Chapter 12
Nikolai
Iwoke at six AM because my body was trained to wake at six AM. Thirty-three years of discipline didn't disappear just because I had a woman in my bed. But for the first time in maybe ever, I didn't want to get up. Didn't want to move. Didn't want to disturb the small, warm body pressed against my side like she'd been designed to fit there.
Sophie.
Even thinking her name did things to me. Made my chest tight. Made something warm unfurl low in my stomach that had nothing to do with morning arousal and everything to do with the fact that she was here. In my bed. Where she'd been sleeping for three weeks straight.
Morning light filtered through the curtains I'd forgotten to close last night. We'd been too busy. Too focused on getting her into bed, getting her clothes off, getting inside her. The light painted her honey-colored hair gold where it spread across my pillow. My pillow. Like she belonged there.
She was wearing one of my t-shirts. Black, too big for her, the collar slipping off one pale shoulder. Nothing else. I knew because I'd been the one to dress her after we'd finished last night. Had pulled the shirt over her head while she was still fuzzy and sated and not quite back to being fully big. Had tucked her against my side and listened to her breathing even out into sleep.
Her face was peaceful. Lips slightly parted. One hand curled against my chest over my heart. Her bad knee bent, leg thrown over mine like she was claiming me even in sleep.
I just watched her for a while. Let myself have this moment before the day started and I had to be the Pakhan again. Before I had to think about territory disputes and Belyaev threats and the dozens of decisions waiting for me.
Right now I was just Nikolai. Just a man waking up next to the woman he loved.
The past three weeks had been the most stable, peaceful weeks of my life. That probably said something terrible about my life, but I didn't care. Sophie had signed the contract with all the optional clauses. Had become mine officially. My Little. My responsibility. My devotchka.
And she'd thrived under the structure.
She followed her rules without complaint. Bedtime at ten PM on weeknights—sometimes she tested it, stayed up until 10:15 or 10:30, earned herself minor consequences that she seemed to need just to confirm the boundaries were real. But mostly she came to bed when I told her to. Let me tuck her in. Let me hold her until she fell asleep.
Three meals a day. No skipping. That had been harder. She had a tendency to forget lunch when she was deep in work. But I'd made it non-negotiable. Had Irina bring food to the library if Sophie didn't come down. Had sat with her and watched her eat when the anxiety made her stomach tight. Had praised her when she cleaned her plate without being reminded.
She checked in before leaving the compound. Always. Texted me where she was going, who she'd be with, when she'd be back. Never ignored my calls. That rule was sacred after what had happened with the storage unit. She knew it. Respected it. Hadn't tested it once.
The intelligence work was going well. Better than well. She worked in my library every afternoon, cataloging communications and surveillance reports with that brilliant photographic memory. She'd built detailed timelines of Belyaev movements, cross-referenced contacts, identified patterns I'd missed. She was an asset. Not just because of her memory, but because she was smart. Analytical. Saw connections.
But it was the evenings I looked forward to most.
We had dinner together every night. Sometimes in the formal dining room with Mikhail and my brothers when family business required it. More often in my study or my bedroom, just the two of us. Conversation flowed easily now that the walls between us had come down. She told me about her childhood, her mother who'd died young, her complicated relationship with her father. I told her about growing up in the bratva, about my mother leaving, about the pressure of becoming Pakhan at thirty-three.
After dinner, things varied. Sometimes she wanted to be big—wanted adult conversation and wine and sex that left us both wrecked. Those nights I fucked her hard and watched her come apart under my hands. Watched her scream my name. Watched her float in that post-orgasmic haze where she was soft and pliant and completely mine.
Sometimes she just wanted to be held. Wanted to curl up against me on the sofa while I worked or read. Wanted my arms around her and my hand in her hair and the steady rhythm of my breathing to ground her. Those nights we didn't have sex. Just intimacy. Just connection. Just being together.
And sometimes—more and more frequently—she slipped into Little space.
It had happened gradually. The first time had been accidental, a week after we'd signed the contract. She'd had a nightmare about Sergei, woken up crying and small and needing comfort she couldn't articulate. I'd held her and whispered reassurances in Russian and watched her transform into someone younger. Someone who needed her Daddy.
