Chapter 9 #4
A quiet exhale almost like amusement left him before the room settled back into silence again. The kind that somehow kept happening between us lately no matter how much tension existed underneath it.
I should have left. Probably hours ago. Instead, I found myself lowering onto the couch near the fireplace while rain continued tapping steadily against the windows.
The emotional exhaustion from the day had finally started settling heavily into my bones, dragging at me harder with every passing minute.
“You’re tired,” Nikolai said.
“I’m fine.”
“You almost fell asleep mid argument.”
“I was resting my eyes aggressively.”
One dark brow lifted. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is for me.”
A dangerous almost-smile touched his mouth briefly before he crossed toward the fireplace. He crouched near the scattered wood beside it before relighting the dying flames with practiced movements .
Warm light flickered across the room instantly afterward, softening the sharp edges of everything around us. Including him. Nikolai Voss standing near firelight looked less like a man and more like the exact warning every woman in history should’ve listened to before making catastrophic decisions.
The warmth spreading through the room combined with the steady rain outside made my eyelids heavier by the second.
I curled slightly against the couch cushions, watching him quietly while he loosened the top button of his black dress shirt with one hand.
My brain immediately betrayed me. Stupid brain.
A second later he stripped the shirt off completely and tossed it carelessly aside like he had no idea what kind of psychological warfare he was unleashing.
The dim lighting poured across the hard lines of his chest and stomach, carving shadows along every defined muscle in a way that somehow made him look even broader.
Rain tapped softly against the windows while my eyes betrayed me completely, lingering far longer than they should have over the sharp ridges of his abs.
Honestly, at this point I was starting to think Stockholm syndrome might actually be a real thing. Because there was probably something deeply wrong with the fact I was sitting here half distracted by the body of the man who had literally kidnapped me.
Fantastic. Truly excellent life choices all around.
He glanced toward me afterward, catching me staring. “You’re doing it again. ”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You look at me like you forgot I’m dangerous.”
Heat crawled faintly up my throat. “That sounds suspiciously arrogant.”
“It’s observant.”
I rolled my eyes before settling deeper into the couch.
“You know,” I muttered sleepily, “for someone emotionally repressed, you talk an alarming amount.”
“I talk more around you.”
The quiet honesty in the statement nearly stole the remaining breath from my lungs. He really needed to stop saying things like that so casually. Every tiny vulnerable thing he admitted felt strangely precious coming from him. Like pieces of something no one else got to see.
Awareness crept through me piece by piece while exhaustion pressed harder against my bones. I vaguely noticed Nikolai move toward the box. The journal disappeared back to it’s original spot. Rude.
Then eventually the sound of papers shifting faded too. The room grew quieter. Softer. At some point my eyes slipped closed completely. I didn’t remember falling asleep. Only warmth. The steady sound of rain, and the faint scent of cedar and smoke wrapping itself around me like something familiar.
______________ _
When I woke again, the fire had burned low. For several disoriented seconds I just blinked slowly at the dark ceiling above me while exhaustion clung heavily to my body.
A solid warm weight pressed along my side. My breath caught slightly as I turned my head. Nikolai slept beside me on the couch. The sight hit me hard enough my brain genuinely stalled for a second.
He looked different asleep. Less sharp somehow. The constant tension usually carved into his face had eased just enough that traces of the younger version from the photograph became visible again beneath everything else.
Dark hair fell messily across his forehead while one arm rested across his stomach, the other stretched behind me along the couch cushions. As if sometime during the night, he’d moved closer unconsciously. Or maybe I had. Honestly, both options felt equally dangerous.
My gaze drifted slowly over him. He laid shirtless, exposing his tattooed skin beneath warm firelight. His chest rose steadily with each slow breath while shadows flickered softly across the sharp line of his jaw.
This man was offensively attractive. Even asleep he somehow looked intimidating.
My attention dropped briefly toward his hand resting near my hip.
Large. Scarred. Dangerous hands. The same hands that could kill someone without hesitation.
The same hands that touched me like I was something fragile. The imbalance of it sat with me .
Then my eyes shifted past him, toward the black box. Still sitting there. Curiosity flared instantly. I looked back toward Nikolai carefully. Still asleep. My pulse quickened slightly.
Okay, maybe morally questionable decisions were becoming a pattern for me.
Slowly—very slowly—I slipped out from beneath the warmth surrounding me. The couch shifted faintly beneath the movement, and I froze instantly. Nikolai didn’t wake. I released a careful breath before standing quietly.
The room remained dim except for the dying fireplace and scattered lamplight near the desk. Rain still fell outside softer now, steady against the windows while the rest of the estate sat silent beneath the storm.
Bare feet sank softly into the expensive rug as I crossed toward the desk. The black box sat there, where Nikolai moved it back once I fell asleep.
For one brief second guilt tugged at me. Then curiosity won immediately. Again.
I lifted the lid carefully. Inside rested old photographs, folded papers, and the journal beneath them all. One photograph slipped slightly when I picked the journal up. Cecilia.
Young. Beautiful. Smiling at the camera while Lucien stood beside her.
His hand rested against the small of her back while Cecilia leaned slightly into him, blonde hair brushing against his shoulder.
My stomach tightened. I stared at the picture another second before lowering slowly into the desk chair.
I opened the journal. Warm light spilled across yellowed pages. The first entries were dated decades ago. Long before any of us existed. Long before Lucien became the monster everyone remembered.
The handwriting surprised me. Precise. Controlled. Elegant in a cold sort of way. I skimmed the earlier pages slowly. Business observations. Comments about power. His father. Alexander. Then—Cecilia. The name appeared constantly. Every few entries. Sometimes entire pages dedicated only to her.
Cecilia hates these parties. She smiles through them anyway.
Another.
She says Alexander is easier to love because he is warm. I think warmth makes men careless.
A chill slid slowly down my spine. Even young Lucien sounded emotionally wrong in a way I couldn’t explain. Not heartbroken. He observed emotions more than he experienced them naturally.
Another entry farther down caught my attention.
She kissed me tonight. I nearly forgot myself afterward .
My eyes widened slightly. Holy shit. I turned the page faster now.
Alexander noticed the change in her before I did. He watches her too closely when she enters rooms.
A strange uneasiness settled deep inside me. Then—
She ended things today. Said she was tired of feeling cold every time I touched her. She chose him.
I stared at the words. Rain continued tapping softly against the windows while my pulse suddenly felt too loud inside the quiet room. I kept reading.
My own brother. Pathetic. She says Alexander makes her feel safe. Women always choose safety over power in the end.
Cold crept slowly across my skin, not because Lucien sounded angry, because he sounded wounded. Another line farther down made unease crawl through me.
I loved her enough to let her go. I hated her enough to never forgive either of them for it.
The breath caught in my throat. Oh my God. Everything suddenly felt connected in a way I didn’t like. The rivalry. The bitterness. The obsession with control. With Mira, even Nikolai.
How much of the Voss and Deveraux destruction started with this? With Cecilia choosing Alexander instead of Lucien ?
My eyes drifted unwillingly toward the couch where Nikolai still slept. Another horrible truth slid into place. Lucien spent his entire life believing love was betrayal. No wonder he raised Nikolai to fear it. No wonder attachment became something poisonous inside this family.
The journal trembled in my hands as I looked back down at the page again. There was another line that caught my attention. One written darker than the others. Pressed harder into the paper.
Love turns men weak. Weak men lose everything.