Chapter Twelve
Nikolai
When I step off the elevator and begin toward my office, I sense something is slightly off. Once I arrive, I see why as I push open my office door. My father is already inside, seated in one of the leather chairs in front of my desk.
I shut the door behind me and make my way to my seat. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He studies me like he’s weighing something, his fingers tapping once against the armrest. A deliberate pause.
“How close is our Miss Carter with her brother?”
The question lands heavier than it should. My grip tightens slightly against the back of my chair before I let it go, lowering myself into the seat.
“They were close growing up. Less so now, but I’d say they still talk.”
My father hums, as if this is just idle curiosity.
It’s not.
“I assume you’ve been keeping an eye on his campaign for governor.”
I exhale slowly. “He’s making waves.”
“That’s one way to put it.” A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, but there is no amusement in it. “His whole platform revolves around cutting back corporate influence, shutting down backdoor dealings, and regulating advanced surveillance. I’d say this is all quite concerning, wouldn’t you?”
I already know where this is going.
Byron leans forward, steepling his fingers. “We need more information. His schedule, his strategy—something we can use to… sway his views.”
Dirt. He wants dirt.
He tilts his head slightly. “You happen to be in an excellent position to be the one to acquire these, given your access to his sister, Nikolai.” A dark grin feigning friendliness slides over his face.
I don’t react. I don’t flinch. But something inside me locks up.
“She’s my assistant.” I say, keeping my tone even.
“Yes.” He studies me. “And you’ve already been resourceful when it comes to getting what you need.”
There’s a pause. I know better than to answer.
He leans back, clearly finished with the conversation. “Figure it out.”
I watch as he rises, adjusting his suit jacket with effortless precision. “The sooner we act, the better.”
I don’t move as he strides out of my office, leaving only the weight of his expectation behind.
I don’t like this.
But I know it’s necessary.
Figure it out. I know what that means. Find something. Anything. Enough to make Luke Carter compliant.
I don’t waste time. My stride is sharp, measured, as I exit my office and take the private elevator down to the archives.
The basement-level facility is cold, windowless, and lined with decades of meticulously stored intelligence.
Everything Blackthorn has ever gathered on politicians, CEOs, celebrities, military officials—anyone with power—lives here.
And today, I’m about to add Luke Carter to that list.
As I log into the system, an unfamiliar unease stirs in my chest. I don’t like this. I don’t like that I have to do this.
Dawn would hate me if she knew.
The thought unsettles me more than it should.
I’ve gathered intelligence on hundreds of men before this, dug up affairs, addictions, offshore accounts. It’s just business. Just strategy.
But this isn’t some nameless politician.
This is her brother. And whether I wanted her to or not, she matters.
Still, I push forward. Because this is necessary.
I type in Luke Carter’s name. The system processes for a moment before a profile populates.
A basic bio. Financial records. Associates. Family. Street camera photos. Weaknesses.
Nothing substantial. He’s clean.
I lean back, exhaling loudly. “Of course you are.” I mutter under my breath.
Carter is a fucking boy scout.
No affairs. No scandals. No leverage.
I roll my shoulders and start combing through related files. Maybe there’s something indirect. A business partner. A donor. A secret favor. Anything.
Then—something unexpected.
A surveillance note.
Not on Luke.
On Dawn.
My fingers tighten on the edge of my desk as I scan the entry.
- Subject: Dawn Carter
o Affiliation: Blackthorn Inc
o Recent Activity: High-proximity personal assistant to N. Blackthorn
o Status: Under observation
o Threat: Low
o Notes: Address – 1528 Westwood Ave, Apt 4B Santa Monica, CA 90401. Phone calls with brother Luke Carter weekly. Has a weakness for N. Blackthorn. Close friends with a Cassidy Waters.
A slow, sharp breath drags into my lungs. Who the fuck is watching her.
My father. Of course it is.
The report doesn’t list who ordered the surveillance, nor why. But I know.
My gut twists.
My fingers twitch against the desk before I reach for the printer’s control panel, selecting everything.
Every file on Luke. Every file on Dawn.
The printer hums to life, spitting out page after page. I grab the fresh stack as soon as it finishes, flipping through the documents, scanning over details, but there is nothing useful.
I grind my teeth, stifling my anger at the surveillance order, shoving pages into a red folder before pushing away from the desk.
I’ll go through all of it in my office.
Then, I’ll decide what, if anything, I’m willing to tell her.
. . .
The night air is warm, thick with the salt of the pacific as I stand on the balcony of my penthouse, whiskey in hand. The glass sweats against my fingers, condensation slicking my skin.
Below, the city stretches in glittering lines of gold and red, headlights weaving like veins of molten metal through the streets. A slow exhale leaves my lips.
I try to feel at ease.
Instead, I feel like I’m waiting for something to go wrong.
