Chapter 3
Emerald
The last two weeks should’ve felt miserable.
Honestly, by all technical standards, they probably were miserable.
I had been kidnapped, dragged into the middle of a family war I still didn’t fully understand, and trapped in a house filled with heavily armed men who looked like they moonlighted as serial killers for fun.
Yet somehow, against all logic and basic survival instincts, I had settled into the place disturbingly well.
Mostly because I refused to let anyone see me break.
Partially because irritating Nikolai had quickly become my favorite hobby.
The man hated not being in control. You could see it every single time I walked into a room and disrupted whatever dark brooding atmosphere he had carefully built around himself.
He liked order. Silence. Predictability.
Meanwhile, I existed purely on impulse and spite at this point, which apparently made me the human version of a migraine in his life .
Good. He deserved it.
The house itself had become less intimidating the longer I stayed there.
Not because it wasn’t dangerous, because it absolutely was, but because danger lost some of its edge once you became familiar with it.
I knew which floorboards creaked in the upstairs hallway.
I knew which guard snuck cigarettes behind the garage at night.
I knew the cook hated when I touched anything in the kitchen, but he folded instantly whenever I complimented him before asking for something unreasonable.
Most importantly, I learned Nikolai’s routines.
He woke up early. Barely slept. Drank his coffee black like a psychopath.
Spent hours locked in his office handling whatever criminal empire nonsense consumed his life now that Lucien was dead.
Sometimes he disappeared entirely for half a day and came back looking meaner than usual, tension carved so tightly into his shoulders it felt dangerous to even look at him too long.
Not that I stopped looking. Unfortunately. Because that was becoming another problem entirely.
I wandered through the house one afternoon holding a cup of coffee I fully stole from the kitchen while examining one of the paintings hanging near the staircase. Whoever decorated this place clearly suffered from emotional repression because every single piece looked aggressively depressing.
Dark forests, storms, sad boats. One painting literally looked like grief in canvas form .
“Jesus,” I muttered, staring at it. “Did nobody here ever discover colors?”
“You complain constantly.”
I glanced over my shoulder to find Viktor leaning against the doorway watching me with faint amusement.
“I have standards,” I corrected.
“You insulted the curtains this morning.”
“They were ugly.”
“They’re black.”
“Exactly.”
A low laugh escaped him before he pushed away from the doorway.
Viktor was probably the only person in this house besides me who didn’t seem intimidated by Nikolai.
Then again, the man looked like he’d survived at least three wars and possibly eaten somebody during one of them, so intimidation probably wasn’t high on his list of concerns.
I fell into step beside him easily. “Where’s sunshine and emotional stability today?”
Viktor blinked once. “Who?”
“Nikolai.”
“You call him sunshine? ”
“No, but it feels right spiritually.”
Another quiet laugh. Progress.
I had spent the last two weeks slowly winning Viktor over, which honestly deserved recognition because the man barely spoke unless necessary.
Still, I noticed things. He started lingering longer during conversations.
He stopped looking immediately irritated whenever I appeared in a room.
Yesterday he even brought me coffee without me asking, which basically meant we were best friends now.
“You’re a bad influence,” Viktor mumbled.
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I’m choosing to believe it was.”
We turned the corner near the kitchen, and immediately the smell of fresh bread hit me. I gasped dramatically.
“Oh my God. See? This is what healing feels like.”
The cook, Maria, narrowed her eyes from across the counter. “Do not touch anything.”
I looked offended. “You wound me.”
“You destroyed my kitchen yesterday.”
“I improved your kitchen yesterday. ”
“You tried making pancakes.”
“And they were fluffy .”
“They caught on fire.”
I pointed accusingly at the stove. “That sounds like a stove problem.”
Viktor outright laughed this time while Maria whispered something in Russian under her breath that definitely wasn’t kind.
Honestly, I was thriving here. Which felt deeply concerning.
Later that night when I found myself standing near one of the back windows overlooking the yard. Rain had passed earlier, leaving the grass dark beneath the low lights surrounding the training area outside.
Movement caught my attention immediately. Nikolai and Viktor sparring. I should’ve walked away; however, I stopped dead at the window like my brain suddenly forgot how to function. Because dear God.
