45
ARIA
Istand in the doorway of Thyme & Tide, and the sight steals what little breath I have left. Bullet holes puncture the walls like angry wounds, the plaster crumbling around each impact point in spiderweb patterns that make my chest constrict. Shattered glass still glitters in corners the cleaning crew missed, catching the afternoon light and throwing tiny rainbows across surfaces that should never have seen violence. The commercial kitchen I built from nothing, every piece of equipment purchased with money I saved dollar by dollar, feels violated beyond repair.
My hand moves instinctively to my stomach, to the visible swell that's impossible to hide now at four months pregnant. The baby does a somersault in response to my spiking anxiety, and I press my palm harder against the curve, trying to offer comfort I don't feel.
This was mine. The one thing in my life that belonged entirely to me, that I created through years of relentless work and sacrifice. And Nikolai's world destroyed it in less than twenty minutes.
The prep tables I refinished myself are overturned, their stainless steel surfaces dented and scarred. My knife block sits empty, the blades scattered across the floor where the Bratva wives grabbed them as weapons. The industrial mixer I'd been saving for three years to replace lies on its side, the motor housing cracked beyond repair. Even the walls feel wrong, like the violence that happened here has seeped into the foundation and poisoned everything.
I force myself to walk deeper into the space, my footsteps crunching on debris the cleaners couldn't reach. The walk-in cooler door hangs at an angle, one hinge blown apart by a bullet that came too close to where we were hiding. I trace the hole with trembling fingers and think about how different this could have ended. Six inches to the left and that bullet would have found flesh instead of metal.
Tears sting my eyes, and I blink them back furiously. I'm so tired of crying. Tired of feeling like everything I touch gets contaminated by association with Nikolai. Tired of watching my carefully constructed life crumble piece by piece while I stand helpless to stop it.
"It's just a building," I whisper to myself, but the words taste like lies. This isn't just a building. It's three years of my life. It's every early morning and late night, every burned finger and aching back, every small victory that proved I could make something of myself without depending on anyone.
The sound of footsteps makes me turn. Nikolai fills the doorway, his eyes assessing the damage with that clinical efficiency I've come to recognize. He's wearing dark jeans and a black sweater that clings to his frame in ways that make heat pool low in my belly. The serpent tattoo on his neck seems to writhe as he moves toward me, and my traitorous body responds to his presence.
"Solnyshka." The endearment sounds rough, almost pained. "You shouldn't be here alone."
"I needed to see it." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Needed to understand what I'm dealing with."
He crosses to me in three strides, his hands finding my waist and pulling me against his chest. I resist for a heartbeat before exhaustion wins and I let myself lean into his solid warmth. His hand covers mine on my stomach, his palm large and warm, and the baby kicks against our joined hands like it recognizes its father's touch.
"We'll rebuild," he says against my temple, his accent thickening with emotion he's trying to suppress. "Better. Stronger. Somewhere safer."
The words should comfort me, but they just make the tears I've been fighting spill over. "This was mine, Nikolai. I built this from nothing. Every piece of equipment, every client, every recipe. Mine."
"I know." His arms tighten around me, and I feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against my cheek. "And it will be yours again. Just somewhere that doesn't have bullet holes in the walls."
I pull back enough to meet his gaze, and the intensity in those ice-blue eyes makes my breath catch. "I can't afford to start over. The insurance will cover some of the damage, but not enough to relocate and reequip. I'll be starting from scratch again."
"No." His thumb brushes across my cheekbone, catching tears I didn't realize were still falling. "You won't be starting from scratch. You'll have capital. Resources. Whatever you need."
The offer makes something twist in my chest. "I don't want your money."
"It's not about what you want." His voice drops to something rough and intimate. "It's about keeping you safe. This location is compromised. Everyone knows where to find you now. The next time someone wants to hurt me, they'll come here first."
The brutal honesty in his words makes my stomach churn with nausea that has nothing to do with pregnancy. "So I'm just supposed to accept that my business is a target? That I can't have anything that's truly mine?"
"You can have everything that's yours." His hands frame my face, forcing me to hold his gaze. "But you have to let me protect it. Let me protect you."
I want to argue, to insist I can handle this myself, but exhaustion pulls at my bones with enough force that I can barely stand. I'm four months pregnant, my business is in ruins, and the media circus from the interview has finally died down enough that I can breathe without cameras in my face. Fighting Nikolai on this feels like one battle too many.
"Show me the locations," I hear myself say and watch surprise flicker across his features.
"You're agreeing?"
"I'm tired of fighting you on everything." The admission costs me something. "And maybe you're right. Maybe I need to accept that my life is different now."
Something shifts in his expression, something that looks almost like relief. "We'll look together. Find somewhere that works for both of us."
The way he says "both of us" makes heat bloom in my chest despite everything. Like we're partners rather than captor and captive. Like my opinion actually matters in decisions about my own business.
"I have conditions," I say, my chin lifting with that defiance he claims to find attractive.
His lips curve into something that might be a smile. "Of course you do."