After that, it became easier for her. More natural. She'd come to me in the evenings and ask if she could be little tonight. If Daddy would read to her. If she could color while I worked. If we could watch a movie with her in my lap.
I'd said yes every time. Had created space for Little Sophie in my life. In my home. In my heart.
Watching her bloom under my care had healed something in me I didn't know was broken. Some part of me that had been locked down since my mother left. Since I'd learned that emotional vulnerability was dangerous. That caring too much meant getting hurt.
Sophie made me want to care. Made me want to be vulnerable. Made me want to build a life instead of just surviving one.
I traced my finger down her spine. Watched goosebumps rise on her skin even through the t-shirt. Her body responded to my touch even when she was asleep. The knowledge made something possessive and primal stir in my chest.
Mine. She was mine.
"Good morning, devotchka," I murmured.
She made a sleepy sound. Something between a groan and a whimper. Burrowed closer against my side like she was trying to climb inside my skin. Her hand fisted in my t-shirt.
"Don't wanna wake up yet." Her voice was small. Still caught between sleep and waking. Still young-sounding. Little Sophie lingering from last night.
I smiled against her hair. Pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "You don't have to wake up yet. We have time."
"What time is it?" She lifted her head slightly. Blinked at me with sleepy grey-green eyes. Her hair was a mess. She had pillow creases on her cheek. She'd never looked more beautiful.
"Six-fifteen."
She groaned. Dropped her head back down to my chest. "That's so early, Kolya."
The nickname made my chest tight. She only called me Kolya when she was little or when she was too comfortable to maintain formality. When the walls were completely down.
I checked the time again. Six-seventeen now. We had no obligations today. No meetings. No territory disputes requiring my attention. No immediate Belyaev threats that Maks had flagged. Just a whole Saturday stretching ahead of us.
An idea formed. Something I'd been thinking about for days but hadn't had the right moment to suggest.
"How would you feel about going to the beach today?" I asked.
She lifted her head again. More awake now. Those grey-green eyes curious. "The beach?"
"Brighton Beach. There's a section my family used to visit when I was young. Private. Quiet." I tucked hair behind her ear. "I want to show you."
Her face lit up. That brightness I'd come to crave. That unguarded joy that said she was happy. Safe. Free.
"Really? Just us?"
"Just us," I confirmed. "We can leave around nine. Spend the whole day. Come back when we're ready."
She was fully awake now. Pushed herself up on her elbow. The t-shirt slipped further off her shoulder. I could see the curve of her breast. The marks I'd left on her neck last night. Evidence of ownership I'd marked deliberately.
"I'd love that," she said. Her voice was steadier now. More adult. But excitement colored it. Made her sound young anyway. "Can we get pirozhki? The ones with meat and cabbage? And those sweet cheese things?"
The fact that she remembered the names of Russian pastries from the one time I'd mentioned them made something warm bloom in my chest.
"Anything you want, devotchka," I said.
She leaned down and kissed me. Soft. Sweet. Tasting like sleep and Sophie and home.
"Thank you," she whispered against my lips. "For wanting to show me your places. For letting me in."
I pulled her down against my chest. Held her tight. Felt that warmth in my chest expand until I thought I might burst with it.
This woman. This small, fierce, brilliant woman who'd somehow become the center of my universe in less than a month. Who made me want things I'd never let myself want before. Who made me believe in possibilities I'd given up on.
"Always, malyshka," I said. "I'll always let you in."
By ten AM we were walking along the boardwalk at Brighton Beach and I felt lighter than I had in years. Maybe since I was twenty-five. Before the weight of leading an entire bratva settled on my shoulders and made breathing feel like work. Here, with Sophie's hand in mine and the ocean stretching endless to our right, I felt almost normal.
Almost human.
Sophie was wearing a soft yellow sundress I'd bought her last week. The color made her skin glow. Made her honey-colored hair look even lighter in the morning sun. The dress was simple—thin straps, fitted bodice, skirt that fell to mid-thigh. Nothing provocative. But watching her walk in it made my throat tight.
