Chapter Twenty-Three
Dawn
I smooth my hands over the fabric of my midnight blue dress, stealing a glance at Nikolai as he drives. The city glows outside the car windows, neon and golden light flickering across his sharp jawline, but he looks… different, tonight.
Relaxed.
Not just in the effortless way he always carries himself, but something deeper—his usual sharp edges dulled just slightly. I can’t remember the last time I saw him like this.
“You keep looking at me.” He murmurs, his voice low and amused.
I blink, caught. “No, I don’t.”
He smirks. “Liar.”
I roll my eyes with a smile, shifting in my seat, the cool metal of my silver bracelet grazing my skin as I move. The dark stones in my earrings catch the light, deep and rich—almost the same color as his eyes.
“You look beautiful.” He says, effortlessly smooth.
I hesitate, fingers brushing against the fabric of my dress, suddenly aware of how he’s looking at me. His gaze lingers—not just in the way men look at women in expensive dresses. Something deeper.
A slow warmth creeps up my spine.
“You clean up nice, too.” I say lightly, trying to ignore the way my pulse kicks up. “You know, Eleanor picked this out. She told me it’s your favorite color. That it matches my eyes.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, his lips curving. “I’ll be sure to tell her thank you.” He sneaks another glimpse at me, eyes running down my body.
“You’re not glaring at people as we drive past or scowling down at your phone. It’s weird.” I add, teasingly.
“Maybe I just like seeing you like this.” He says, his voice lower now. “Dressed up. Relaxed. Like you belong here—with me.”
My breath catches.
I look away, pretending to focus on the blurred city lights outside. Like you belong here—with me. He says it so easily.
We arrive at the restaurant—a quiet upscale place nestled into the cityscape, its dim golden lights giving it a warm glow. Nikolai’s hand rests against my lower back as we step inside, a touch so casual, so natural, that no one watching would think twice about it.
But I feel it everywhere.
The hostess greets him with immediate recognition, the kind reserved for celebrities, for someone powerful and important. A whispered, “Right this way, Mr. Blackthorn.” Before we’re led through the softly lit dining room to a secluded table near the back.
I sink into the seat across from him, smoothing the napkin over my lap, still hyper-aware of the way his eyes settle on me.
His hand moves, fingers tapping against the table. “You’re staring again.” His smile, dark.
“You’re imagining things.” I accuse.
He smirks. “Mhm.”
The corners of my lips tug up against my will. “So, am I allowed to ask how you know everyone in this place? Or is that classified?”
Nikolai leans back in his chair, a relaxed confidence in his posture. “I bring clients here sometimes. Business meetings.”
“Right.” I glance around. “Must be nice, making deals over hundred-dollar steaks.”
He raises a brow. “Do you disapprove?”
“I didn’t say that,” I murmur, unfolding the menu.
He watches me for a long moment, then tilts his head.
“What is it?” I ask.
His lips quirk. “Nothing. Just--” he exhales a quiet breath, shaking his head. “I like seeing you this way.”
My fingers tighten on the menu.
His voice clips, smooth and sure. “Happy.”
I don’t answer right away, because I don’t know how. I simply sit there, feeling the warmth of his gaze settle over me, realizing—
I do feel happy.
. . .
The night air is cool as we step out of the restaurant, the golden glow of the entrance spilling onto the pavement. I should be thinking about the election. About Luke. About everything that’s waiting for me when we return to reality.
But I don’t. I just breathe.
It’s strange, the quiet ease between us. No urgency, no tension, just… this. A night that feels like it belongs to someone’s life. Someone normal.
Nikolai slows his steps as we walk toward his car, his hands slipping into his pockets.
His suit jacket lays perfectly tailored across his shoulders, effortless, as if he was built to wear power like a second skin.
And I suppose, he was. But right now, he doesn’t look like the controlled, calculated man who runs Blackthorn.
He just looks like a man who took me to dinner.
“You’re quiet.” He murmurs.
I glance up at him. “You mean, for once?”
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t deny it.
I exhale, shifting the silver bracelet on my wrist. “I was just thinking.”
He raises his brows slightly. “Oh?”
“Yeah. Not really used to expensive dinners and candlelight.”
His amusement deepens. “Really? I wouldn’t have guessed.”
I let out a laugh, freely. “I’m just not used to fancy things.”
“And what’s the fanciest place you’ve eaten at before this?” His tone is slightly mocking, but playful.
I don’t even have to think about it. “Olive Garden.”
Nikolai stops in his tracks, standing in place on the sidewalk. “Olive Garden.”
I glance up at him. “Yep.”
