Chapter 8 The Party
The Party
Nikolai
Warm light spills from chandeliers, lighting the dining hall like a cathedral, and the scent of roasted meats and aged wine is undeniable—laughter, chanting, and the sounds of glasses clinking echo through the estate.
It was supposed to be a simple dinner to introduce Mira to a select few she could trust, but nothing is ever simple.
An hour later, the Bratva’s inner circle arrived at the estate wanting to meet my bride—some truly happy that I’ve found a wife, and others cautious, mistrusting, and assessing her as a potential threat.
But once their stomachs were full and the alcohol lowered their inhibitions, they relaxed, choosing instead to laugh, toast, and dance as if a priest had already blessed us.
Mira sits beside me, looking dangerous in a radiant black silk dress that bares her shoulders and back.
Her hair is swept up in an elegant updo, revealing the curves of her dainty neck.
I expected her to be quiet among the sea of Russia’s deadly elite, but she surprises me—drunkenly trying to hold a conversation in English and broken Russian with one of my enforcer’s wives.
I try not to smile when Mira throws her head back and a peal of laughter rips out of her, but I can’t help the slight tug at the corner of my mouth.
They pour vodka shots, tap glasses, and throw the drinks back.
The skinny strap of her dress slips down her arm.
She’s drunk and unaware. I reach out and gently slide the strap into place.
She doesn’t notice my gesture, but I don’t care.
I don’t do this for thanks or attention.
I do it because she matters—because she is beautiful, fierce, and loyal, and I’ll scorch the four corners of the earth to keep her safe.
I don’t know what that makes me. Loyal? Weak? In love? Maybe all three. Maybe none. But I know this—when her strap slips, I will fix it. When she stumbles, I will catch her. And when her enemies rise against her, they will meet a gruesome demise that their entire bloodline will feel.
Sasha leans over my shoulder, his breath smelling faintly of vodka. “Are you sure about this, brother?” he murmurs, eyes flicking to Mira.
I glance at him. “About what?”
“The Pakhan. He won’t be happy.”
I snort and take a slow sip from my glass, eyes locked on Artem across the table.
There’s something in the way he watches Mira—too intent that makes my skin crawl.
Mira’s oblivious to the man watching her with equal parts malice and desire—a dangerous combination that will not bode well for him.
Sasha continues his catastrophizing as I decide how to dispose of Artem quietly.
“The Pakhan’s happiness is not my concern—only his money,” I answer, patting Sasha on the face. “I do not wish to speak on this subject again.”
“Nikki, you can’t turn down the Pakhan’s daughter.”
I turn to him and speak softly.
“I can, and I will. I never entered an agreement with the Pakhan, and as far as I’m concerned, he was speaking out loud.” Sasha pales and drinks from his glass with a shaky hand. “You worry too much, brother,” I say, massaging his shoulder.
“You don’t worry enough. You might be untouchable, Nikolai, but the rest of us are collateral, including Mira.”
Sasha’s warning is valid, but I don’t play by rules I didn’t write.
“She’s mine,” I say simply.
Sasha nods, then straightens, scanning the room like the soldier he is. He’s always watching, always calculating. That’s why I trust him with my life, but most importantly, Mira’s life.
I rise to my feet, raise my glass, and tap it lightly. The room quiets, and all eyes are on me.
“Thank you all for coming. Tonight, we celebrate not just survival, but something rarer—loyalty.” My gaze briefly shifts to Artem, and then to Sasha.
He raps his knuckles against the table, subtly acknowledging the hit.
I glance at Mira, who is no longer laughing and swaying in her seat.
Her posture is ramrod straight, and she looks like a soldier waiting for orders from her general. I smirk and reach for her hand.
“Loyalty shows up quietly, day after day, in the choices we make when no one’s watching.
It’s the hand that pulls you from the depths when you’re too proud to ask, and the voice that tells you the truth, even when it hurts.
Loyalty is the person who stays, especially when it’s difficult.
” I lift my glass, and everyone follows suit. “Za lyubov’ i vernost’. Budem zhit’!”
