Chapter 54
Aurelia
For days, Nikolai hasn’t left me in silence the way he used to. I think he’s trying to prove a point. That if he can’t have my body, he will have my heart, because he’s everywhere, acting differently.
Unlike his usual jarring self, he’s bringing me food, sitting across the room, sometimes just watching me, giving me everything I want, except, of course, my freedom.
At first, I ignored him. Shut him out.
I thought if I stayed cold enough, maybe he’d snap again and give me the release I keep telling myself I want. But he doesn’t. He keeps trying, chipping away at me with things I never expected from him—gentleness, patience, even apologies.
Tonight, he sits on the edge of the bed, shoulders tense, eyes locked on me like the words he’s holding are heavier than the gun on his hip.
“I shouldn’t have shot Adrian in front of you,” he says in a deep whisper. “That was… wrong. Even if he didn’t deserve you, you didn’t deserve to watch. I’d take it back if I could.”
I swallow hard, the ache in my chest building. “Then why did you do it?”
His jaw tightens, his gaze dropping to his hands. “Because I couldn’t stand him touching you. Because the thought of him having what I’ve wanted for years made me see red. I’d rather kill my own blood than let him—or anyone—lay a hand on you.”
My breath hitches. He says it like a vow.
“Why?” The word slips out, broken. “Why do you even care about me, Nikolai? I’m just a pawn to all of you. Another piece to use, another girl at your disposal.”
I mean it. I can’t figure out why he is so intent on having me be his. I’ve made it clear I don’t want to be.
I mean, yes, I feel less pure rage directed towards him, but that’s because the way he’s been acting has thrown me off. He hasn’t even come close enough to me to give me the chance to kill him as I planned.
His eyes dart to mine, and there’s no anger there, only something raw, and stripped down, almost desperate.
“You’re strong. Stronger than anyone I know.
You fight me even when you shouldn’t. You protect people you care about—even when they don’t deserve it.
And you’re…” His throat works like the words are dangerous.
“You’re beautiful. Not the kind men touch.
The kind men worship. The kind that ruins them.
The way you walk, the way you talk, the way you burn even when the world tries to put you out—I’ve never met anyone like you. ”
I shake my head, still refusing to believe anything he says, but he leans closer, not letting me think of anything else.
“Six years, Aurelia. Six years since I first met you. Do you understand that?” The edges of his words are unhinged. “All I’ve wanted, all I’ve fucking needed, was you again.”
The room feels too small. My chest feels too tight. I want to scream at him, to claw at the truth he’s laid bare, but all I can do is stare, my pulse racing, my body betraying me with the smallest tremor.
* * *
The room is quiet except for Nikolai’s slow, even breathing from the floor. I lie on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, tracing the shadows the chandelier throws across the walls.
My pulse quickens as my eyes drift toward the window.
I don’t even think about the bedroom door because not only is it always locked, but I’m pretty sure Maksim or Ivan guards it at night.
The glass, however, that’s not reinforced. I could slide it open, swing my legs over, and press myself flat against the wall. From there, I could climb down.
I could also fall and die, but in this scenario, let’s say I don’t.
The Orlov dogs are always outside. Brutal and well-trained with teeth meant to shred, but if I time it right, I could be halfway down the garden wall before anyone even realizes I’m gone.
My body remembers the drills. The endless hours of slipping from rooftops, scaling balconies, vanishing into alleys. My mind whispers freedom.
But my chest… my chest remembers Nikolai’s voice.
All I’ve wanted—all I’ve fucking needed—was you again.
I turn onto my side, flipping from my left to my right before shuffling to the bottom of the bed, my fingers rubbing back and forth as I study him.
He’s lying on the floor, one arm under his head, the other across his middle.
His gun is within reach, as always. He doesn’t move, doesn’t stir, but I know he isn’t fully asleep.
He never is. A few nights ago, I coughed, and his gun was drawn within seconds.
I swallow hard, nails digging into the sheet. I should go. I should take my chances, slip through the window, and never look back. This is what I’ve trained for, what I’ve been prepared to do since the moment I was born.
So why are my eyes still stuck on him?
His chest rises slowly, steadily, and the thin sheet tangled around his hips does nothing to hide the lines of his body. My stare catching on the deep V that disappears under his sweats, the flex of his stomach every time he exhales.
My breath stalls.
The boy who kissed me like I was something sacred. The boy I thought couldn’t exist anymore.
My thighs press together.
I remember that night—the way his hands trembled against my skin, the way his lips claimed mine. We were supposed to keep going. To see what it felt like to fall apart together.
Now here he is, sprawled beneath me, alive, inches away.
My eyes trace the curve of his jaw, the faint scar along his temple, the way his mouth parts as he breathes.
Desire claws at me, frustratingly insistent. I curl my fingers deeper into the sheets, biting my lip, fighting the ache that spreads through me.
I want him. God help me, I want him more than I want the escape that’s sitting right behind that glass.
Heart hammering, heat pooling low in my stomach. My thighs sink into the mattress as I move to lie flat on my back, my nipples aching under the cool air.
The fantasy I’d been running through flashes in my mind: us, tangled together, skin against skin.
But I push it away. He’s the enemy. He always has been.
He doesn’t want me. He wants to use me. I remind myself over and over again, but it means nothing when I close my eyes and reach my hand down, slipping it under my shorts.
I finally give into the ache I’ve been craving. Circling my clit again and again until I insert two fingers, and a quiet hum releases into the air. I keep switching between my clit and my entrance, giving my body what it needs. My breath picks up speed, and I know I’m about to come.
Then I hear it: a slight shift on the floor.
Fuck. My. Life.
I freeze in place.
“Nikolai?” I whisper.
“Yes, malyshka,” he rumbles, calm but edged with restraint.
“You’re… awake?”
“It’s hard to sleep with your moaning,” he admits.
I stammer, trying to form words, to cover my embarrassment, but it dies on my lips. Instead, I murmur, “Will you… come up here?”
He doesn’t move.
“I’m not playing your fucking games,” he says, voice low.
“I… I need you to come up here, Nikolai,” I whisper, eyes squeezed shut, clenching against the thrill and shame of it all. My pulse races, the fear that he’ll say no tightening in my chest.
Before I can open my eyes, I feel him there—his thick tattooed hand curls around my neck, steady and possessive.
“Say it again,” he commands, and I shiver at the touch, heat and fear spiralling together.