Chapter Twenty
Dawn
The hum of the engine is the only sound between us.
I shift slightly, and pain flares through my ribs, sharp and deep. I bite the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to stay still, to keep my breathing shallow. Easier to manage that way.
Nikolai hasn’t spoken since he pulled me into his car. His hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles white, tendons tight. His jaw is set, eyes locked on the road like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will.
The gun rests in his lap. He hasn’t put it away.
I watch the city blur past through the window, the streetlights streaking gold against the dark. My thoughts are a tangled mess—but one thing stands out. Nikolai got there just in time. And I don’t know what would’ve happened if he hadn’t.
The thought sends a slow chill down my spine, but I shove it away. I’m here. I made it.
I inhale carefully, trying to ease the pressure in my chest.
His eyes flock toward me, just for a second. Then back to the road.
I should leave it alone. I should sit in the silence and let it settle. But I can’t. “How did you know where I was?”
Nikolai exhales through his nose, the muscle in his jaw flexing. His fingers shift against the leather. “Your phone.” His voice is clipped, flat. “I went to your apartment after I left the office. You weren’t there.”
I blink. He went looking for me?
“I checked your location. You were still at the beach after dark. I was already on my way when your dot stopped moving.” His fingers flex on the wheel, tightening them again. “That’s when I knew something was wrong.”
I swallow, my throat dry. My mind replays it—the plastic bag cinching tight, the way my vision tunneled.
If he hadn’t shown up when he did…
I shift again, biting back the wince that follows.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Then, Nikolai says something, voice lower this time. “I was two minutes away.”
The weight of that settles between us, heavy and suffocating. Two minutes.
Not much longer, and he might have been too late.
I don’t know what to say to that.
So, I don’t say anything at all.
The car rolls to a stop in Nikolai’s garage. The second the engine cuts off, he’s out. The driver’s side door slams shut, footsteps sharp against the concrete. I barely have time to process before my own door swings open.
Nikolai stands there, watching me.
His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are still burning.
I grip the edge of my seat and move to stand, but the second I shift—pain rips through my ribs. A sharp gasp slips past my lips. His reaction is instant.
Before I can blink, his hands are on me. One hand slides beneath my legs, the other around my back, and suddenly, I’m weightless.
“Nikolai—”
“Don’t.” His voice is low, final.
His hold is secure, his body warm and steady against mine. I can still feel the rage simmering just beneath the surface.
I should tell him I can walk.
But I don’t.
Because the truth is, I don’t want to.
For the first time since I found the folder, I let my head rest lightly against his shoulder, let myself relax into him again. Safe.
He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t stop.
He carries me inside like I weigh nothing, straight past the domestic staff, past the world, pass everything else—
Heading straight for his bedroom.
He carries me straight to the bed, lowering me carefully onto the sheets, his grip firm but gentle.
I wince as my ribs protest the movement, and his hands tighten—just for a second—before he exhales sharply through his nose and pulls away.
His silence is heavy.
I watch him as he straightens, his back stiff, shoulders squared, tension still clinging to every piece of his body. He stands there for a moment, staring down at me, jaw tight.
Then, without a word, he turns and disappears into the bathroom.
I let my eyes drift, just for a second. The adrenaline is fading, leaving only the deep, aching pulse of my ribs and the scratchy burn in my throat.
The memory of plastic cinching, the suffocating darkness, the rush of cold air when it was ripped away—
I push the thoughts back. I’m fine. I’m okay.
A moment later, I hear footsteps. When I open my eyes, he’s back.
But something is different.
Nikolai kneels beside the bed, a damp cloth in one hand, a first aid kit in the other. The simmering rage that carried him through the house is gone.
In its place is something heavier.
He doesn’t speak as he sets the kit down. He just presses the cool cloth to my face, wiping away the dried blood, the dirt, the lingering remnants of the night.
His touch is careful, intentional. Like he’s memorizing every inch of me—just to make sure I’m still here.
The cloth drags gently over my skin, cool against the heat lingering beneath the surface. I keep my breathing slow, shallow, fighting the dull ache of my ribs.
Fighting everything.
I should be grateful. I should feel safe.
But all I feel right now is anger.
It starts as a slow burn, creeping beneath my skin, curling low in my stomach. It spreads with every careful touch, every steady movement—because it’s too gentle.
I don’t want gentle. I don’t want comfort.
I don’t want the quiet, consuming weight of what could have happened pressing down on me.
