Chapter Six
Dawn
The sun is already bright and unforgiving as I step out of the car and into the immense shadow of Blackthorn Tower. The morning rush is in full swing—traffic humming, phones ringing, people moving with purpose.
I had spent the weekend with Cassidy in her spare bedroom since my apartment is severely lacking in furniture. All of the laughter and cooing we shared the last couple of days dissipates from my head as I take it all in.
I push through the glass doors, making my way toward the elevators, ignoring the twist of nerves in my stomach. The lobby is as sleek and intimidating as it was the last time I was here.
Men and women in perfectly tailored suits move with effortless precision, their heels clicking against the marble, their voices low and controlled.
It’s a machine. And I'm stepping into it.
I smooth a hand down my dress, professional while still accentuating my curves enough.
By the time I reach the top floor and step into his office, I am braced for his intensity. But I'm not braced for the way his gaze rakes over me.
Slow. Calculating. A barely-there smirk.
He stands leaning on his desk, almost sitting, as he watches me walk in. “Miss Carter.” His voice is deep, smooth, entirely unreadable. “How are you this morning?” Something about the way he says it sends a strange shiver through me.
I clear my throat. “Good.”
His eyes flick to meet mine directly, a half-smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re on time.”
I swallow. “You told me not to be late.”
A flicker of something—approval, amusement, something else—crosses his expression. But it’s gone before I can name it. He nods, seemingly satisfied. Then his gaze drops lower, skimming over my heels, my dress.
He walks up to stand right in front of me, slowly, thinking. He’s close enough that I can smell his cologne—dark, refined, and intoxicating.
He frowns. “You didn’t go shopping.”
I blink. That’s not where I expected this conversation to go.
My fingers twitch at my sides, “I didn’t think it was necessary.”
Nikolai doesn’t move. But the shift in his energy is instant. Something heavier. Sharper. “You didn’t think it was necessary?”
I resist the urge to fidget. “I look professional.” I say in a small voice, breaking eye contact as my insecurity sets in, his gaze towering over me.
A beat. Then—he returns to his chair, studying me with an unreadable expression before a devastating grin appears on his face. “Professional. That’s cute, Miss Carter.”
My stomach tightens. I don’t know why that single word—cute—hits me like an electric wave. It isn’t the word itself.
It’s the way he says it. The subtle amusement laced in his voice.
“I expect everyone I associate with to present themselves in a certain way.” His voice is calm. Even. But there’s no room for argument. “After lunch, you’ll be taken shopping. The wardrobe you have now isn’t acceptable, I’m afraid.”
I inhale sharply, my lips parting before I stop myself.
He’s not asking. His smirk lingers like he knows exactly how much he's getting under my skin.
I clench my hands into fists at my sides before forcing them to relax. “Yes, sir.” I say politely, accepting this as a new, albeit strange, requirement for my new job.
He nods once, leaving his suit jacket neatly on his desk, rolling up his sleeves as he pushes off of it. “Come. I’m giving you a tour.”
My eyes flick to his arms, the crisp white of his dress shirt now contrasted by the way his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His build was already intimidating in a suit, but now, with the fabric pulled back, I can see the way his forearms flex slightly as he moves, strong and veined.
I swallow.
And then I see it. The edge of a tattoo. It’s barely visible—wrapping down his forearm about halfway before disappearing beneath the fabric. I can’t fully tell what it is, only the hint of dark, intricate lines.
I take the view of him in as I begin to follow behind him. His commanding presence, his tanned skin, the scent of him—
I snap my gaze up just as Nikolai glances back over his shoulder.
I school my expression as if I weren’t just staring at him, but the light smirk on his face tells me that I’ve been caught.
I follow him, my face hot from embarrassment.
The elevator hums softly as we descend.
When the doors open, I step out into a space that is completely different from the top floor. Less glass, more steel. The walls are dark, sleek, and the people moving through the hallways are sharper. Quicker. More precise.
Nikolai doesn’t slow his pace as he walks.
He expects me to keep up. “This is where the bulk of the company operates.” He says, voice smooth and controlled.
“Security, tech development, data analytics, anything that doesn’t require the heftier lab at the research facility.
This is the foundation of Blackthorn Inc. ”
I nod, keeping step beside him. “And what about the lower levels?”
“Private contract operations. Intelligence work. Some high-profile security projects.”
I blink. “Intelligence?”
He doesn’t elaborate.
We pass rows of offices, conference rooms, open workspaces where people glance up only briefly before returning to whatever they were doing.