She'd pulled her hair back in a ponytail. No makeup except what looked like tinted lip balm. Her grey-green eyes were bright. Happy. She swung our joined hands slightly as we walked, like she couldn't contain the energy inside her.
She was beautiful. Had always been beautiful. But here, away from the compound and the weight of what we were, she looked young. Free. Like the dancer she'd been before debt and violence stole that from her.
The morning sun was warm but not brutal. Not the oppressive heat that would come in a few hours. Just pleasant warmth that soaked into skin and bones. The ocean breeze carried salt and something else. Fried food. Sunscreen. The particular smell of summer at the beach that was the same everywhere but felt different here. Felt like childhood.
The boardwalk was moderately busy. Older Russian women walking in groups, speaking in rapid-fire Russian about grandchildren and ungrateful sons. Families with small children heading toward the sand. Teenagers clustered near the arcade. A few tourists with cameras and confused expressions studying maps on their phones.
No one paid us much attention. Just another couple. Nothing special. Nothing dangerous.
I was dressed casually for once. Dark jeans instead of dress pants. A grey t-shirt instead of a button-down. Sunglasses hiding my eyes. No gun visible though I had my Glock in an ankle holster. Some habits couldn't be broken.
But for once I wasn't scanning for threats. Wasn't calculating angles and exits and who might recognize me. Wasn't being the Pakhan who had to consider every interaction as potential business or potential danger.
I was just here. Present. With her.
"You're smiling," Sophie observed. She squeezed my hand. "I don't think I've ever seen you smile this much."
Was I? I hadn't noticed. "Must be the company."
She bumped her hip against mine. "Or maybe you're just a beach person and you've been hiding it."
"Maybe."
The food carts were set up along the boardwalk's edge. I'd been aiming for a specific one since we parked. Old Viktor's cart. He'd been here since I was a kid. Probably would be here until he died.
The cart was painted bright blue with Cyrillic lettering advertising various Russian foods. The smell hit us from ten feet away. Fried dough. Meat. Cabbage. That particular combination that meant home.
Oleg stood behind his cart like a general commanding troops. He was in his seventies now. Grey beard. Weathered face. Massive forearms from years of rolling dough and frying pirozhki.
I approached and spoke in Russian. "Three meat pirozhki. Two cheese pastries. Two kvass."
Oleg looked up. His eyes went wide. "Nikolai Dmitrievich! Bozhe moy!" My God. "It's been years! Five years? Six?"
"Seven," I said. "Not since before my father died."
His expression softened. "Carstvo yemu nebesnoye." May he rest in heaven. "Your dedushka, he still comes sometimes. Sits on that bench over there." He gestured to a bench facing the ocean. "Smokes his pipe and watches the water like he's waiting for something."
The image made my chest tight. Mikhail coming here alone. Still visiting the place where he'd brought his grandsons decades ago.
"How is your family?" I asked.
"Good, good. Granddaughter got into Columbia. Can you believe? First one in the family to go to university." His pride was evident. "Your brothers? Konstantin? Maksim?"
"Both well. Kostya is still Kostya." Meaning violent and direct. "Maks is working on legitimate business ventures." Meaning tech and information brokering.
Oleg nodded sagely. "And this beautiful girl?" He switched to accented English. "Your wife?"
Sophie's hand tightened in mine. Not wife. Not yet. Maybe not ever with our contract arrangement. But something in me wanted to say yes anyway.
"Girlfriend," I said in English. "Sophie, this is Viktor. His pirozhki are the best in Brooklyn."
"In New York," Viktor corrected. He was already moving, pulling fresh pirozhki from the warming tray, wrapping them in paper. "Maybe in all of America."
Sophie smiled at him. "It smells amazing."
"You eat, you tell me if I lie." He winked at her. Then back to me, switching to Russian. "She is very pretty, Nikolai Dmitrievich. Hold onto this one. Don't let her go like your—"
He stopped. Realized what he was about to say. Like your mother did.
"Yes," I said quietly. Also in Russian. "I intend to."
