes, thinking back to yesterday’s lunch with Artyom. He had insisted on feeding me, and every time I obeyed, I saw it…the dark, simmering intensity in his eyes. It was as if he were unraveling, not in a gentle, romantic way, but in a way that was dangerous and captivating.
When a bit of chocolate melted on his finger and he licked it off, his gaze never leaving me, my nipples hardened despite myself. Heat rose to my cheeks, and I had to look away, ashamed of how quickly my body responded to him by a mere look.
After lunch, the chef brought out a small raspberry rose opera cake. It was layers of almond sponge, coffee buttercream, chocolate ganache, crowned with edible rose petals. And a portable radio appeared shortly after.
There was one knife and one fork. Artyom took my hand and helped me to my feet.
“Every bride and groom should have a chance to cut a cake,” he murmured. His low tone paired with the intensity of his eyes sent an involuntary shudder through me. “Don’t you think?”
I nodded, my pulse thundering in my chest.
He placed the knife in my hand, his large hand covering mine.
The moment our hands touched, warmth shot through my arm.
My reflex kicked in and I tried to yank my hand away, but Artyom tightened his grip as we cut a small triangular piece.
Then he fed me with the fork first, and I returned the favor, hands trembling slightly.
What the hell was wrong with me?
When he stepped away from me I inhaled deeply, needing the distance he created.
But, that was short lived. Because after he plugged in the radio, and pressed play I was in his arms. One arm captured mine while the other pressed firmly against the small of my back holding me close against him.
My hand rested on his shoulder. My heart slammed against my ribs rattling my rib cage.
I expected something Russian, or classic, something elegant. Nothing had prepared me for Earned It by The Weeknd.
He maneuvered me effortlessly across the gazebo as we danced, his gaze locked on mine. Wherever he led I followed. I felt like he was the Pied Piper and I was locked in a trance.
I didn’t notice when the song ended. I couldn’t tear my eyes from him, nor my hands away from his body.
Then his phone rang, cutting through the spell. He pressed a kiss to my forehead before stepping away, briskly answering his phone. The warmth of the moment vanished in a heartbeat.
Only then did Ruslan return, silently resuming his post.
After Artyom had whipped Ruslan naked in front of me, guilt clawed at me, even though I had apologized a thousand times. Ruslan told me it wasn’t my fault, that if he had done his job properly, he wouldn’t have been punished.
Back home, before I was married, running away earned me scoldings, maybe even a smaller allowance, but no guard had ever been punished for something I did. The contrast made every fibre of my being tense, a reminder of just how different this world…his world was.
You’re no longer on Safin turf, Ninel. You’d better learn the new rules.
Today I sat curled in a chair in the library with a book, Ruslan standing in the corner.
Artyom had sent a message via Ruslan, saying he’d be home for dinner. Around five-thirty, I closed my book and made my way upstairs to the bedroom to get ready.
I stepped into the room and froze.
On the bed, two wrapped gifts waited: one flat, the other a large box. Artyom must have dropped them off himself; none of the guards were allowed in our bedroom.
I opened the flat gift first, and my breath hitched.
It was the same painting I had been staring at in the art gallery.
I sat on the bed, staring at it. Why would he get this for me?
Was it because he knew I liked it, or because he hoped it would make me more compliant to his demands? More obedient?
I sighed. He had listened to my complaints about being locked up, and missing my family and former life and promised to take me out soon, so maybe it was a peace offering.
Because men like Artyom don't feel guilt, do they?
I smiled and opened the larger box. My jaw dropped. Inside were canvases of different sizes, paints, palettes, and brushes.
I had to give it to Artyom, he knew exactly how to make amends. And since he was trying to be civilized, I could do the same. I knew he was around, since he had planned on having dinner with me.
I headed straight for his office, knowing that’s where he’d be if he was home to thank him for the gifts.
When I got there, I knocked on his door, but there was no answer. Slowly, I pushed it open, expecting to see him behind his desk, focused on work. Instead, he stepped out from a side door in his office.
The first two buttons of his shirt were undone, and my stomach twisted at the sight of blood staining the white fabric of his shirt at his neck.
In one hand, he clutched a first aid kit, the other pressing a white cloth firmly against the wound.
“Artyom, are you okay? What happened?” I asked, trying to keep the panic from my voice.
I wanted to slap my forehead…of course he wasn’t okay.
He looked up at me. “I’m okay. The bastard got a lucky shot off.”
He sank behind his desk.
My stomach plummeted. If the bullet had gone just an inch to the right, Artyom wouldn’t be standing here.
Why do you care?
Because even though he is a manipulative asshole, his sisters are married to my brothers. And then there is Kira, Zahkar and Yegor who would be crushed if anything happened to him.
My mind raced to my brothers. I couldn’t remember ever seeing them clean a wound.
Sure, they’d sometimes have bruises on their faces or wear long-sleeved shirts instead of short, but I had always assumed they were practically invincible.
Looking at Artyom now, I wondered how many scars and injuries they hid under their clothing.
I put that question at the back of my mind to ask Katya and Vera.
