9. Nathan’s Introduction
Nathan's Introduction
Monika
The snow melted overnight, leaving behind a world that looked washed and wrung out, like laundry hung too long in the rain. I woke to grey light filtering through my curtains and the sound of water dripping from the eaves—a steady, rhythmic percussion that matched the ache behind my eyes.
I hadn't slept.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Gabriel's face.
His lips on mine. His hands shaking. The way he said I've been watching you like it was the most terrible and wonderful thing he'd ever admitted.
I touched my mouth in the dark, trying to preserve the feeling of him, the warmth that had cut through the November cold.
But I also saw the mansion. The chandeliers. The paintings. The way Aleksander watched us from across the table, his grey eyes unreadable, his fingers wrapped around a glass of wine he never seemed to drink. He knew. He had to know. And he hadn't stopped it.
That was the part that kept me awake.
The part that made me pull the blue dress from my body and throw it in the corner like it had betrayed me. The part that made me lie in the dark and wonder if I was being played—by Aleksander, by Gabriel, by both of them. Or if I was playing myself, pretending that any of this could end well.
I fell asleep as the sun rose and woke four hours later to the sound of my phone buzzing.
A car will pick you up at seven. Dinner. Formal.
No please. No explanation. Just Aleksander's voice, clipped and efficient, like he was dictating a memo.
I thought about saying no. I thought about calling in sick, locking the door, pretending I didn't exist. But the money was already in my account—more than I'd made in three months at the diner—and the money had a voice.
It whispered vet school and your father's rent and survival in a tone that sounded like my mother's.
So I got up. I showered. I put on the blue dress again, because it was the only thing I had, and I stared at my reflection and tried to find the girl who'd kissed Gabriel in the snow.
She was still there. Barely.
The mansion looked different in the daylight.
Less forbidding, somehow. The stone was warm in the afternoon sun, and the evergreens that lined the driveway were bright with new snow. The fountain in the center of the drive was still empty, but someone had swept the dead leaves from the basin, and the marble gleamed like bone.
Viktor opened my door. I stepped out into the cold and walked toward the entrance, my borrowed heels clicking on the stone, my breath fogging in front of my face.
The door opened before I knocked. Same man, same flat eyes, same nod. I stepped into the foyer and stopped.
The chandelier was still there. The marble. The staircase that curved up toward the painted ceiling. But there was something different about the air—thicker, charged, like the moment before a storm. I could feel it pressing against my skin, raising the hair on my arms.
"Monika."
I turned.
Nathan Mire was standing at the bottom of the staircase, one hand on the railing, the other tucked into the pocket of his trousers.
He was tall—taller than Gabriel, almost as tall as Aleksander—with dark hair that curled at his collar and eyes the color of whiskey in sunlight.
He was handsome in a way that felt aggressive, like his face was a weapon he'd learned to wield before he could walk.
He was smiling. It was a beautiful smile—white teeth, perfect symmetry, the kind of smile that belonged in magazines or on billboards or anywhere except on the face of a man who'd grown up in this house.
But there was nothing warm about it. The smile didn't reach his eyes. Those eyes were watching me the way a cat watches a bird—curious, patient, already calculating the odds.
"Nathan," I said. I'd never met him, but I knew who he was. The eldest son. The heir. The one who'd been "away on business" while I had dinner with his father and brother.
"So you know my name." He pushed off from the railing and walked toward me, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. "I'm flattered. My father doesn't usually mention me to his... guests."
"I'm not a guest."
"No?" He stopped a few feet away, close enough that I could smell his cologne—something dark and woody, with a hint of citrus underneath. "Then what are you?"
"I work for your father. Medical. That's all."
"That's all." He tilted his head, and his eyes traveled over me—not the way Gabriel's had, shy and hopeful, but the way a buyer assesses merchandise.
He looked at my face, my throat, the place where the blue dress curved over my chest. He looked at my legs, my ankles, the borrowed heels that pinched my toes. "You don't look like medical staff."
"What do medical staff look like?"
"Older. Uglier. Less likely to make my brother forget his manners."
I felt my face heat. So he knew about the garden. Of course he knew. This family probably had eyes everywhere, ears in every wall. Nothing happened in the Mire mansion that Nathan didn't know about.
