16. Behind The Ice #2
“My dad died five years ago,” I say. “Cancer. Pancreatic. Fast once they found it, which is what everyone says when they’re trying to make brutality sound merciful.”
Nikolai says nothing. That helps.
“I was working in Jordan when he got sick. I came home, of course, but there was very little to do except sit beside him, adjust pillows, argue with hospital vending machines, and pretend the nurses weren’t speaking in the careful tones they use when everyone already knows the ending.”
His fingers tighten slightly around the coffee cup.
“I couldn’t save him,” I say. “I’d spent years helping people through the worst days of their lives, believing there was always something you could do, and when it mattered most, there was nothing.”
“You were there.”
I glance up.
His eyes remain on the sea. “That mattered.”
The answer is so simple I almost resent it.
Almost.
“After he died, I went back to work too quickly. My mother said I was running. Owen, my brother, said I was punishing myself with plane tickets and crisis zones.” I look out at the water, where sunlight flashes sharp enough to hurt.
“Maybe they were both right. Grief had nowhere useful to go, so I gave it a job.”
Nikolai looks at me then, fully, and those pale eyes hold no pity. Only recognition.
“My father was Bratva,” he says.
I still.
“He died in prison. I don’t grieve him.”
The words are flat, but not empty.
“He hurt people?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Women?”
His jaw shifts once. “Among others.”
The sea wind moves between us.
“I spend every day trying to be someone different,” he says.
I wait, because he did that for me.
“Dimitry was younger. He followed before he understood the cost. Bratva makes family into a chain, and children learn which links cut before they learn how to break them.” His gaze moves toward the house.
“He did things. Helped move women through routes he later destroyed. Now he searches for redemption with Serenity beside him, and I think perhaps he will find it.”
“And you?”
His eyes return to mine.
“I am less optimistic.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“No,” he says. “It avoids it.”
At least he knows.
“Maybe redemption isn’t something you find,” I say. “Maybe it’s something you do until one day you look back and realize you’ve been living inside it.”
Nikolai studies me for a long time.
“That sounds very British.”
“It sounds very sensible.”
“It sounds exhausting.”
“So does pretending not to care.”
His mouth almost curves, but the sadness gets there first.
Then he says, very quietly, “I don’t know if I am different enough.”
I reach for his hand slowly, giving him time to pull away.
He doesn’t.
“You came for us,” I say. “You came for the women from Ariadne. You feed cats too frightened to come close while you’re still standing there.” My thumb rests against his knuckles, over the tape and the old scars. “You’re not your father, Nikolai.”
His hand stays beneath mine.
The ice doesn’t break.
But beneath it, something moves.
MacLeod’s Aegean, Santorini, Greece. 1115 hours
The Greek sun spills across the terrace, bleaching the white walls around us and turning the caldera below into a brilliant sweep of sapphire and silver.
I reach across the small table, my fingers brushing Nikolai’s knuckles before closing the last inch between us. I lean in and press my lips to his.
The kiss begins slowly, a gentle brush that makes my chest ache with the restraint in it. He tastes of rich wine and dark, carefully buried heat before the kiss deepens, his tongue parting my lips with a quiet intensity that leaves my knees unsteady.
We break apart, breathing harder than either of us should be after a single kiss.
I look up into his pale blue eyes.
“Take me to your room, Nikolai.”
He doesn't answer.
He simply takes my hand in his broad palm and leads me inside to his private suite.
The bedroom is dim, lit only by the faint glow filtering through the sheer curtains from the terrace outside.
The door clicks shut behind us, and he turns toward me, his hands trembling just enough for me to notice as he lifts my dress over my head until I stand before him wearing nothing but lace underwear.
“You are beautiful, Solace,” he murmurs, his Russian accent thicker now, roughened by want.
He pulls his own shirt over his head, revealing the powerful body carved by years of military service. When he gathers me against him, the contrast of his hard, warm skin against mine steals my breath.
He carries me to the bed as though I'm something precious, laying me down with a care that makes my heart ache.
Every touch is deliberate.
Every movement restrained.
He kisses slowly down my throat, his mouth lingering against my skin while his hands move with almost painful gentleness. He slides my underwear down my legs, his fingertips barely grazing me, refusing to rush, refusing to take more than I'm ready to give.
“Nikolai... please,” I whisper, my back arching toward him.
He hovers above me, parting my thighs with his knee. His thick length presses against my aching center before he enters me in one slow, careful glide.
He moves with agonizing patience, keeping his weight balanced on his forearms, treating me as though I'm something breakable.
As though one careless movement might shatter me.
I lift both hands to his face, forcing him to meet my eyes.
“I’m not fragile, Nikolai,” I tell him, my voice fierce despite the tremor running through it. “Break me a little.”
Something shifts.
I watch it happen.
The last of his restraint fractures behind those pale eyes.
A low, primal growl escapes his chest as years of disciplined control finally give way.
He captures my wrists above my head as his rhythm changes, deeper now, harder, every thrust filled with a fierce hunger he has denied for far too long.
The careful distance disappears.
So does mine.
I wrap my legs around his waist, drawing him deeper, matching every movement as heat builds between us until breathing becomes almost impossible.
He buries his face against my neck, groaning my name while every powerful thrust drives us closer to the edge together.
“Nikolai...”
My body tightens around him before pleasure crashes through me in fierce, pulsing waves.
The sound of my climax undoes whatever control he has left.
He drives into me one final time, his entire body going rigid as a harsh, guttural groan tears from his throat while release shakes him from head to toe.
For a long moment neither of us moves.
He stays over me, breathing hard, his forehead resting against mine while our hearts pound together.
Then he rolls onto his side, taking me with him without ever breaking contact, gathering me securely against his chest.
His arms close around me.
Strong.
Protective.
Certain.
He made love like a man terrified of his own tenderness.
I showed him it was safe.
And when he finally let himself fall, it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.