"I'm aware," he replied, seeming entirely untroubled by the threat. "Just as you're aware that I could shift forms and tear through steel doors if necessary. Yet here we are, having a civilized conversation."
His calm confidence was infuriating, and oddly compelling.
"This is temporary," I insisted, more to myself than to him. "Until O'Rourke gives up or finds someone else to harass."
"Of course," Nicolai agreed, though something in his tone suggested he knew better. "In the meantime, consider this space yours as well. The guest room is through that door. You'll find everything you need. I had Sergei bring up some clothes that should fit."
The thoughtfulness of the gesture caught me off guard. "You had this all planned before I even agreed to come up here, didn't you?"
A small smile played at his lips. "I prefer to be prepared for favorable outcomes."
"Pretty confident for someone who just met me hiding under his desk."
"I trust my instincts," he said simply. "They're rarely wrong."
Something in the way he looked at me then—intense, almost hungry—sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with fear. This man, this predator, had decided I was worth protecting, worth keeping close.
And the most troubling part? I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to run.
My stomach growled loud enough to echo off the marble countertops.
Embarrassing.
I hadn't realized how hungry I was until the adrenaline from my escape started wearing off. Nicolai glanced at me, one eyebrow raised in that annoyingly perfect arch that probably took decades of crime boss practice to perfect.
"Hungry?" he asked, stating the obvious with infuriating calm.
"No, my internal organs are just practicing their whale calls," I replied, crossing my arms over my traitorous stomach.
That almost-smile appeared again as he moved toward what had to be the most intimidatingly perfect kitchen I'd ever seen. Gleaming stainless steel appliances, marble countertops, and a center island big enough to land a small aircraft on. The kind of kitchen that appeared in magazines where they photographed lifestyles no one actually lived.
"Sit," he instructed, gesturing to the bar stools at the island. "I'll make something."
I blinked in surprise. "You cook?"
"I've been alive for over a century. I've picked up a few skills." He shrugged those massive shoulders as he opened a refrigerator that probably cost more than my entire education. "Contrary to popular belief, one cannot survive on intimidation and territorial disputes alone."
I reluctantly perched on one of the bar stools, watching as he moved around the kitchen with unexpected grace.
For someone so large, he navigated the space with efficient precision, like he'd mapped every inch of it. Which, knowing what I did about him already, he probably had.
Even crime bosses needed hobbies, I guess. Extortion and gourmet cooking—the perfect work-life balance.
"Is borscht acceptable?" he asked, already pulling ingredients from the refrigerator.
"Is that the beet soup thing?"
He looked mildly offended. "It's not just 'the beet soup thing.' It's a traditional Eastern European dish with complex flavors and cultural significance."
"Right. Sorry I offended your soup sensibilities." I rolled my eyes. "Yes, borscht is fine. Anything edible that doesn't come with handcuffs as a side dish is an upgrade from my evening so far."
Nicolai moved with methodical efficiency, chopping vegetables with the precision of someone who knew their way around a knife.
Probably in more ways than one.
I tried not to stare at his hands—large, powerful, with long fingers that handled the knife with surprising delicacy.
"I assume electronic manipulators still require actual sustenance?" he asked over his shoulder, a hint of humor in his voice.
