Smiling, he walks to his coat, which he stripped earlier, and pulls a small blade from it.
I guess I should have suspected him to be armed at all times.
He returns in front of me and holds out the knife.
I don’t take it.
This has to be a trap, right?
He kidnapped me and has threatened my life. Why would he give me a weapon and actually tell me to use it?
He huffs another breath of frustration, taking a step closer to me, grabbing my hand, and placing the handle around my fingers.
Then, without thought, he brings his other hand up to my neck, pulling me closer to him.
I look up, confused, both at his closeness to me and the ease with which he just put his life in my hands.
Still holding the blade at my side, I face him, the tip touching the black fabric of his shirt.
“Are you going to do it, princess?”
Princess?
He pulls my body into his, and our lips collide in a kiss that shatters me from the inside out. His hand tangles in my hair,tilting my head, forcing my mouth open, claiming mine with a hunger that makes my knees weak.
His tongue slides against mine, probing, insistent, and a low groan vibrates against my lips, sending heat spiralling through every nerve.
Every motion of his mouth is deliberate, demanding, and I respond instinctively, losing myself in the rhythm we’ve fallen into.
It’s intoxicating, this consuming pull, this surrender I didn’t know I wanted until now. My chest rises and falls with his; our breaths fuse, and I hear the ragged edge of his own restraint breaking.
And then it hits me all at once.
This is the same kiss. Myfirstkiss.
My eyes shoot open, and I pull my head back, but I don’t look at Nikolai. I look at the blade that I just drove into his stomach.
The boy from Vostralya—the boy who took my hand, pulled me out of the crowd and gave me one night of freedom, one night where I felt alive—is standing right in front of me. Nikolai Orlov.
For six years, I didn’t think of him. My sixteenth birthday was drenched in too much blood, too much loss, too much pain. The chaos that followed, the weight of the men who told me where to go, how to act, what to survive. I never let myself grieve a boy I barely knew. Never let myself miss someone I thought was already gone.
But now—now he’s here. Alive. Breathing. Staring at me like I’m the only person left in the world.
The boy who wanted to run from his family, struggling with the anger and control they had over him. How am I supposed to connect that to the man—the monster—that is the heir to the Bratva?
The stories I’ve heard from Enzo mixed with the murder I’ve seen. I just can’t. I can’t connect the two.
But then again, I think about the protection. The way he shields me from his father’s men. He talks like he’ll burn the whole world before he lets me fall into anyone else’s hands. His loyalty is undeniable, his obsession clear.
But loyalty doesn’t erase the blood on his hands. It doesn’t undo the cruelty, the manipulation, the way he wants to own me.
I try to focus on that thought, especially since I just stabbed him.
Chapter 51
Nikolai
God, she looks beautiful, realization plastered all over her face. I’d hoped she would remember my kiss, my touch, and even after all these years, she has.
