I watch his jaw tighten, the muscles working beneath his skin, and I suddenly realize just how deeply his protective instincts are tied to me. “Did he ever….” His voice drops, hesitant. “…hit you?”
“No,” I answer quickly, shaking my head. “Never…not physically.”
He studies me, his eyes dark, and I can see the sharp edge of fury that isn’t just about what Anton did—it’s about the thought of anyone harming me at all.
“You…your anger…yours is controlled. Even when it’s visible, I can see it’s…contained. Anton’s…it’s wild. Scary. You never know what he’ll do next.”
Niko leans back slightly, the corner of his mouth tightening, a storm brewing just beneath the surface. I can feel it radiating off him, that precise, lethal containment, and I can’t help but shiver—not entirely from fear.
“I’m offended that I’m even in the same sentence as that guy, but okay.”
This time I laugh, short and sharp, but I don’t linger on it. I need him to know everything.
“I broke up with him,” I continue, voice steady despite the knot in my chest. “But he…he lost it. Started spreading rumors, framing me as unstable in Bratva circles. I had no choice but to leave. Move to Chicago. Start over.”
He doesn’t respond immediately, and I let the silence stretch, letting the tension between us settle, heavy and intimate.
Finally, he asks, “Have you dated anyone since then?”
“Pfft,” I scoff, a bitter little laugh escaping me. “No. I steered clear of men. I just…genuinely lost interest.”
A yawn sneaks past my lips, tugging me toward sleep.
“It’s okay. Go to sleep,” he says softly.
Niko still doesn’t move toward me, doesn’t make a single gesture. I want him to—crave him to take the initiative—but instead, I pull my pillow closer and shut my eyes, letting the pull of exhaustion claim me.
That night, I jerk awake, my heart hammering, sweat clinging to my skin. The nightmare still lingers—the shadow of Anton, his rage, the suffocating panic from back then. My breaths come jagged and uneven.
A firm shake pulls me from sleep. My eyes flutter open to see Niko lying beside me, his dark gaze sharp and focused. His hand rests lightly on my shoulder, holding me in place—not harshly, but insistently.
“Ogonek,” he murmurs, his voice low, commanding, yet threaded with something softer. “Wake up.”
I blink against the dim light filtering through the curtains, the remnants of my nightmare still clinging. The memory of Anton, the fear, the panic—it’s there, but it’s nothing compared to the solidity of Niko beside me.
Without thinking, I crawl toward him, pressing against his chest, feeling the warmth of him seep into me. His arms immediately tighten around me, one hand cradling my head, the other drawing me close against his body. I let out a shuddering breath, letting his strength and presence replace the fear.
“Shh…it’s okay,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the top of my head. “I’ve got you.”
I close my eyes again, this time not in fear, but in relief, letting myself sink fully into him. His grip is possessive, unwavering, and somehow the safety he offers is intertwinedwith a heat that sends my pulse racing. I can feel his body tense beneath mine, every inch alert and watchful.
For the first time in days, maybe weeks, I allow myself to relax. I’m pressed against him, enveloped in him, and the nightmares fade into insignificance. My heart slows, my body softens, and even as sleep threatens to pull me under again, I cling to him—not just for protection, but because this closeness, dangerous and magnetic, is something I want.
Chapter 10 – Niko
Morning bleeds pale light across Chicago, the kind that makes the city look colder, harsher than it already is. I sit in the back of the Jeep, watching the streets pass by, the rhythm of steel and glass and smoke. Demyan drives like he always does—spine straight, hands steady on the wheel, eyes locked ahead as though the road might bite if he looks away.
He always lets me have my silence.
Especially on mornings like this.
We’re headed to Kirill.
Kirill has always been a strange kind of bastard—never ambitious enough to climb the ranks, never careless enough to get himself killed, and too damn connected to ever fully disappear. He’s older, rougher around the edges, and most men would’ve dismissed him as small-time. They’d be wrong. Kirill has ears everywhere, and unlike most men, he doesn’t sell what he hears to the highest bidder. He brings it to me. Always has. That’s loyalty, and in my world, loyalty is more dangerous than any gun.
The Jeep pulls into the cracked lot of the warehouse. The building squats against the skyline like a carcass left to rot—windows broken, steel siding rusted and bent, graffiti crawling up its walls. Typical Kirill. Always hiding in plain sight.
Demyan cuts the engine. I button my suit jacket, step out into the bite of morning air, and feel the ground crunch beneath my shoes.