He handed over the food wrapped in paper, the kvass in plastic bottles. I paid—he tried to refuse my money but I insisted. Slipped an extra hundred in the tip jar when he wasn't looking.
"Come back soon," Oleg said. "Don't leave it seven more years. Bring your dedushka. He misses having you boys around."
We walked away with our food. Sophie stayed quiet until we were out of earshot. Then she squeezed my hand again.
"You're different here," she said softly. "More relaxed. Like you're not the Pakhan for a little while."
I considered that. She was right. I could feel it in my shoulders. In my jaw. The constant tension I carried had eased. Not gone—it would never be completely gone. But lessened.
"My grandfather used to bring us here every summer," I told her. We found a bench facing the ocean and sat. I handed her a still-warm pirozhok. "Me and my brothers. Kostya and Maks. We'd spend whole days on the beach. Eating terrible food. Playing in the waves. Building sandcastles and then destroying each other's creations."
She bit into the pirozhok. Her eyes closed. Made a small sound of pleasure that went straight to my cock. "Oh my god. He wasn't lying."
I smiled. Watched her eat with that focused intensity she brought to everything. Watched crumbs fall onto her yellow dress. Watched her lick her fingers unselfconsciously.
"It was before—" I stopped. Couldn't finish that sentence. Before my mother left. Before everything got complicated. Before I learned that the people you loved could abandon you.
Sophie's hand found mine on the bench between us. Linked our fingers. She didn't say anything. Didn't push. Just squeezed once to let me know she understood.
That she understood without me having to explain.
I'd never had that before. Someone who just knew. Who could read the silence and fill in the blanks and not require me to articulate every painful thing.
"Tell me more," she said after a moment. She'd finished her first pirozhok and was starting on a cheese pastry. "About when you were little. What you were like. What your brothers were like. I want to know everything."
Everything. The word echoed. She wanted everything. Every piece of me. Every memory. Every scar.
And the terrifying thing was that I wanted to give it to her.
"Kostya was always the biggest," I said. "Even as a kid. He'd beat up anyone who bothered me or Maks. Got in trouble constantly. Our father used to say Kostya was born angry. Born ready to fight."
"And Maks?"
"Smart. Too smart. He'd hack into our father's computer just to prove he could. Would charm his way out of every punishment. Teachers loved him. Other kids wanted to be him." I took a drink of kvass. The sweet-sour taste was exactly how I remembered. "I was the quiet one. The one who watched and calculated and planned."
"The strategist," Sophie said.
"Always." I looked out at the ocean. Waves rolling in steady and eternal. "Our grandfather knew it. That's why he chose me as his successor instead of my uncle or one of my brothers. Not because I was the oldest. Not because I was the best fighter or the most charming. Because I could think seventeen moves ahead."
"Like chess."
"Exactly like chess." I turned to look at her. Sun-golden and beautiful and present. "But chess is easy. Pieces follow rules. People don't."
She leaned against my shoulder. "I'm glad you think seventeen moves ahead. Means you thought through choosing me."
I had. Had calculated every angle when I'd claimed her at the auction. Every risk. Every benefit. Every possible outcome.
What I hadn't calculated was falling in love with her.
"Best decision I ever made," I said quietly.
She lifted her face and kissed me. Tasted like cheese pastry and kvass and Sophie. Tasted like everything good.
When she pulled back, she was smiling. "Tell me more. Tell me everything. We have all day."
So I did. Told her about summers on this beach. About Mikhail teaching me chess using pieces made of driftwood. About Kostya throwing Maks in the water for cheating at cards. About the time I got stung by a jellyfish and cried for an hour while my grandfather told me stories to distract me from the pain.
Told her about the good times. The before times.
And she listened to every word like I was giving her treasure.
We claimed a semi-private spot on the beach. The rocks formed a natural barrier on one side, blocking the wind and most of the view from the main beach. Mikhail had found this spot decades ago. Had set up their family blanket here every summer. Now it was mine to share with Sophie.
I spread out the blanket I'd packed from the compound. Thick wool, big enough for two people to lie comfortably. Sophie helped me anchor the corners with our shoes and the cooler I'd brought with water and snacks.
