The way he made me feel both terrified and impossibly safe, a contradiction that shouldn't exist but did.
The memory sends heat flooding through my veins despite everything. Despite the knowledge of what he's capable of. My body doesn't care about logic or self-preservation. It only remembers the way he touched me, the way he made me feel alive in a way I never had before.
The contradiction makes me dizzy.
I press my palms against my closed eyes, trying to will away the images flooding my mind. The way the firelight played across his features that first night, turning his face into something carved from shadow and flame. The unexpected softness in his expression when he thought I wasn't looking, like he was seeing something in me that surprised him. The rough catch in his breathing when I touched him, like my hands on his skin undid something fundamental in his carefully constructed control.
The way he looked at me in those final moments before we were rescued, like he was memorizing every detail of my face. Like he knew we were about to step back into a world where what we'd shared couldn't exist.
I deleted his number. Made the decision to do this alone, to raise this baby without his influence or his world touching us. Built walls around my heart specifically to protect myself from the inevitable moment when his true nature would surface and remind me why falling for him was the worst decision I've ever made.
And here it is. The reminder I needed. A body in the industrial district, a life ended because someone made the wrong choice, crossed the wrong line, threatened the wrong empire.
This is who Nikolai Alekseev is when he's not stranded on an island with limited resources and no kingdom to rule. This is the reality I would be stepping into if I let myself believe that what we shared meant something beyond temporary madness.
My phone sits on the coffee table, dark and silent. I've checked it obsessively since returning, some pathetic part of me hoping he'd call or text or give any indication that the island meant something to him beyond a temporary lapse in judgment. But there's been nothing. Just silence that confirms what I already knew.
He made his choice. Returned to his empire and his violence and his world of calculated brutality. Left me behind exactly as I expected, exactly as I told myself to prepare for.
The silence shouldn't surprise me. Men like Nikolai don't pine or second-guess or lose sleep over women they've left behind. They move forward with the same ruthless efficiency they apply to everything else in their lives. What we shared was an interlude, a brief departure from his normal existence that he's already filed away and forgotten.
So why does it still hurt?
Why does some stupid, naive part of me keep hoping to see his name on my phone screen? Why do I catch myself reaching for my phone at random moments throughout the day, my heart jumping at every notification, only to crash back down when it's just another cancellation email or a spam call or Maya asking what I want for dinner?
I force myself to stand, to move toward the kitchen where I've been trying to work on menu plans for the few clients I have left. Thyme & Tide is barely hanging on. Three more cancellations came through this morning, polite emails citing "scheduling conflicts" that we both know are lies. People don't want to be associated with the woman who was stranded on an island with an alleged crime boss. The tabloids have been having a field day with speculation, and my carefully crafted reputation is crumbling faster than I can rebuild it.
The gossip sites have been particularly vicious. I made the mistake of looking yesterday, scrolling through article after article, dissecting every detail of my time with Nikolai. They've dug up old photos, analyzed body language in the pictures taken when we were rescued, and created elaborate theories about what "really happened" on that island. Some paint me as a victim, others as a willing participant in some kind of sordid affair. A few have even suggested I orchestrated the whole thing for publicity.
The comments are worse. Strangers who know nothing about me or my life, passing judgment and making assumptions and saying things that make my skin crawl. I've stopped reading them, but I can't stop knowing they're out there, can't stop feeling the weight of all those eyes and opinions pressing down on me.
My business is dying because of it. The clients who've stuck around are the ones who either don't care about scandal or are too locked into contracts to back out easily. But the new inquiries have dried up completely. The phone that used to ring constantly with potential bookings now sits silent for days at a time.
The envelope of cash Nikolai gave me helped. I've been rationing it carefully, using it to make those payments to Cane Harris and keep my business afloat. But it won't last forever, and Maya's debt still hangs over us like a sword waiting to drop.
I've run the calculations a dozen different ways, trying to figure out how to make it work. Even if I liquidate everything, sell equipment and furniture and anything else of value, I'll still come up short. And that's assuming I can find buyers, assuming the market doesn't lowball me because everyone knows I'm desperate.
The baby complicates everything. I'm going to start showing soon, and then what? How do I explain a pregnancy to clients, to Maya, to everyone who's going to ask questions I can't answer? How do I work twelve-hour days on my feet when I can barely keep food down most mornings? How do I build a business back from the edge of collapse while growing a human being inside me?
The practical concerns pile up like weights on my chest, making it hard to breathe.
I'm reviewing a proposal for a corporate event, trying to calculate whether I can afford to take it at the price they're offering, when the knock comes.
The sound makes me jump, my pulse immediately hammering against my ribs. I'm not expecting anyone. Maya is supposed to be at work, and I haven't ordered food or scheduled any deliveries. My hand instinctively moves to my stomach in a protective gesture that's becoming habitual as I move toward the door.
Through the peephole, I see two men in expensive suits standing in my hallway.
My breath catches in my throat.
They're not delivery people or neighbors or anyone who belongs in this building. Their postures radiate controlled violence even while standing still, shoulders squared and hands positioned in a way that suggests they're ready to reach for weapons at a moment's notice. The taller one has dark hair slicked back from a face that looks like it's been broken and reset more than once. The other is shorter but broader, with the kind of build that comes from years of serious training.
Both of them scream Bratva.
My heart pounds so hard, I can feel it in my teeth. I consider not answering, pretending I'm not home, but they've probably already heard me moving around inside. And something tells me these aren't the kind of men who take no for an answer.
The taller one speaks through the door, his accent thick and unmistakable. "Miss Levin, the Pakhan requests your presence. Now."
20