Both men were shirtless, circling each other slowly across the mat outside, but my attention locked onto Nikolai instantly in a way that genuinely annoyed me.
Sweat dragged down the sharp lines of his chest while black tattoos stretched across nearly every inch of exposed skin, wrapping over muscle and scars like violence itself had learned how to decorate .
Honestly, it felt rude. Nobody should be allowed to look that good while simultaneously having the personality of a locked basement.
Viktor swung first. Nikolai dodged smoothly, moving with a kind of controlled brutality that didn’t even look human sometimes.
Everything about him felt precise. Deliberate.
Even the way he breathed stayed calm while Viktor drove another hit toward his ribs hard enough that I physically winced. Nikolai barely reacted.
What the hell. Did this man even feel pain?
Viktor came at him harder this time, fast enough that most people probably would’ve gotten flattened. Nikolai blocked the strike immediately before countering hard enough to force Viktor backward several steps.
My face felt suspiciously warm. Which was ridiculous. Actually ridiculous. What the fuck is wrong with me? I was standing here staring at my kidnapper like he was dessert. A deeply tattooed, emotionally unavailable dessert. Still. No harm in looking. Right?
Before my dignity could recover, I somehow found myself walking outside toward the back porch instead of going upstairs like a normal person with self-respect. The cool night air brushed against my skin as I lowered myself onto the porch steps quietly enough not to interrupt them.
Neither man acknowledged me immediately. Or maybe they did and chose not to react. Honestly, with Nikolai, it was impossible to tell sometimes .
I rested my chin against my hand while watching them move across the mat beneath the dim lights.
There was something mesmerizing about it, about the sharp sounds of fists hitting skin and shoes scraping concrete while rainwater still glistened against tattooed shoulders.
Especially Nikolai’s shoulders. God. I needed therapy. Or maybe exorcism. Probably both.
The tattoos fascinated me the more I looked at them. Some appeared older, faded slightly with time, while others looked newer, darker against his skin. They crawled over scars, small ones, large ones. Thin white lines crossing muscle like remnants of a life filled with violence.
Something about that tightened unexpectedly in my chest because Nikolai never talked about himself. Not really. Everything about him felt guarded so tightly it was almost impossible to see where the real version of him even existed beneath all the anger and control.
Sometimes I caught glimpses of it accidentally. Tiny moments. Exhaustion flickering across his face when he thought nobody was paying attention. The way he went silent whenever Lucien’s name came up. The strange tension that appeared whenever someone mentioned Mira.
There was so much buried inside him, and for some reason, I wanted to dig it out. Which was probably another sign I needed professional help.
Viktor finally stepped back, breathing harder now while Nikolai grabbed a water bottle from the nearby table. He tilted his head back to drink, and unfortunately for me, some of the water missed his mouth completely, dragging slowly down the front of his throat and chest.
I forgot how to blink. Seriously. My brain just stopped functioning entirely. The water traced over hard muscle and dark ink before disappearing lower, and I swear to God, I nearly embarrassed myself right there on the porch steps.
He grabbed a towel next, dragging it slowly across his skin, and honestly? I had never wanted to be a towel more in my entire life. This was humiliating. Absolutely humiliating.
Nikolai’s eyes lifted suddenly. Straight toward me. Caught. Heat slammed into my face so fast it physically hurt. His gaze dragged slowly over me where I sat before he looked away first.
Which somehow felt worse, because it meant he noticed me staring.
Fantastic. I hated him. Looking at Nikolai felt exactly like staring at chocolate cake while on a diet.
You knew it was bad for you. Knew it would absolutely ruin your life.
Yet somehow you still sat there craving it anyway because apparently self-destruction built character.
Viktor grabbed his shirt, preparing to head back inside.
“Wait!” I called out.
Both men looked toward me immediately. I stood slowly from the steps, brushing invisible lint off my pants before focusing on Viktor specifically .
“Will you teach me?”
Viktor blinked once. “Teach you what?”
“How to fight.”
Nikolai laughed quietly under his breath. Cold, mocking, and rude.
I narrowed my eyes instantly. “Excuse you.”
“You?” Nikolai asked flatly.
“Yes, me.”
“You wouldn’t last five seconds.”