There’s a pause. Then, deadpan, “You aren’t serious.”
I shrug, turning back to continue walking. “Unlimited breadsticks, Nikolai.”
He lets out a laugh, freer and more unrestrained than I’ve ever heard spill from his lips. “I take you to one of the best restaurants in the city, and your standard is Olive Garden.”
“Listen,” I say grinning. “It’s not about the food. It’s about the experience.”
He shakes his head, muttering something under his breath, but I catch the flicker of a real, genuine smile.
And just like that, something warm settles in my chest.
By the time we reach his car, the laughter has faded into something quieter. Something softer.
Nikolai opens the passenger door for me, his hand lingering against my back as I step inside. The touch is absentminded, instinctive—but it stays with me, even as he rounds the car and slides into the driver’s seat.
We don’t rush to leave.
For a long moment, we sit in the dim glow of the streetlights, the hum of the city almost distant, almost unnoticeable.
“You never answered my question.” I say, tilting my head. “From the beach house.”
He glances at me. “Which one?”
I don’t know why, but I hesitate. The words are already there. “Did you always want this?” I gesture vaguely, taking in the car, the suit, the wealth and power. “Blackthorn. Running it. Everything that comes with it.”
Nikolai doesn’t answer immediately. He exhales, slow, his hands flexing against the steering wheel. “I was raised for it.” He said finally.
Not I wanted it. Not it was my choice.
I watch him, studying the sharp edges of his profile, the way his jaw tenses like the truth is something he’s never said aloud before. Maybe he hasn’t. “That doesn’t really answer my question.” I say softly.
He lets out a short exhale. “No. I suppose it doesn’t.”
A quiet beat passes. Then he shifts in his seat, turning the question back on me. “And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“What did you want before all of this?”
I blink, caught off guard. I haven’t thought about that in years. “I wanted to be a photographer.” I admit. “When I was a kid.”
He studies me. “A photographer.”
“Yeah,” I exhale, almost amused by the thought.
“I was obsessed with capturing things. I had this old camera I carried around everywhere. My mom bought it for me before she—” I stop, swallowing, then shake my head.
“Anyway, I loved it. I used to think maybe one day, I’d be out there taking pictures of the world, telling stories through images instead of words. ”
Nikolai doesn’t speak right away. But when he does, his voice is quieter than I expect. “You should finish your degree.”
I glance at him, taken aback. “What?”
He keeps his eyes on the road. “You wanted it enough to dream about it. You should finish your degree.”
I almost laugh. “I don’t have time for that. Not now.”
“Not now,” he agrees. “But later.”
I stare at him, unsure if he’s serious.
Then, just as easily as he drops the suggestion, he shifts gears, pulling the car onto the road.
I don’t know why the thought lingers in my head, but it does.
The drive back is quiet, the city lights bleeding past the car windows in streaks of gold and red. The tension from the last week is gone, replaced with something easier.
Nikolai’s hand rests on my thigh as he drives, his fingers absently brushing over the fabric of my dress. Not possessive. Just there. Like he’s grounding himself in me.
By the time we pull into the estate, I feel… lighter. Like I forgot, just for a little while, about the danger and stress of everything else.
I step out of the car as he rounds the front, slipping his fingers between mine. The night air is crisp, the scent of the ocean faint in the distance. The world is quiet here. Secluded from the chaos of the city.
I follow him inside, my heels clicking against the marble. The house is dimly lit, warm, inviting in a way it shouldn’t be for something so massive.
Nikolai shrugs off his jacket, tossing it over the back of a chair as he moves to the sleek bar along the wall in the den.
I watch as he grabs a crystal decanter, the amber liquid inside catching the low light.
He pours two glasses, turning back to me with a soft smile.
“Aged over seventy years. Probably costs more than most people’s mortgages. ”
I raise a brow. “And you’re just handing me a glass like it’s nothing?”
His lips twitch. “You’re worth more than a bottle of whiskey, angel.”
Something warm spreads in my chest. I step closer, accepting the glass, our fingers brushing. “Good answer.” I take a sip, the rich smoky flavor coating my tongue.
Nikolai watches me over the rim of his own glass, dark eyes glinting with something unreadable. Thick. Heavy.
We’re alone. The thought pulses through me like a slow, steady drum.
The restaurant had people. The car had distractions. But here—it’s just us.
His gaze lowers, trailing the curve of my throat, down to where my dress hugs my body. “You look fucking beautiful, tonight.” He says, voice low, like he’s unable to stop thinking the same replaying thought.
The heat in my chest spreads lower, and I set my glass down, meeting his gaze.