Chapter 50
Aurelia
The door clicks open, and I stiffen, refusing to look at him.
I can feel his eyes burning into the side of my face.
“You’re being quiet,” Nikolai says, using that rare careful tone again.
I snort, glaring at him. “Quiet? I’ve been trapped, bleeding, and hiding from your murderous men. Yeah… I’ve been quiet.”
He tilts his head. “You think that excuses your behaviour?”
“Excuses? There is no need for me to excuse my behaviour.” I stand, my frustration growing at his remark.
“I think my behaviour is pretty justified considering you drugged me and took me from my home.”
“You were not to entertain anyone else, Aurelia.”
“Hah.” I let out a forced laugh. “I can entertain anyone I choose to. You know why?”
He stays still, crossing his arms as if to prove he isn’t fazed by my anger.
“Because I’m not yours to control. I’m not—” My hands shoot out, and I shove him hard in the chest. “I’m not your property!”
He doesn’t move. Just keeps his calm, infuriating eyes fixed on me.
“You will understand eventually. You may be used to using people, getting them to do what you want, but you’ll understand, just like me, that love isn’t something you command.”
Oh, he’s fucking insane.
Love? He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t love me. And I will never love him.
I go rigid. “What… what are you talking about?”
“You,” he says, stepping closer, “you think I don’t see why you got close to Adrian?
That you were using him? You only gave him what was needed in order for you to benefit.
When you needed an enemy, he was your enemy.
When you needed a friend, he was a friend, and when you needed a lover. Surprise. He became your lover.”
I don’t say anything, and I think he takes that as motivation to keep going.
“I think you knew you had to do what was necessary, so you didn’t break the only connection you’ve made here, and you wanted to survive.”
My chest tightens. “And what if I am? What if surviving means giving what someone else needs to live?” My hands shake. I can feel my control slipping. “You don’t understand anything about me!”
“I understand enough.”
His calm makes my anger spike higher.
“Enough to know you don’t care about him, not really. You only care about your own survival. Your own damn self.”
I lunge, slapping him hard across the face, tasting the metallic edge of fury. “You think you know everything! You think you’re God here! I—” I break raw with frustration and grief. “He was my friend, and whether or not it helped my survival here is beside the point!”
He doesn’t move, silence making this worse than any words could.
My fists drop to my sides, and I sink to the floor, rage and fear mingling into exhaustion.
His tongue runs against the inside of his mouth, and it’s ridiculous that I still find any part of him enticing, especially after this.
He falls back against the wall, watching me too closely.
Probably judging me for being so weak.
I expect condescension, something sharp. Instead, he mumbles, almost to himself, “I’ve been angry.”
I blink up at him, thrown.
“I thought you would take to me right away, and I can see now that I was wrong. I will try to be more patient.”
What?
He’s giving me whiplash, and I can’t even think straight. He’s flipping moods so fast I can’t keep up, and it twists everything inside me.
I shut my eyes, trying to stop the room from tilting.
Time blurs. I sit on the floor, breathing through the leftover adrenaline while he just… stays there, not speaking. Not moving closer. Just waiting for something I don’t know how to give.
After a long while he finally rises and walks into the bathroom.
The shower turns on, heat creeping out the door he leaves purposely, almost pointedly, open.
He looked disappointed that I didn’t say anything. But what the hell does he expect? He dragged me into a blind rage, pushed every nerve I have, and still has me locked in his bedroom.
He’s delusional if he thinks he’s getting anything from me.
* * *
After about an hour of steam spilling into his bedroom, I consider throwing myself out the window and just ending my suffering once and for all.
“Aurelia.” I hear the call come from the shower.
“What?” I answer, irritated by his attempt to live peacefully with me already.
“I forgot my towel.”
I glance at the bed—the motherfucker. He did this on purpose.
“Can you bring it to me?”
“No,” I fire back instantly, having no interest in seeing this monster naked again.
“I can come out and get it myself, malyshka, but I’d rather not get the floors wet.”
My eyes roll so far to the back of my head that I hope they don’t get stuck.
