Red-rimmed, narrowed and unblinking, sink into mine with ease. He looks wrecked. Like he hasn’t slept a single second since the last time he stood at the cage door. But it’s clearest to me, his prisoner: exhaustion doesn’t dull him, it hones him.
“Hi,” I say back, matching his tone with confidence.
“I’m Nikolai Orlov,” he says smoothly despite the grit underneath. “I believe Adrian already told you that.”
I glance sideways and catch Adrian staring at him with a glare that’s anything but subordinate.
Interesting. Maybe there’s more history here than I thought. That surprises me more than Nikolai standing two inches from my face.
I turn back to him, refusing to let my stony expression slip.
“You are Aurelia De Luca,” he says, each syllable precise, as if savouring it. “And you should know it’s impolite not to introduce yourself in conversation.”
You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.
I blink once. Twice. Then my lip curls.
“You should know it’s impolite to kidnap people.”
The smirk that pulls at his mouth is lazy, arrogant, hinting that I’ve just played right into his hands.
“Where’s your mother?” he asks.
My smile is violent when it comes. “Oh, I don’t know. Probably under her tombstone.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Aurelia,” he growls, voice low enough to crawl across my skin.
“My name is Ace,” I say sharply.
“Mmm, no.” He shakes his head deliberately, his gaze pining me down, dissecting me. “I can see very well who you are.”
I freeze, because I don’t know what the hell he means, but he can’t call me that. Not Aurelia. That’s not for him.
As much as some traitorous part of me wants it—the recognition, the intimacy—I can’t let him have that. Not when I haven’t earned it. Not when every reminder of who I really am only makes this prison feel tighter.
He steps closer, erasing the space I’d just fought to hold.
His fingers graze my throat, tightening briefly before trailing lower, hooking at the torn collar of my tank top, once white, now streaked with blood and dirt.
“Nikolai,” Adrian warns.
But he doesn’t even flinch. Nikolai’s eyes stay locked on mine.
He continues to slide his fingers, dragging my shirt down with an agonizing slowness, but he doesn’t look down. His gaze never leaves mine, as if touching me is just a test.
“Krasívaya,” he whispers, the word brushing my skin.
His hand trails up my arm until it reaches the restraints, his thumb brushing the skin just beneath the leather. It’s almost a caress.
“Alright,” he murmurs, with command. “Tell me about Enzo, and I’ll let you go.”
“You’re an idiot,” I grit out, almost laughing. “Touch my family, and I swear to God—”
“What?” His mouth twists, taunting. “What will you do, malyshka?”
I lean forward, closing the gap until we’re chest-to-chest, daring him to flinch. My breath scorches his lips when I snarl, “I’ll get free, and I’ll kill anyone you’ve ever even slightly cared for.”
And for the first time, his mask slips. Just for a second. His eyes drop—betrayal written in the way they catch on the peaks of my cleavage before he drags them back up. His jaw flexing.