"The garden was private," I said.
"Nothing's private here." He stepped closer—just a step, just enough to close the space between us.
I could feel the warmth of him, the solid weight of his presence.
"My father doesn't bring women here. My brother doesn't kiss strangers.
And yet here you are, in a dress that's too small and shoes that don't fit, looking like you'd rather be anywhere else. "
"I'd rather be at work."
"At the diner? Pouring coffee for truckers and drunks?" He laughed—a low, rough sound that made something in my chest tighten. "You're lying. You'd rather be here. You just don't want to admit it."
"I don't have to admit anything to you."
"No," he agreed. "You don't." He reached out and touched a strand of my hair—just a brush of his fingers against my cheek, light as a whisper. I flinched before I could stop myself. "Interesting. You're not afraid of my father. You're not afraid of my brother. But you're afraid of me."
"I'm not afraid of you."
"Your body says otherwise." He dropped his hand and stepped back, and the air rushed back into the space between us. "Dinner's in an hour. Try to look like you belong here. It's embarrassing for everyone when you don't."
He walked away. I stood in the foyer with my heart pounding and my hands trembling, and I hated him for making me feel small. I hated him for being right.
I didn't belong here.
But I was starting to think that was the point.
Dinner was served in the same room as the night before—the long table, the candles, the shadows that moved like dancers on the walls.
But the seating was different tonight. Aleksander sat at the head, as always, with Nathan on his right and Gabriel on his left.
I was across from Gabriel, which put me directly in Nathan's line of sight.
He watched me through every course.
Not the way Aleksander watched—steady, patient, like he was reading a book he didn't want to put down.
Not the way Gabriel watched—shy, hopeful, like he was trying to memorize my face.
Nathan watched me the way you watch a fire.
Waiting for it to burn out of control. Waiting for it to consume something.
"How was the diner tonight?" Aleksander asked, cutting into his lamb with surgical precision.
"I didn't work tonight," I said. "I traded shifts with someone. She needed the hours."
"How generous."
"I'm not generous. I just remember what it was like to need money."
Nathan snorted. "We all need money. The difference is what we're willing to do for it."
"Nathan," Aleksander said. It wasn't a warning—not quite. Just a word, neutral and calm. But Nathan's jaw tightened, and he looked away from me for the first time since we'd sat down.
Gabriel cleared his throat. "Monika, I was reading about something today. A new technique for treating fractures in large animals. Have you ever—"
"Large animals," Nathan interrupted. "That's what you want to treat, Monika? Cows? Horses? Things that can't thank you?"
"They don't need to thank me."
"But you want them to. You want to be needed. That's why you're here, isn't it?" He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his eyes fixed on mine. "My father needs a medic. My brother needs someone to save. And you—you need to be needed. It's a perfect arrangement."
"Nathan," Gabriel said, his voice sharp. "Stop."
"I'm just making conversation."
"You're being an asshole."
"Boys." Aleksander's voice was soft, but it cut through the tension like a blade. "Monika is our guest. She will be treated with respect."
"Of course," Nathan said, and his smile was back—beautiful and empty. "Respect. Absolutely."
The rest of the meal passed in strained silence.
Gabriel tried to restart the conversation twice, but the words fell flat, swallowed by the weight of Nathan's gaze.
I ate without tasting. I drank wine without feeling it.
I kept my eyes on my plate and my hands in my lap and tried to remember why I'd agreed to any of this.
Because of the money. Because of the money. Because of the money.
The mantra repeated itself in my head like a prayer, but it wasn't working anymore. The money was starting to feel like an excuse.
After dinner, Aleksander excused himself to take a call—business, always business—and Gabriel offered to walk me to the garden.
"I'd like to show you the greenhouse," he said, his voice soft, hopeful. "There are orchids. My mother planted them before she died."
I wanted to go with him. I wanted to feel his hand in mine, his lips on my forehead, the safety of his presence.
But Nathan was standing by the fireplace, watching us with those whiskey-colored eyes, and I knew—I knew—that if I left with Gabriel, Nathan would follow.
Or worse, he'd wait. And I'd spend the whole time wondering what he was doing, what he was planning, what he'd say to me when I came back.
"Another time," I said. "I should... I need some air."