Reluctantly, I stand, grab the towel, and walk toward the bathroom.
I will not let this man think he has any control over me, so I take confident strides, head held high, chin set, and refuse to waver.
Breathe, Ace, it’s not like you haven’t seen him naked already.
I walk into the bathroom, staring at Nikolai’s back; he faces the water, brushing down the suds from his shampoo, the bubbles falling over a large skull tattoo that connects with the Orlov crest, a rose wrapped in thorns, with the text: Pogibnu, no ne predam, I shall perish but not betray.
Ink sprawls across his entire back, down his arms, up his neck, and… my attention drops to his hips, where the tip of another tattoo finishes.
He still doesn’t turn or acknowledge me. So my eyes drift lower of their own traitorous accord.
His ass is annoyingly muscular. Of course it is. This man probably lives at the gym.
Nikolai turns.
And suddenly his thick length is front and center, nowhere near covered by the pathetic scatter of bubbles.
My head snaps up so fast my neck cracks, but he’s already watching me with a slow, amused smile, licking his bottom lip with a smugness I want to punch off his face.
He says nothing.
So I shove the towel toward him. “Well—here.”
He dips in a small, infuriatingly polite nod and takes the towel from my clammy fingers.
Okay. Yes. He’s gorgeous, he literally looks like a god, but his personality mirrors the devil’s, so I will not let myself be tricked by my body into forgiving this monster.
* * *
The hours dragged like years—twelve of them, maybe more. I don’t even remember the last time I slept. After I accidentally made eye contact with my kidnapper’s dick, it was kind of hard to relax knowing I’m trapped in his room.
So I’m protesting.
I will show Nikolai that murder and coercion are not the way to my heart, and if he wanted any feelings from me, he just destroyed that opportunity.
The plan was to give the silent treatment, but it’s hard to be effective when he never stays in the room, the only sounds in here are the occasional footsteps outside the door.
No food. No water. Just my thoughts and the echo of my stomach growling.
I check the room again, hoping he left something I could use against him. But, sure enough, nothing.
I turn my attention to his bed.
I would love to get a bit of rest.
I bend at my hips, letting my hands trace the silk as I pull back the cover, slipping under the sheets, my head sinking into the pillow.
This feels amazing.
I’ve lost track of how long it’s been since arriving, but I know it’s been way too long since I’ve laid in a proper, comfortable bed.
Just as I think I might finally close my eyes, the door creaks open, forcing me onto my elbows.
I fight not to meet Nikolai’s gaze as he steps in quietly.
He has something in his hands, bread and a bottle of water, and for the first time, I notice he isn’t leading with his usual edge. He is trying to be… soft.
“Malyshka,” he says gently, as if he’s afraid I might shatter if he speaks too loud. “Eat.”
I don’t move. I don’t acknowledge him. My focus stays on the wall. Stone cold.
He sets the bread down on the nightstand, watching me with a frustration I could feel vibrating through the air. “I said eat.”
Nothing.
He takes a moment to regroup, breathing in and composing himself. “Fine. I’ll take the floor.” He runs a hand down his face, then reaches for extra sheets and a pillow from the closet.
I remain silent, observing as he folds the blankets at the foot of the bed.
Something inside me cracks, coming out flat and lifeless. “I give up.”
He lifts his head, his expression narrowing.
“You can kill me. Or rape me. I don’t care anymore.” My throat burns, but I force the words out. “There’s no way out. I missed my chance. It’s done.”
I’m hoping my feigned despair will shake him—maybe he’ll have more sympathy if I seem suicidal.
It might be working—he jolts. His lips part like he wants to speak but can’t. Instead, he drops his pillow and takes a step closer, his intensity caught between anger and something else I can’t figure out.
“You think I want that? You think that’s what this is?”
I nod in agreement, imitating a sad puppy.
“No, Aurelia. I’m not keeping you alive so you can give up. I’m keeping you alive because I…” He stops, raking a hand through his hair, struggling to keep control. “Because I’m protecting you. Whether you believe it or not.”