The sand underneath was warm from morning sun. The ocean stretched out endless and blue-green. Same color as Sophie's eyes. Waves rolled in with that eternal rhythm.
"This is perfect," Sophie said. She was already pulling off her sundress. Underneath was a simple navy blue bikini. Nothing revealing. But watching her reveal that much skin in public made my jaw clench.
Mine. She was mine. And every man on this beach could see exactly what belonged to me.
She caught my expression. Smiled. "Don't worry, Daddy. I'm all yours."
The casual use of Daddy in public should have triggered alarms. Should have made me check our surroundings for threats. But she was already running toward the water and I found myself following without thinking.
The ocean was cold. Early June meant the water was still closer to sixty degrees than seventy. Sophie squealed when the first wave hit her legs. Jumped back. Then waded in deeper like she couldn't decide between fleeing and embracing.
I walked in after her. The cold water was bracing. Cleared my head. Made everything sharp and present.
She splashed me. Deliberately. Aimed a handful of water right at my chest and laughed when I reacted.
"Sophie." A playful warning.
"What?" She was grinning. Looking up at me with pure mischief. "The water's nice. You should enjoy it."
She splashed me again.
I moved fast. Grabbed her around the waist. Lifted her clean off her feet. She shrieked—actual shriek of surprise and delight—and wrapped her legs around my waist instinctively.
"I could throw you in," I said. Carried her deeper where the water would be over her head. "Right here. Completely under."
"You wouldn't." But her eyes were bright. Excited. Like she wanted me to try.
"Wouldn't I?"
I loosened my grip. Let her slip slightly. She shrieked again and clung tighter. Her arms around my neck. Her legs locked around my waist. Her whole body pressed against mine.
"Kolya, don't! Please!"
The nickname combined with the pleading made me soften. I carried her back to shallower water. Set her down gently where the waves only reached her knees.
"You're mean," she said. But she was smiling. Laughing. Her honey-colored hair was wet where water had splashed up onto her. Her face was bright with joy.
I'd never seen her like this. Playful. Unguarded. Free.
The Sophie I'd met at the auction had been terrified. The Sophie who worked in my library was focused and intense. The Sophie who came to my bed was either desperate with need or small and vulnerable in Little space.
But this Sophie—this laughing, splashing, sun-bright Sophie—was someone new. Someone who felt safe enough to play.
"Come on," I said. Caught her hand. "Let's dry off."
We returned to the blanket. She was shivering slightly—the water had been cold and the sun hadn't warmed her enough yet. I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her shoulders. Rubbed her arms to warm her.
"Better?"
"Mmm." She leaned against me. Let me warm her. "The water's cold."
"It'll be warmer in July."
"Will we come back then?"
The question was simple but loaded. Will we come back implied a future. Implied this wasn't a one-time thing. Implied we'd still be together in July. In August. Beyond.
"Yes," I said. "As many times as you want."
She smiled against my chest. Burrowed closer for a moment. Then pulled back and lay down on the blanket.
The sun was higher now. Warming everything. She stretched out like a cat, arms above her head, eyes closed, face turned up to the light.
I watched her. Couldn't help it. The way her chest rose and fell with breathing. The way her skin was already taking on color. The way her lips curved in a small contented smile.
"You're staring," she said without opening her eyes.
"You're worth staring at."
That smile widened. "Flatterer."
I lay down beside her. Propped myself on one elbow so I could keep watching. Keep memorizing this moment. This perfect afternoon.
She shifted position after a few minutes. Rolled onto her stomach. Looked over at me. "Will you put sunscreen on my back? I burn easily."
I'd brought sunscreen specifically for this reason. Pulled the bottle from the cooler and squeezed some onto my palm.
"This might be cold," I warned.
"That's okay."
I applied it carefully. Started at her shoulders. Worked the white cream into her pale skin with steady pressure. She made a small sound. Almost a purr. Relaxed completely under my hands.
I took my time. Covered every inch of exposed skin. Her shoulder blades. The long line of her spine. The dip at her lower back. The small of her back just above her bikini bottom.