No one lingers. No one stops us. Everything here moves like a well-oiled machine. Or a well-run empire.
A very controlled empire.
We round a corner near what looks like a restricted area—keycard access required—the kind of place that separates high-level executives from the rest of the workforce.
That’s when I hear it.
Two men in expensive suits whispering near one of the closed-off rooms. I wouldn’t have noticed them if not for the way their voices drop lower as we pass.
“…I don’t think that file was open-access yet.”
“…run it back into the archives before EOD.”
I glance at Nikolai. He doesn’t react. Doesn’t acknowledge them.
But I do. “What’s in the archives?” I ask.
Nikolai’s pace doesn’t change, but his head tilts slightly, like he wasn’t expecting the question.
Then he stops. Turns to face me. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are dark and steady. Pinning me in place. “Curious?” The way he says it sends a slow, uneasy ripple down my spine.
I clear my throat. “You're showing me everything else.”
A flicker of something—amusement, intrigue—crosses his face. “We’ll go another day.” His voice is quiet, almost lazy. “For now, it isn’t important.”
I want to press. But I don’t.
By the time we step onto another executive floor, I already know who we’re here to meet. The CEO.
The man who helped build this empire.
Nikolai’s father.
Byron Blackthorn’s office is larger than I expected.
Not sleek and modern like Nikolai’s. Darker.
More traditional. Heavy bookshelves line the walls, a massive mahogany desk centered in the room.
The man himself doesn’t even glance up when we enter.
He finishes signing something before finally looking at us.
And the moment his cold, assessing gaze meets mine, I understand exactly where Nikolai gets his presence from.
Byron Blackthorn is colder. Sharper. Where Nikolai is controlled and unreadable, his father is calculated and direct.
“Miss Carter,” his voice is deep, clipped. “Welcome to Blackthorn.”
I shake his hand, ignoring the way it feels like another contract just sealed itself.
Nikolai doesn’t linger in his father’s office. By the time we’re back on the top floor, I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for hours. I need a second to process.
But the moment we step inside his office, the scent of food fills the air. A sleek black bag sits on his desk, neatly arranged bento boxes beside it.
I blink. I hadn’t even thought about food.
“Sit.”
I hesitate for only a second before taking the seat across from him, unwrapping the bento box in front of me. It’s sleek, elegant, and perfectly arranged. I pick up my chopsticks, taking my first bite.
Immediately, I almost groan. It’s insanely good.
A low, amused sound rumbles from across the desk. I glance up just in time to catch a half-smirk, the ghost of a laugh escaping his lips. It’s quick, almost restrained—but real. And for some reason, that makes my stomach flip.
I recover fast. “Didn’t take you for a bento box guy.”
Nikolai picks up his own chopsticks with a practiced ease. “I’m not.” His smirk lingers. “I appreciate efficiency. And quality.”
I glance at my meal again. He’s not wrong.
“You were prepared for today.” His voice is casual and smooth—but I can tell it’s not just small talk. It’s an observation. One he’s watching me closely for.
I arch a brow, “Did you expect me not to be?”
He shrugs one shoulder, still eating. “Most people hesitate their first day here. You didn’t.”
I resist the urge to squirm under his gaze. “Maybe I’m not most people.”
His smirk deepens. “No, you’re not.”
The way he says it—low, confident, almost approving—sends a strange flicker of warmth through me. I reach for my water, taking a sip to distract myself.
The conversation lingers between us, hovering in the space just past professional, but not quite personal.
Nikolai eats with the same calm precision he seems to do everything with—controlled, unbothered, completely at ease. I try to mirror it, but the small portion of his tattoo peeking from beneath his sleeve catches my attention again.
I set my chopsticks down. “What’s your tattoo?”
Nikolai’s eyes flick up. For a second he doesn’t answer. Then—a slow, wolfish grin spreads across his face. Heat prickles at the back of my neck before I can stop it. He knows. He knows I’ve been looking.
I force myself to hold my ground, raising a brow. “What?”
He takes his time answering, chewing his next bite before finally speaking. “Didn’t peg you for the curious type.”
I scoff. “Everyone is curious. It’s human nature.”
His smirk deepens, and I immediately regret my choice of words.
He leans back slightly, shifting his arm so the tattoo disappears back under his sleeve. “It’s an old family thing.”
That’s all he gives me.
No elaboration, no explanation. Just enough to make me want to ask more.
Instead, I pick my chopsticks back up. “You don’t get questioned much, do you?”
“I don’t answer much.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the tugging of the small smile on my lips.