Chapter 44
Nikolai
Icall my men immediately; the order clear and uncompromising. “Clean up Sergio. Now.”
Ivan and Maksim move efficiently, almost silently, dragging his lifeless body out, bagging him, wiping the blood from the walls and floor.
I watch, my jaw tight, but my mind isn’t on the mess—it’s on her. My father may have sent her to me, but Aurelia is mine.
This incident makes me feel like I need to make that clearer. I move to the hall, finding the others lingering, my gaze cold and unyielding.
“Do not touch her. Do not speak to her. Do not breathe in her direction unless I order it,” I growl, leaving no room for misunderstanding. The men shift uneasily, recognizing the weight behind my tone. One wrong move, one hesitation, and they’ll end up like Sergio.
“Remember this,” I continue, with a dangerous edge threading through each word, “she belongs to me. No one else gets her. She stays alive because I say so, and only because I say so. Understand?”
I turn away, already thinking ahead. There’s work to be done—information to extract, games to play, and control to maintain. Sergio’s death is a lesson, but it’s also a message to everyone in this empire: cross me, and the consequences will be absolute.
* * *
Getting back to my room, I drop onto the edge of the bed, running a hand through my hair. Why the hell can’t I get a read on her?
She’s aggravating. Every goddamn reaction feels like she’s taunting me, daring me to figure her out. The way she reacted to Elijah earlier did absolutely nothing but piss me off. I’m at least taking this to mean that her feelings for him have passed.
Is that why she could strip for Sergio and not want to kill him herself?
I stand to pace the room, a predator circling its territory, hands clenching and unclenching. Part of me panics. Should I just kill all my guards? End the problem before it grows? Or… should I just put her out of her misery—and mine—and not have to answer to my father about her survival?
The thought haunts me, causing my pulse to strike, but then the door opens.
She steps through, hair damp, wrapped in nothing but a towel, eyes cautious.
My heart and my mind are at war. She looks…
unbothered. Calm. Beautiful. God, she’s beautiful.
Even in this vulnerable state, she has that fire.
That same fire that has me questioning everything I thought I knew about control.
“Is there… clothes I can wear?” Her voice is tender, almost casual, but there’s an undercurrent there—a trust I don’t understand and can’t break.
Every rational thought I had is gone. Every plan to manipulate, dominate, erase—gone. She’s not just a prisoner; she’s a problem I don’t want solved with violence. She’s something… else. Something I can’t touch but can’t let go of.
So no. She won’t be going anywhere. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.
Forcing myself to remain still, pretending this isn’t the exact reaction I’ve been trying to hide from myself, I open my closet to get her some of my clothes.