Chapter 8
KONSTANTIN
She fights the darkness. I have to give her that.
Most people, after ingesting that much Triazolam on a half-empty stomach, would be comatose within minutes. But Helena Blackwood is fighting.
She’s slumped against my chest as I carry her toward the private elevator, head lolling against my shoulder. Her breathing is jagged. She’s trying to stay awake, trying to command her limbs to move, but the chemical tide is pulling her under.
"Put... me... down," she slurs.
"Save your breath," I say, adjusting my grip on her, pulling her higher against my chest.
She feels impossibly fragile in my arms. The red silk dress slides against my suit jacket like spilled water, but beneath the crimson fabric, her skin is burning hot.
I look down at her. Her eyes are half-open, darting around the hallway as if she’s looking for an exit that doesn't exist.
"You bastard," she whispers. It’s a pathetic sound, but the defiance in it makes something tighten in my chest.
She tried to poison me.
I should be furious. In my world, betrayal is met with a bullet, or a knife, or a slow agonizing disappearance in a warehouse basement. I’ve killed men for less disrespect than she showed.
But as the elevator doors slide open and I step inside, watching our reflection in the polished steel, there’s no anger.
There’s a twisted, dangerous rush of pride.
She didn't beg. She waited for her moment, stole from me, and struck. She’s a predator in the making; she just doesn't know it yet.
Lev is waiting in the lobby by the glass doors, his hand resting casually near the holster under his jacket. He sees me step out of the elevator with Helena in my arms, her red dress trailing behind us.
He doesn't blink. He doesn't ask why the woman who is supposed to be our business partner is currently drugged and helpless. He knows better. In the Bratva, questions are a liability.
"The car is ready, Boss," Lev says, opening the door. "The shipment is staged at Terminal 4."
"Good."
I step out into the cool night air. The wind off the Atlantic hits us, sharp and smelling of rain. Helena shivers violently against me, a tremor running through her entire body.
"Cold," she whimpers, hand weakly clutching at my lapel.
"You’ll be warm soon," I promise, though there’s no warmth in my voice. Only fact.
I slide into the back of the armored SUV, pulling her in with me. I don't put her on the seat beside me. I keep her in my lap, trapping her between my body and the leather door.
She tries to push away, hands pressing feebly against my chest.
"No... don't... touch..."
"Stop fighting," I murmur against her hair. "You lost. Accept it."
The driver pulls away from the curb, and the car merges into the city traffic.
The interior of the SUV is sealed and quiet. Outside, the city is a blur of neon streaks and rain-slicked pavement, but inside, the world has narrowed down to the weight of her in my arms.
My hand rests on her waist, feeling the rise and fall of her breath. It’s slower now.
I run my tongue over my teeth.
I can still taste her.
The bitterness of the pill is fading, but the taste of her remains. It lingers like smoke.
I kissed her to punish her, to force the wine down her throat and show her that her body belongs to me. It was meant to be a violation, an assertion of dominance. A reminder that I’m the one who feeds her, and I’m the one who can silence her.
But it didn't feel like punishment. It felt like a craving being satisfied.
When I forced my tongue into her mouth, when she shuddered against me, I wasn't thinking about the shipment or the merger or the war with the Italians. I was thinking about how soft she was. I was thinking about how much I wanted to swallow her whole.
It’s a dangerous thought. A weakness. A King cannot afford to want his collateral. Collateral is meant to be spent.
I look down at her. Her head has fallen back against my arm, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat.
"Konstantin," she breathes, eyes fluttering. She’s looking at me, but I don't think she sees me. She’s seeing a nightmare.
"I’m here," I say.
"The ship," she mumbles. "Don't send it."
"It’s already done."
The car slows as the smooth asphalt of the highway gives way to the rough, potholed concrete of the industrial district. We bump and sway past the perimeter fence. The security checkpoint for Terminal 4 looms ahead, an island of floodlights in the darkness.
The guard spots the flag on my car, the Morozov crest, and waves us through without stopping. This is Blackwood territory on paper, but the men standing guard are mine. They answer to my coin, and my violence.
We pull up to the edge of the wharf.
The silence of the armored car is shattered the moment Lev opens the door.
The night is filled with the grinding of cranes, the shouting of dockworkers, and the deep, vibrating hum of ship engines. It’s the sound of money being made in the dark.
