We stayed like that for a while. The desk lamps still glowed, casting warm light. Outside the windows, night pressed deep. Occasional owl calls drifted from the distance.
This peace almost made me forget—just beyond the estate walls, those rats who'd caught the scent of blood were circling, waiting.
I looked down at the woman in my arms, blissfully unaware of the danger.
She'd never know how many kill orders I'd arranged in the shadows to protect these stolen moments of quiet.
Chapter Twenty
Vivienne
I'd been staring at that goddamn blinking cursor for five hours straight.
"Delete. All trash." I jabbed the backspace key, watching my fifteenth opening dissolve into nothing.
My fingers hovered stiff above the keyboard, brain stuffed with a water-logged sponge—heavy and useless.
Mary pushed through the door with an elegant tea service, setting the tray carefully on the desk corner. She took in my near-bald state with concern. "Ms. Cole, are you alright? Should I have the kitchen brew you some honey water?"
"I'm fine, Mary." I waved her off weakly. "I just need some... goddamn inspiration."
Once Mary closed the door, I snapped the laptop shut with a sharp crack and collapsed against the chair like a deflated balloon, eyes closed.
"Sighing at a screen won't write anything worth reading."
That familiar, rough-edged voice came from the doorway.
I opened my eyes. Nikolai leaned against the doorframe in nothing but a black henley, top buttons undone.
None of that high-and-mighty Pakhan posture. He crossed to me, knuckles rapping my cluttered desk.
"Grab a jacket." He caught my dead-eyed look, something like resigned indulgence flickering in those slate-gray eyes. "Taking you out for some fun."
I didn't have the energy to ask where. My head was too full of tangled plotlines. I grabbed a leather jacket, threw it over my tank dress, and followed him like a ghost to the armored Bentley.
The car headed east, out of Washington's gleaming districts, finally turning down a dim back alley where even the streetlights flickered. We stopped outside a dilapidated Russian boxing gym. Half the neon sign was dead, buzzing with static.
Inside—worn heavy bags, makeshift rings. The air thick with old sweat and leather.
A Russian man with a face like ground meat and a clearly broken nose leaned against the ring, smoking. His gait limped badly—right leg wrecked by some old injury.
But even hobbling, that top-tier killer's blood-soaked aura couldn't be hidden.
"Look who it is." The man exhaled gray smoke with a dry, rasping laugh. None of the trembling fear other subordinates showed Nikolai. "The Pakhan bringing a woman to this sweaty shithole."
Nikolai didn't bristle. His palm settled naturally against my lower back, tone flat with familiarity. "Kostya. