Because if it comes down to Anton’s blood or her warmth in my bed—I’ll choose her. Every time.
“Let’s go,” I murmur, my voice rougher than I intend. I take her hand, needing that tether, and lead her out of the room.
We descend the stairs together, her palm warm in mine, her steps quiet but steady. The air feels heavier the closer we get to the garage, like the walls themselves know what it means for us to leave the estate behind.
The doors slide open, the cold bite of concrete and metal greeting us. The car waits. Demyan is already behind the wheel, posture sharp, eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror the moment he hears us approach.
I open the back door and guide her inside before sliding in after her. My hand never leaves hers. She doesn’t let go either, her grip soft but unyielding, as if she knows I’d shatter without it.
The leather seats swallow us up, the faint scent of oil and steel clinging to the air. The engine hums alive, but the world feels muted compared to the quiet weight of her body curled against my chest.
Her head rests there like it belongs, her breath seeping through my shirt, steady and warm. I tighten my arm around hershoulders, anchoring her to me, and for the first time in days, my heartbeat slows.
She’s still mine. Still here. Still safe.
Chapter 15 – Noelle
The car hums beneath us, steady and strong, and Niko’s chest is my pillow. His arm is a band of steel around me, but it doesn’t feel like a cage—it feels like safety. I sink into him, breathing in his scent, grounding myself in the quiet thrum of his heartbeat.
I should feel restless, anxious about leaving the estate behind. It had started to feel like mine too, in some strange way. The grand halls, the heavy security, even the way the windows caught the light in the mornings—I’d begun to settle. Now it feels like I’m being uprooted again. But the truth is, it doesn’t matter where I sleep or where I wake, as long as Niko is beside me. With him, I don’t feel like I’m running. I feel like I’m being carried.
I close my eyes, letting the road lull me. For a fragile moment, I imagine the kind of life I might have when this storm finally ends. When Anton is gone. When freedom isn’t just a word I whisper to myself but something I can taste and touch.
I see myself back in the clinic, the familiar sting of antiseptic in the air, the rhythm of saving lives one bandage, one stitch, one smile at a time. I see the jar of savings I’d started once upon a time, filling again coin by coin, until medical school is no longer a dream I shelved but a future waiting with open arms.
A full life. My life.
And maybe—if he’ll let me, if he’ll stay—Niko in it.
The thought tightens my chest. I press closer to him, hiding my face in the fabric of his shirt. His thumb brushes slow circles over my arm, like he already knows the dream flickering in my head. Like he already promises me more.
When I married him, I thought my heart had splintered for good. That the little bit of hope I’d kept hidden was buriedwith that ring on my finger. Niko wasn’t love—he was survival. A forced choice, a brutal one.
But now…now it feels different. Peaceful, in a way I don’t even know how to handle.
I’ve been on my own for so long. Watching my own back, dodging the sharp edges life hurled at me, surviving in a world that always seemed determined to chew me up. But here, in his arms, I feel something I’ve never allowed myself before. I feel like I can defer. Like I don’t have to calculate every step, every consequence, every escape plan. Niko does the thinking, the shielding, the fighting.
And if I let myself be delusional for a second, I’d believe he really does care for me. That it’s not just obsession or duty or some twisted sense of possession, but something more.
But this is Niko.
Who am I kidding?
The thought lands like a stone in my stomach. I keep my face pressed to his chest, letting him hold me, letting myself pretend—for just a little longer—that peace is real, and that it belongs to me.
His chest shifts under my cheek, the steady thud of his heart breaking through the silence. Then his hand slides higher up my back, fingers spreading wide, anchoring me against him.
“You’re too quiet,ogonek,” he murmurs, low and rough, like he’s been holding the words in. “What are you thinking?”
I shake my head, but the motion only makes his grip firmer. He tilts my chin up until I have no choice but to meet his eyes. They’re darker than the tinted windows, sharp as knives but softer than I’ve ever seen them.
“Don’t,” he warns quietly. “Don’t hide from me. Not you.”
The lump in my throat nearly chokes me. I almost tell him—that I’m scared, that I don’t know what to believe, that peacefeels like a lie too good for someone like me. But the words knot together, useless.
Instead, I whisper, “It’s nothing. Just tired.”
His jaw ticks, like he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he pulls me closer, his lips brushing the top of my head. “Then rest. I’ve got you.”
