Chapter 23 - Aria
ARIA
Istand in Nikolai's foyer with my arms crossed over my chest, trying to project a confidence I don't feel.
The marble floor beneath my feet probably costs more than my entire apartment, and the chandelier overhead throws prismatic light across walls that seem designed to remind visitors of their insignificance.
Everything about this house screams power and control, and I refuse to be just another possession cataloged and displayed.
"I need to go to my apartment," I say, keeping my voice level despite the tremor threatening to break through. "I need clothes, my laptop, my knives."
Nikolai emerges from his study, and my breath catches despite my determination not to react.
He's changed into dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that clings to his frame in ways that make my traitorous body respond with heat I can't suppress.
Those ice-blue eyes study me with that infuriating calm, like he's assessing a chess board rather than looking at the woman carrying his child.
"Of course." He steps closer, and I force myself not to retreat. "I'll take you personally."
"That's not necessary." The words come out sharper than I intend. "Just have one of your men drive me."
His jaw tightens fractionally, the only sign that my rejection affects him. "I don't delegate when it comes to your safety."
When it comes to his possessions, I think bitterly, but I don't say it aloud. Pick your battles, Aria. Save your energy for the fights that matter.
"Fine." I turn toward the door before he can see the flush creeping up my neck. "Let's get this over with."
The sedan's interior smells of leather and something distinctly masculine that I recognize as Nikolai's cologne.
The scent wraps around me like a physical presence, making it impossible to forget who's sitting inches away.
He settles into the seat beside me, his thigh so close to mine that I can feel the heat radiating through the space between us.
Not touching, but close enough that every nerve ending in my body screams awareness.
I fix my gaze on the window, watching the city slide past in a blur of buildings and traffic.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with things neither of us knows how to say.
I catalog my anger like I'm planning a menu, each ingredient measured and precise.
The GPS watch that tracked me without consent.
The three weeks he kept us stranded while I thought we might die.
The arrogant assumption that I belong to him now, that my life is his to control.
But beneath the fury, something else simmers. Something I hate myself for feeling.
The memory of his hands on my skin, rough and gentle all at once.
The way he whispered my name in the darkness like a prayer and a curse.
The solid warmth of his body pressed against mine, his heartbeat steady beneath my palm.
The protective instinct that made him twist his body to shield mine when we hit those rocks, taking the impact that could have killed me.
"You're thinking too loud." His voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts, that accent wrapping around the English words in a way that does things to my pulse.
"I'm not thinking anything." I keep my eyes on the window, but I can feel his gaze on me like a physical touch.
"Liar." His fingers brush my arm, just the lightest contact, and electricity arcs through my nerve endings. "You're cataloging every reason you should hate me."
I finally turn to look at him, and the intensity in those ice-blue eyes steals what little breath I have left. "I have plenty of reasons."
"I know." His hand doesn't move from my arm, his thumb tracing small circles against my skin through the thin fabric of my sweater. "But you don't hate me. Not completely."
"Don't tell me what I feel." But my voice comes out breathier than I intend, betraying the effect his touch has on me.
"Your body tells me everything I need to know." His gaze drops to my throat, where my pulse hammers visibly against my skin. "Your heart is racing. Your breathing is shallow. You're leaning toward me even as you try to pull away."
I jerk my arm from his grasp, hating that he's right. Hating that my body responds to him like this despite everything my brain knows about who he is and what he's capable of. "You're insufferable."
"Yes." His lips curve into something that might be a smile. "But you knew that on the island."
The mention of those three weeks makes my chest constrict painfully. I turn back to the window, blinking against the sudden sting of tears I refuse to let fall. "The island was a lie."
"No." His voice drops to something rough and honest. "The island was the only truth either of us has told in years."
I don't respond because I can't. Because he's right, and admitting it would mean acknowledging that what we shared meant something beyond survival and circumstance.
That the connection I felt wasn't manufactured by isolation but real and terrifying and impossible to reconcile with the world we've returned to.
The car pulls up to my building, and I'm out the door before it fully stops.
I need distance from him, from the way his presence fills every available space and makes it impossible to think clearly.
My hands shake as I unlock the building's entrance, and I feel him behind me, close enough that his body heat warms my back.
My apartment looks smaller with Nikolai filling the space.
He moves through it with that predatory grace I remember from the yacht, his eyes cataloging every detail.
The secondhand furniture I refinished myself.
The cookbooks crammed into shelves. The framed photo of Maya and me from before everything went wrong.
"It's not much," I say, hating the defensive note in my voice.
"It's yours." He picks up the photo, studying it with an intensity that makes me uncomfortable. "You were younger here. Happier."
"That was before I knew what the world was really like." I snatch the frame from his hands and set it back on the shelf. "Before I learned that people lie and manipulate and use you for their own purposes."
His jaw tightens, but he doesn't respond, just watches as I move through the apartment, pulling clothes from my closet and shoving them into a duffel bag with more force than necessary. I grab my laptop, my chargers, the few pieces of jewelry that belonged to my mother.
"My people will move the rest," Nikolai says, his tone making it clear this isn't a suggestion. "Furniture, kitchen items, everything. You won't need to come back here."
I whirl on him, the duffel bag dropping from my hands. "You can't just decide that. This is my home."
"Was your home." He steps closer, and I'm trapped between him and the wall. "Your home is with me now. Where I can protect you and our child."
"Stop calling it that." My hands curl into fists at my sides. "Stop acting like you own me."
"I'm not acting." His hand lifts to cup my jaw, and I should pull away but I'm frozen, caught in the gravity of his gaze. "You're mine, Aria. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."
"I'll never accept it." But the words come out weaker than I intend, and we both hear the lie underneath.
His thumb brushes across my lower lip, and heat floods through my body with enough intensity to make me dizzy. "We'll see."
I force myself to step away, to break the connection before I do something stupid like lean into his touch. "I need to go to Thyme and Tide. Check on things."
He studies me for a long moment, and I see the calculation happening behind those ice-blue eyes. Finally, he nods. "We'll go together."
The commercial kitchen feels like sanctuary when we arrive.
The familiar scents of herbs and spices, the gleam of stainless steel, the organized chaos of my workspace.
This is mine in a way nothing else is. I built this business from nothing, every piece of equipment purchased with money I saved dollar by dollar.
Nikolai positions himself near the door, giving me space but maintaining that watchful presence.
I lose myself in the familiar routine of checking inventory, reviewing upcoming jobs, and making notes about supplies I need to order.
For twenty minutes, I almost feel normal, almost feel like myself again instead of a prisoner in a gilded cage.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out absently, expecting another cancellation email or spam call. Maya's name flashes across the screen, and my stomach drops before I even read the message.
Aria, we have a problem. Cane knows you're staying at Nikolai Alekseev's house. He knows who Nikolai is. He wants the rest of the money by Friday or he's coming for both of us.
The phone slips from my numb fingers, clattering against the stainless steel counter. The sound echoes through the kitchen like a gunshot, and Nikolai is moving before I can process what's happening. He's across the space in three strides, his hand catching my elbow as my knees threaten to buckle.
"What is it?" His voice is sharp, commanding, the Pakhan fully emerged.
I can't speak, can't form words around the terror closing my throat. Cane Harris knows where I am. Knows who Nikolai is. And instead of being smart enough to back off, he's doubling down, demanding the rest of Maya's debt within the week.