When I reached the backs of her thighs, I was careful. Mindful of her bad knee. That scar from the ACL surgery was still visible. Still reminded me of what she'd survived.
"Does it hurt?" I asked. Gentle pressure on the knee.
"Sometimes. When I move the wrong way. When I stand too long. Sometimes even when it rains." She shifted slightly. "But not today. Today it feels fine."
I finished with sunscreen. Capped the bottle. But kept my hands on her. One palm resting on her lower back. Warm skin under my hand. Her breathing slow and even.
"That feels nice," she murmured. "Your hands. They're always so warm."
We stayed like that for a while. Just existing together. The sun warm overhead. The ocean providing ambient sound. Other beachgoers far enough away to give us privacy.
She talked about random things. About a book she'd been reading in the library. About whether pineapple belonged on pizza—she said yes, I was horrified, we argued playfully about it for ten minutes. About her memories of dancing. About whether she missed it.
"Sometimes," she admitted. "I miss the feeling of moving like that. Of my body doing exactly what I told it to. But I don't miss the pressure. The constant criticism. The feeling like I was never good enough."
"You're good enough," I said. "More than good enough."
She rolled over. Looked up at me with those grey-green eyes. "You have to say that. You're my Daddy."
But her voice had changed slightly. Gone softer. Younger. The teasing tone was still there but underneath was something else.
Little Sophie starting to emerge.
I checked my phone. 2:17 PM. We'd been here for over two hours.
"Hungry?" I asked. "We have more food in the cooler."
"Not yet." She sat up. Looked around the beach like she was seeing it for the first time. "Kolya, look at that doggy!"
She pointed at a golden retriever playing in the waves about fifty feet away. Young dog. Maybe a year old. Bounding through the water with pure joy. Its owner was throwing a tennis ball, the dog retrieving it and bringing it back over and over.
Her voice had gone even higher. More animated. Pure Little now.
"It's so happy!" She watched the dog with complete focus. "Look how it jumps! Look at its tail wagging!"
I watched her instead of the dog. Watched the transformation happening right in front of me. The way her whole demeanor had shifted. The way she was sitting now—knees pulled up, arms wrapped around her legs, chin resting on her knees. Young. Small. Vulnerable in the best way.
"Can we get a dog?" She turned to look at me. Those eyes wide and hopeful. Guileless. "Please? I've always wanted a dog. Daddy never let me have one because we moved too much and he said it would be too much work but I would take care of it, I promise. I'd feed it and walk it and love it so much."
My chest went tight. So tight I couldn't breathe for a second.
She was little. Fully little. Slipping into that space naturally, without fear, without the trauma holding her back. The beach had done this. The safety and play and joy had let her be small.
And she'd called me Daddy. In public. Not quietly. Not whispered. Just said it like it was my name. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I should scan our surroundings. Should check for threats. Should be concerned that someone heard. That someone might use this vulnerability against us.
But I couldn't bring myself to care. Not when she was looking at me with such hope. Such trust. Such pure Little joy.
"Maybe," I said softly. Reached out to tuck hair behind her ear. "If you're very good."
Her whole face lit up. "I'm always good for you, Daddy!"
The proclamation was loud. Enthusiastic. Pure Little with no filter and no self-consciousness.
The couple on the blanket twenty feet away glanced over. Probably heard. Probably thought we were just playing around. Or maybe they understood. Maybe they knew what this was.
I didn't care either way.
"You are," I agreed. "You're such a good girl for me."
She beamed. Launched herself at me in a hug that nearly knocked me backward. Her arms around my neck. Her face buried against my shoulder.
"I love you, Kolya," she whispered. "So much."
"I love you too, malyshka," I said against her hair. "More than anything."
She pulled back. Smiled at me with such unguarded happiness that my chest ached with it. Then she was off. Jumping up and running toward the water again. Splashing in the waves. Laughing at nothing. Just being.
I watched her play. Watched this woman who'd survived so much finally feel safe enough to be small. To be vulnerable. To be free.
And I made a silent promise to whatever god might be listening.
I would protect this. Protect her. Protect the space where she could be little and joyful and safe. No matter what it cost me.
Always.