The Blackwood Star looms above us, a massive steel beast sitting low in the water, its hull scarred by years of salt.
"Open the door," I order.
Lev obeys, holding the door wide against the wind.
I shift Helena, dragging her out with me. Her legs give way immediately. She collapses, knees buckling, but I catch her before she hits the concrete.
I wrap my arm around her waist, clamping her to my side. I force her to stand, taking her entire weight against my hip. To anyone watching from a distance—the crew on the deck, the stevedores on the pier—it might look like a lover's embrace. A man supporting his drunk wife after a party.
But up close, it’s a cage.
Lev signals the foreman. The blood drains from his face the second our eyes meet. He drops his gaze instantly, terrified to make eye contact with the Boss.
I demand to be feared.
"Look," I command, grabbing her chin and forcing her face toward the ship.
"I can't," Her head lolls, eyes rolling back to show the whites. "Can't see..."
"Focus," I growl, giving her a little shake sharp enough to rattle her teeth. "Open your eyes. Watch what you bought."
She blinks, fighting to lift her heavy lids. She sways against me, her body soft, entirely dependent on my strength to keep her upright.
"See that?" I point to the crane lifting a massive, unmarked container. It swings through the air, casting a long, rectangular shadow over us before disappearing into the hold.
"The Atlantic Loop," I whisper, my lips brushing the sensitive skin below her earlobe. "Carrying enough illicit cargo to put us both in prison for a lifetime. Cash. Untraceable cash. The things that fuel empires."
She stares at it. She sees the ship. She sees the crew, my men, armed with assault rifles slung openly over their shoulders, locking down the hatches.
"You... monster," she slurs.
Her hand comes up, trying to claw at my face, but her coordination is gone. Her fingers brush my jaw, a ghost of a strike.
"Yes," I agree. "I am."
The ship's horn blasts.
The heavy mooring lines are cast off, splashing into the dark water. The Blackwood Star begins to drift away from the dock, churning the harbor water into white foam.
She watches it go. She watches her family's legitimate legacy turn into a criminal enterprise, sealed with her signature on the manifest.
And as the ship clears the harbor, the last of her fight evaporates.
She goes completely limp. Her head drops onto my chest, and her breathing evens out into the heavy sleep of the drugged.
"Done," I say to Lev. "She’s been seen. The crew knows she was here. If the Feds ever pull the surveillance tapes, she’s standing right next to me, watching the load."
"She’s out cold, Boss," Lev notes, frowning at her. "Did she take the whole dose?"
"Enough of it."
I scoop her up, shielding her face from the biting wind as I carry her back to the SUV.
The drive back to the penthouse is quiet.
Helena sleeps the sleep of the dead in my lap. I refuse to lay her on the seat beside me, keeping her close, absorbed by my heat.
My hand rests on her thigh, where the red dress has ridden up. Her skin is so soft. I trace patterns on her leg with my thumb, feeling the muscle twitch in her sleep.
I should move my hand. I don't.
I spend the drive watching the city lights play across her face. She looks younger like this. Without the armor of her suits and her sharp tongue, she’s a girl who tried to fight a war she didn't understand.
When we reach the penthouse, the transition from the grit of the docks to the sterile luxury of my world is jarring.
I carry her through the lobby again. The night shift guard looks up, sees the woman in my arms, and quickly diverts his attention, trained to be blind.
The private elevator whisks us up to the penthouse in silence.
The doors slide open, revealing the dark hallway.
The air is still and cool.
I walk down the hall, her weight a familiar burden now.
Ahead, on the left, is the door to the guest suite. That’s her room. Her cell. That’s where a prisoner belongs.
I adjust my grip, preparing to open the door and dump her on the bed.
I reach for the handle.
Then, I stop.
I look down. Her dark hair spills across my sleeve. Her lips are slightly parted, still swollen from my kiss.
If I put her in there, she wakes up alone. She wakes up behind a locked door, separated from me.
A possessive instinct uncoils in my gut, a hunger I haven’t felt in years.
My Queen.
The words echo in my head.
She tried to run tonight. To hurt me. She needs to be watched. She needs to be kept close, where I can see her breathing, where I can make sure the drug doesn't stop her heart.
Those are the lies I tell myself as I physically turn my back on the guest room door.