I laugh bitterly. “Protecting me? You’re the one who chained me. You’re the one who keeps trying to kill people. You’re the reason I’m even here.”
His jaw clenches again, but his eyes plead for me. “You haven’t seen it yet. The danger isn’t me. It’s everything outside this room. My father. His men. The Bratva. I’m not your prison, malyshka. I’m your wall. And whether you want to believe me or not… I’m just as much a prisoner as you are.”
I hesitate, something about his words feeling disturbingly familiar. I want to scream, hit him, collapse under the guilt and exhaustion. Instead, I close my eyes and whisper, “Then let me go.”
“What do I have to do to reignite your spark?” he asks in a deep, needy tone, but I don’t reply.
“Please eat.”
I don’t reply again, but he continues to tower over me, exhaling hard before letting out a quiet whisper. “Fine.”
He yanks the covers off my legs and pulls me upright at the edge of the bed.
“Would it make you feel better if you could stab me?”
Huh.
“Would it help you to get out some of your frustration and stab me?” he repeats, clearly because I was too stunned to respond the first time.
“You want me to stab you?”
“No, I want you to go back to acting like your annoying self.”
“So you think it’ll help if I kill you?”
He laughs. “No, malyshka, I don’t want you to kill me. I want you to stab me, once. Right here.” He lifts his shirt, revealing the lower right side of his abdomen.
Even though I’m not convinced a blade could pierce him—he’s practically built from stone—I answer, “Yes, I would like to stab you.”
Smiling, he walks to his coat, which he stripped earlier, and pulls a small blade from it.
I guess I should have suspected him to be armed at all times.
He returns in front of me and holds out the knife.
I don’t take it.
This has to be a trap, right?
He kidnapped me and has threatened my life. Why would he give me a weapon and actually tell me to use it?
He huffs another breath of frustration, taking a step closer to me, grabbing my hand, and placing the handle around my fingers.
Then, without thought, he brings his other hand up to my neck, pulling me closer to him.
I look up, confused, both at his closeness to me and the ease with which he just put his life in my hands.
Still holding the blade at my side, I face him, the tip touching the black fabric of his shirt.
“Are you going to do it, princess?”
Princess?
He pulls my body into his, and our lips collide in a kiss that shatters me from the inside out. His hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head, forcing my mouth open, claiming mine with a hunger that makes my knees weak.
His tongue slides against mine, probing, insistent, and a low groan vibrates against my lips, sending heat spiralling through every nerve.
Every motion of his mouth is deliberate, demanding, and I respond instinctively, losing myself in the rhythm we’ve fallen into.
It’s intoxicating, this consuming pull, this surrender I didn’t know I wanted until now. My chest rises and falls with his; our breaths fuse, and I hear the ragged edge of his own restraint breaking.
And then it hits me all at once.
This is the same kiss. My first kiss.
My eyes shoot open, and I pull my head back, but I don’t look at Nikolai. I look at the blade that I just drove into his stomach.
The boy from Vostralya—the boy who took my hand, pulled me out of the crowd and gave me one night of freedom, one night where I felt alive—is standing right in front of me. Nikolai Orlov.
For six years, I didn’t think of him. My sixteenth birthday was drenched in too much blood, too much loss, too much pain.
The chaos that followed, the weight of the men who told me where to go, how to act, what to survive.
I never let myself grieve a boy I barely knew.
Never let myself miss someone I thought was already gone.
But now—now he’s here. Alive. Breathing. Staring at me like I’m the only person left in the world.
The boy who wanted to run from his family, struggling with the anger and control they had over him. How am I supposed to connect that to the man—the monster—that is the heir to the Bratva?
The stories I’ve heard from Enzo mixed with the murder I’ve seen. I just can’t. I can’t connect the two.
But then again, I think about the protection. The way he shields me from his father’s men. He talks like he’ll burn the whole world before he lets me fall into anyone else’s hands. His loyalty is undeniable, his obsession clear.
But loyalty doesn’t erase the blood on his hands. It doesn’t undo the cruelty, the manipulation, the way he wants to own me.
I try to focus on that thought, especially since I just stabbed him.