And thinking about how close my brothers probably came to death every single day made me worry, not just about them, but about Yegor…
Zahkar, and the man in front of me, stoically tending his own wound, threading a needle, preparing to stitch himself up like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And even though I wanted to look away I couldn't, something about it fascinated me. I sank into one of the chairs in front of his desk, curling my legs under me.
My eyes were wide as I spoke. “Tell me what happened…”
Artyom pressed his lips into a thin line. “Do your brothers tell you what happens in the field?”
I bite my lower lip. “Ummm, no. They share the business side of things, not the other side.”
“You mean not the violent side?” He lifted a brow and shot me a brief look after threading the needle.
“Yeah.”
“In our world one can't survive without the other…”
I watched as he filled a needle and stabbed his neck with it without flinching. And him doing that set a rush of heat between my thighs.
“Does it mean you aren't going to tell me?” I asked more breathlessly than I would've liked.
“You really want to know?”
“I wouldn't have asked if I didn't,” I countered.
I watched as Artyom touched the side of his neck. Then he opened one of his drawers and pulled out a standing mirror and set it on the table.
“My men and I went to intercept a rival faction's ammunition shipment. We're talking about military grade weapons and explosives.”
My brows furrowed. “Don't you have those? Why would you steal theirs?”
Artyom smirked, then focused as the needle pierced his skin and he started stitching and a jolt shot to my core.
What the hell was that?
“Yes, we do have our own but if we steal theirs then we have more weapons and ammunition, and they also can't use that shit on us.”
I nodded.
“It makes sense,” I mumbled, my eyes still glued to Artyom's neck as his fingers moved gracefully.
Did men like Artyom have graceful fingers?
“It was supposed to be a simple enough job even though we weren't on home turf. The other group wasn't Bratva, just some street thugs with a heavy handed alliance. But, somehow they found out that we were coming and intercepted us a block before we could seize their goods.”
“You think someone leaked the information to them?” I lifted a brow.
“That is a possibility.” His eyes darkened.
“Besides the graze on your neck, did anyone else get injured? Are Yegor and Zahkar okay? And your men?”
“Yegor and Zahkar are okay. We had a few casualties. Nothing serious.” A wicked smile rolled across his lips. My heart jumped. “Much more than I could say about their men.”
I watched as Artyom twisted his neck and tried to adjust his position.
“Do you need help?” I asked, before I realized what I was saying.
His eyes snapped to mine. “You've stitched a man before?”
“No, but if it's anything like stitching clothing that's been torn I could give it a shot.” I quickly added, “If you need my help.”
He looked at me for a moment.
“I'd appreciate it.”
I stood up, my legs shaky as I moved towards Artyom. I searched the first aid kit and removed some alcoholic wipes and wiped both hands.
Artyom captured my gaze in the mirror and held out the needle to me. I took it and looked at the wound. There was just a tiny piece at the back of his neck that needed stitches, probably three stitches max.
“Printsessa, you're not going to be sick are you?” Artyom asked, amusement laced in his voice.
I inhaled deeply. “No, I'm ok. Tell me how you and your men escaped. Did you have to call in reinforcements?”
Pushing the hair on the nape of his neck aside, I touched Artyom's neck and his pulse thundered against my fingers. I held my breath as I pushed the needle through his soft skin.
“We didn't need to call for reinforcements. I train my men and push them hard. Only the strong survive. Outside in the faction one mistake could cost you your last breath.”
I gently pulled the thread through and punctured his skin again.
“Do you always go with your men on missions like this?”
“Doesn't Lev?”
I shrugged slightly as I pulled the thread. “I don't know. Like I said he doesn't share this part of our world with me, or Mariya.”
“Most times I do go. The times I don't I usually have a meeting that I can't get out of. I don't think my men would see me as much of a leader if I wasn't on the front lines with them.”
“But why? Isn't it safer for you to just stay behind closed doors? I'm sure they'd understand.”
I pushed the needle through and pulled lightly, closing the wound off.
“In Bratva, men don't do safe. We do planning and execution, our men take the bull by the horns so our women could be…safe.
I knotted the thread and Artyom handed me the scissors. I cut the thread and gently trailed my finger along the stitches.
Artyom’s breath hitched.
In one swift movement, he was on his feet in front of me, my wrists bound by his hands, the needle falling to the ground as breath exhaled quickly from my mouth.
But, the way Artyom is looking at my lips I try to recall if it was a shocked gasp or a breathless moan that eased past my lips.
Desire ignited between my thighs, and I wanted nothing more than for Artyom to pull me into his arms and kiss me.
But, I stepped back…
His grip tightened and his gaze intensified. He leaned his head towards me…
And I froze…
Nothing about Artyom was gentle…and I was positive that a kiss from him wouldn't be either.
But, would you mind though? You and I both know that you've been kissed before and those gentle soothing kisses had never done anything for you…
I stepped back again, yanking my hands away even harder, as panic flared in my chest. I shouldn't be having these feelings for Artyom, I shouldn't.
He dropped my hands and I practically ran out of his office to the bedroom. Maybe, a cold shower would set my mind straight. And if it didn't? I knew I was in big trouble.