I walk past it, heading to the end of the hall. To the double doors of my room, the Master Suite.
I kick the door open.
My room is stark. Black walls, gray carpet, and a massive bed centered like an altar.
I walk to the bed and place her in the center of it.
The visual strikes me instantly. The vibrant, bloody red of her dress against the onyx sheets. It’s beautiful. She’s a sacrifice presented for a dark god.
I stand over her for a moment, watching the rise and fall of her chest.
Then, she stirs.
A pained sound escapes her throat. Her brow furrows, and her hands fumble clumsily at her waist.
"Tight," she moans.
She tries to roll over, her fingers scratching against the silk at her side. She’s fighting the dress like it’s a net.
"Get it off," she whimpers, tugging at the neckline. "Can't breathe."
The drug has wrecked her motor skills. She can't find the zipper and claws at her own skin, leaving faint red trails of fire.
"Stop," I say, my voice low.
She doesn't hear me. She gives a frustrated sob, tearing at the dress. "Take it off. Please."
I sigh. I can't watch her hurt herself.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I capture her hands, stopping her frantic movements.
"Stop it," I command. "I’ll do it."
She goes limp at my touch, her head falling back against the pillow.
I find the hidden zipper at the side and carefully peel the dress down. She lifts her hips obediently when I guide her, too far gone to realize who is touching her.
I pull the garment down her legs and toss it onto the floor.
She sighs, a long sound of relief, and curls into a ball on the black sheets.
I freeze, staring down at what lies beneath the silk.
She’s left in nothing but a matching set of black lace lingerie.
My eyes trace the curve of her body. The black lace bra cups her breasts perfectly, the sheer material teasing the darkness of her nipples beneath, rising and falling with her breath.
My gaze travels lower, over the dip of her waist to the scrap of lace at her hips. The thong leaves nothing to the imagination.
My blood heats, a throbbing ache rushing south. She’s perfect, and she’s right here, in my bed, defenseless.
She shivers instantly, pulling her knees to her chest, breaking my trance.
I glance at the red dress on the floor. I can't put that back on her, but I can't leave her shivering—or exposed.
I walk to the dresser, pull open a drawer, and grab a plain black T-shirt. It’s soft cotton, smelling faintly of my detergent and cedar.
I walk back to the bed.
"Sit up," I command.
She doesn’t. The drug has rendered her nothing but a puddle of woman.
I pull her up, supporting her back with my arm. Her head rolls against my chest, her nose pressing into my shirt.
"Arms up," I say.
She obeys weakly, lifting her arms like a child.
I pull the T-shirt over her head and guide her arms through the sleeves. It’s a strange act for a man like me, dressing the woman who tried to drug me.
The shirt swallows her, hanging off her shoulders and reaching her mid-thigh, finally covering the lace and the curves.
I ease her back down onto the mattress.
She snuggles into the cotton, nuzzling her face in the fabric. She takes a deep breath, inhaling my scent.
I stare at her. She’s wearing my clothes. She smells like me.
She’s mine.
I pull the duvet up, covering her to her chin.
I sit on the edge of the bed and loosen my tie. I take off my jacket, throw it over the chair, and unbutton my shirt, tossing it aside.
I should go to the couch. I should leave her here and sleep in the guest room myself.
But I don't want to leave. This is my room. She is my captive.
I strip down to my boxer briefs. The gun on the nightstand is the only familiar thing in the room.
I lift the duvet and slide into the bed beside her.
The mattress dips under my weight, and gravity pulls her body slightly toward me.
My blood is still humming, my body reacting to the memory of her in that lace, but I clench my jaw and force the desire down.
I’m a monster, yes, but I’m not a scavenger. I don't take what cannot be given.
She mumbles in her sleep and throws an arm across the space between us. Her hand lands on my bare chest, right over my heart.
Her palm is warm. My heart thumps against it.
I should push her away. I should recoil from the touch of a Blackwood.
Instead, I cover her hand with mine and interlace our fingers, locking her to me.
I close my eyes, inhaling the scent of her.
She tried to poison me tonight. To drug me. She tried to escape.
But as I lie here in the dark, listening to her breathe, holding her hand against my chest, I know the truth.
She didn't escape.
She walked deeper into the trap.
And I’m never letting her go.