There’s a ripple of reaction—mostly cheers and guests jumping to their feet to dance as the music resumes.
The air is filled with joy and celebration when the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. I glance at the entrance, and there she is…Irina.
The Pakhan’s daughter steps through the double doors, flanked by her two personal guards. She is dressed head-to-toe in crimson, eyes scanning the room in disgust like we’re peasants unworthy of being in her sight.
Sasha mutters, “Here we go.”
The music stops, and murmurs blanket the room. A small crowd parts for her, uncertain and a little wary of how events may unfold. She stops at our table and smiles at me like we’re old lovers, but I never touched her, because touching her would mean claiming her, and I’ve never been a foolish man.
“Nikolai,” she purrs. “You forgot to invite me.”
“I didn’t forget,” I say. “You weren’t invited.”
Her gaze flicks to Mira. “This is the dirty American you traded me for.”
“Dirty? Oh, hell no,” Mira says under her breath. She stands slowly, posture calm but coiled tightly like a snake, and throws her napkin onto the table.
The Pakhan’s daughter laughs, but it’s brittle. “Are you challenging me, girl?”
Mira laughs and claps her hands. Her laughter is devoid of the usual sweetness. It’s tight and menacing, demanding intervention; however, Mira needs to prove in front of everyone that she’s not weak—that she’s worthy of her title.
“Challenge you?” Mira says, tilting her head. “Sweetheart, I don’t challenge people who have already lost.”
The air goes electric, and Irina lunges for Mira. I raise my hand to prevent my men from intervening.
It happens fast—too fast for most of the guests to process.
Irina swings, wild and untrained, and Mira dodges Irina’s swipes.
She finds her opening, grabs the front of Irina’s dress, and hauls her over the table, dragging her through a floral centerpiece—knocking over glasses of wine and spilling food onto the floor, along with Irina.
Gasps erupt around the room as the women fight. Irina claws at Mira’s face while Mira lands solid punches to Irina’s ribs and one to the face.
“Enough,” I bellow.
Mira steps back, her chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. Her hair, once pinned, hangs loose around her shoulders, strands clinging to the sweat on her skin. Scratches bloom red across her cheek and jaw. One strap of her dress hangs torn, the same one I adjusted earlier.
I take her in, and I feel it—a low heat, curling in my gut, my body responding to her fierceness. She is beautiful in a way that makes me ache. It’s dangerous wanting her like this, but I’ve made peace with the things I cannot change.
Irina stumbles to her feet, clutching her ribs, dabbing at the blood on her lip in disbelief. The crowd doesn’t move. They’re waiting with bated breath for whatever comes next.
“Irina, you came here to make a scene. You got one. Now leave.”
“This isn’t over,” she hisses.
I nod once. “It is for tonight.”
She points at Mira. “You’ll regret this,” she threatens. “Nikolai won’t protect you forever. You’re dead, girl. You just don’t know it yet.”
“What you don’t know is that your father’s protection will only get you so far,” I warn her. “Clearly, you are not untouchable. Get the fuck out of my house while you still have the chance.”
For a moment, she looks wounded before she sets her steely gaze back on Mira. She leaves with her useless bodyguards, and still, no one moves a muscle.
“Party’s over.”
No one argues. They begin to file out, murmuring amongst themselves and glancing back at Mira in awe and worry.
“Things have become a little more complicated,” Sasha says.
“I’ll handle it.”
He nods once, then disappears, leaving me and Mira alone.
I turn to her, and she’s still standing there with her eyes blazing and fists balled at her sides.
“You didn’t hesitate,” I say.
“She swung first.”
I step closer. “You didn’t hesitate.”
She looks up at me, almost defiantly. “Next time, keep your hoes in line.”
I reach for her, fingers brushing her jaw. “Is that jealousy I detect, my sweet?”
“Never that. I just prefer not to have my buzz ruined.”
I kiss her.
It’s not gentle or polite. It’s the kind of kiss that brands her, saying she’s mine. She responds, her hands gripping my shirt, pulling me closer.