My fingers curl against the sheets. My jaw tightens.
The room is too still.
And I hate it.
The cloth leaves my skin. Nikolai sets it aside, his hands resting lightly on his knees.
My chest rises and falls—too fast. Too sharp. I don’t realize I’m shaking until his gaze flicks to my hands.
His eyes darken. “Dawn.”
The sound of my name is low, careful, like he’s bracing for something.
I feel it a second too late—the tightness in my throat, the sting in my eyes.
No.
Not this.
Not now.
I suck in a sharp breath, blinking hard, willing it back. Do not cry.
The words slip out before I can stop them. “I’m not weak.”
Nikolai’s gaze softens even further. His voice is quiet, understanding. “I never said you were.”
The words settle between us, thick, heavy, something unspoken wrapping around my ribs tighter than the pain already lodged there. I should let them soothe me. I should let the night be over, let exhaustion pull me under. But I won’t.
I refuse.
I refuse to let this night end with the memory of being held down. Of struggling against hands stronger than mine. Of fighting to breathe.
I won’t be stripped like that again.
The pain lingers deep in my side, sharp with every inhale, every shift of my body. But it’s mine.
I move, slowly at first, pushing myself up right. A sharp, breathless ache shreds through me, white-hot, brutal. But I bite down on it. It won’t stop me.
Because this time, I choose it.
I meet his eyes, steady, unwavering. “Come here.”
His jaw tenses. His fingers twitch against his knees, like he’s holding himself back.
I don’t let him.
I shift, tugging him forward—closer. And he moves up onto the bed.
I climb into his lap, straddling him, pushing him back, forcing him to feel me—solid. Real. Alive. The ache in my ribs splinters through me, raw and consuming, but I welcome it.
Because I’m the one taking this.
I roll my hips against him, grinding down, staking my claim on my own body, my own power.
His breath leaves him in a slow, quiet exhale as his hands move, sliding up my thighs, curling around my hips. Grounding me. Holding me in place. “Dawn,” his voice is low, a warning, a question. A demand.
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
Because I already know he’ll give me exactly what I need.
His hands flex against my hips, fighting restraint. I grind down harder, our eyes locked, burning into each other. And that’s it.
Something inside him snaps.
His grip tightens, fingers digging into my thighs as his jaw tenses, flexes, breaks apart.
I feel it everywhere.
The hard press of his cock, thick and straining beneath his slacks. The heat radiating off his body, wrapping around me.
I want to be consumed by it. I want to burn.
I push against his chest, tearing at the buttons on his shirt. He doesn’t stop me. He lets me rip it open, drag my hands down his chest, nails scraping against firm muscle, against hot skin stretched over power.
His breathing is uneven now. Rough. Hungry.
I reach for his belt next, yanking it free, fumbling with his slacks.
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice tight, wrecked. But he lifts his hips, helping me.
The fabric shifts, and we push and kick it away, so he’s beneath me, bared. Throbbing. Ready.
I swallow hard, taking in the sight of him, the thick length of him, hard and full, flushed at the tip.
He grips the hem of my sundress and yanks it up over my head, throwing it to the side.
A breath catches in my throat as fabric slings from my body. I barely have time to register the loss before his fingers hook into my panties and—snap.
A sharp, brutal rip, the lace giving way instantly, shredded from my skin.
The growl that rumbles in his chest is dark, possessive, and feral. “You want control?” His fingers are already sliding between my thighs, pressing, spreading me open on top of him. “Then take it.”
I gasp as fingers drag through my slick heat, stroking, teasing, denying.
“You’re dripping for me, angel.” His fingers press against my most sensitive spot, rubbing in slow, torturous circles.
A sharp breath hitches in my throat. My thighs tense around his hips, heat curling in my stomach, spreading lower, thicker, heavier.
His other hand grips my waist, strong, steady and possessive. Like he’s holding himself back. Like he’s giving me space to take.
I won’t waste it.
I rock my hips, grinding against him, slick and aching, teasing his head against my entrance.
His jaw tightens. His fingers flex against me. “Did you get this wet thinking you could control me?”
I press down harder, coating him in my arousal, making him feel exactly how much I want this. “No.” My nails drag down his chest, leaving faint red lines in their wake.
Taking his hand away from me and pressing it down onto the bed above his head, I lean down and place my lips against the shell of his ear. “I got this wet knowing I do.”
His breath shudders.