I swirl the whiskey once before taking a sip. The burn is smooth, settling deep in my chest, but it doesn’t do a damn thing for the tension coiling in my ribs.
My father ordered surveillance on Dawn.
Not just Luke. Dawn.
My grip tightens around the glass.
I should have seen this coming. Byron never lets a potential tool go unchecked, and Dawn is a tool in his eyes. It’s why he placed her application on my desk that day. She’s the direct link he needs to Luke Carter, his campaign, his policies, and the leverage Blackthorn might need.
But what bothers me isn’t that she’s being watched.
It’s that I didn’t fucking know about it. He didn’t tell me. Which means he doesn’t trust me with the information.
I don’t like that. I don’t appreciate the implication.
Or the possibility that he knows more than I do—about her, about yesterday, about the fact that I fucked her until she couldn’t stand.
A slow breath drags into my lungs. My jaw ticks.
How much does he know?
And if he doesn’t know yet… what happens when he finds out?
I shift my weight, one hand braced against the railing as I stare out at the city, my mind moving in sharp, strategic lines.
What will I tell her?
If I tell her.
Because if Dawn finds out the company has been watching her, she’ll start asking questions. And those questions will lead to places she shouldn’t be looking.
Places that could get her killed.
But if I don’t tell her—if I keep it quiet—I’ll be feeding the same lie my father plays, controlling the same narrative, doing the same things that drove my mother away.
I close my eyes briefly, exhaling.
I don’t want to do that to her. I don’t want to be like my father.
Fuck.
I take another sip, letting the weight of it settle in my chest.
Exhaling, I turn and head back inside, shutting the balcony door behind me. The dim lights cast long shadows across my bedroom, and my gaze lands on the files I’d printed earlier sitting on my dresser.
I should’ve left them in the office. Locked them away like I always do.
But I didn’t. Dawn’s only been in my life for a couple of weeks and already has me breaking my own rules.
Crossing the room, I take the folder and set my drink on my bedside table.
I flip through the pages again, frustration eating away at me.
I have to protect the company.
But now I also have to protect Dawn.
I rub my hand down my face, exhausted from the conflict raging inside of me, and turn away, grabbing my phone and placing the folder in one of the top drawers of my dresser.
Still nothing from her.
For someone who seemed so happy to speak to me for hours at the beach, she’s been awfully quiet today.
I hesitate for a fraction of a second before I call her.
The phone rings too long for my liking before she picks up.
“Hello?”
Noise. Music, voices, the clink of glass. A bar. She’s at a bar.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I press my thumb against my temple, exhaling slowly through my nose. “Where are you?”
A pause. Then, light and unbothered, she says, “Out. Why?”
Out. That’s not an answer. And she knows it.
“Who are you with?”
Another pause. A soft, breathy giggle. “Cassidy.”
The name lands in a way that should be reassuring, but it’s not. Because I hear it—the faintest slur in her voice.
She’s drunk.
My grip tightens around the phone. “How are you getting home?”
“We’ll figure it out.” Her voice is too casual.
Not an answer.
I exhale slowly, pressing my fingers against my jaw, feeling the tension building there. “Dawn,” my voice is lower now. Clipped. “Do you have a ride?”
“Not yet.”
My fingers curl around my knee, irritation creeping higher. Drunk. Out. No ride home. And acting like it’s nothing. “Dawn,” I say again, this time, each word deliberate. “Tell me where you are.”
She exhales, the sound laced with something careless. “It doesn’t concern you.”
I go completely still.
The dismissiveness in her tone—like I have no place to be questioning her, no reason to be calling her at all—drives something sharp in my chest.
Where the hell is this coming from?
I spent the entire day with her yesterday. Last night, she was curled up against me in my bed. Her laughter still lingers in my head. The way she looked at me—soft, unguarded.
Now she’s talking to me like I’m no one. Like I don’t matter.
“Dawn,” I say, my tone smooth, but flat. “Do you have any idea who you’re talking to right now?”
She huffs a breath. “I don’t know, Nikolai. Do you?”
My jaw flexes.
She exhales sharply, then, softer, “Not like it matters.”
Something in me snaps. Not in a way I show.
Just in the silence. In the way my fingers tighten around the phone. In the slow inhale through my nose.
I lean forward, pressing my forearm against my knee. “Where. Are. You.”
She scoffs. “You’re being dramatic.”
I exhale sharply, half a laugh, half a warning. “And you’re being careless.”
Sharper this time, she mutters. “It’s none of your business, Nikolai.”
That does it.
I push off the bed, grabbing my keys from the dresser with slow deliberate movements. My voice drops, final and absolute. “I’m coming to get you.”
The irritation in her voice flares. “What? No, I didn’t ask you t—”
“You didn’t have to, sweetheart.”
I hang up before she can argue.