I lift her onto the dining table, sweeping aside crystal and silver with one arm. She gasps as I press her back against the table, her legs wrapping around me.
“Nikolai,” she breathes as I nibble at her neck and strip her bare. I release myself, dropping my pants and boxers to the floor, and grind against her already leaking pussy. My dick bumping her clit makes her legs shake around me. “Tell me what you want, my sweet.”
“From the back,” she replies breathlessly, and I’m eager to oblige. I flip her onto her stomach and pull her hips back, kicking her legs apart.
I grab a champagne bottle tilted on its side and drizzle the contents into the deep arch of her back.
I lean down, slurping the brut before traveling south and lapping at her sweetness between her thighs.
She reaches back, grabbing my hair, anchoring me to her pussy that she gratuitously rubs against my face, and I let her.
“Fuck me, Nikolai,” she breathes, clutching the tablecloth with her free hand.
I stand and ease into her, muttering her name as I set the brutal pace.
The tablecloth slides across the table with each thrust, and I grip her hips, plunging in and out of her.
She becomes slicker and wetter, dousing me with her juices.
She clenches around me, and I laugh. “Already, my sweet?”
“Come in me,” she demands, and I raise a brow at her suggestion.
“You want my children?”
“Birth control,” she answers, panting like a dog.
I slap her ass and say, “Then take it from me.”
I still as she bares down and fucks herself, chasing her orgasm and my cum that she’s eager to take.
“Mira,” I warn as the base of my dick fills with heaviness. She comes on demand, and I follow shortly after. I pull out and her battered hole immediately drips my come. “Bedroom,” Mira says softly, glancing at me over her shoulder. “I’m not done yet.”
* * *
Morning breaks slowly, and sunlight filters through the windows, casting Mira in pale light. She’s curled against me, her breath warm on my chest. I stay still, not wanting to wake her.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I reach for it carefully. The name flashing across the screen makes my jaw tighten.
I answer.
“Da,” I answer.
The Pakhan is furious, but I am not surprised. There’s talk of retaliation, of leverage. I listen, nod, and issue orders. Mira stirs beside me, eyes fluttering open.
She silently watches me with that quiet intensity I’ve come to crave.
When the call ends, I set the phone down and brush her hair from her face. “Go back to sleep.”
She shakes her head. “I need a shower.”
I let her go, watching as she disappears into the bathroom. The sound of water running fills the room. I sit up, stretch, and communicate with my team.
Mira returns wrapped in a robe, pads across the room, and slips out the door.
Eventually, I discard my phone and follow.
Downstairs, the kitchen is warm and fragrant. Mira stands barefoot at the stove, flipping something in a pan. Her robe is cinched tight, but her legs are bare, and the curve of her hip peeks out with every movement.
I stop in the doorway and watch her.
She hums softly to herself, unaware of my presence, or pretending not to notice me. Her hair is pulled into a loose knot, a few curly strands falling around her face. She looks like she belongs here, and that warms my heart.
And maybe she does.
She turns, catches me staring, and smiles.
“Sit,” she says, nodding toward the table.
I follow her command, and she arrives with a plate of food that she sets before me. She pours me coffee, black and strong, just how I like it, and she moves to take her own seat when I reach out and grab her wrist.
She freezes, eyeing me suspiciously. I tug gently, guiding her toward me.
“Not there.”
“Where then?”
She lands with a soft gasp when I pull her into my lap. Her robe rides up slightly, and I wrap an arm around her waist and reach for the fork.
“I’ll feed you,” I say, spearing a bite of egg, lifting it to her lips.
“I am perfectly capable of feeding myself.”
“This I know. Eat.”
She hesitates before opening her mouth. She accepts the food and chews slowly.
I feed her toast next, and she leans back against me.
I can feel her body relaxing in my arms, and the feeling transfers to me.
My shoulders slacken, and all the tension and stress that swirls around our union dissipates.
Because at this moment, the only thing that matters is us.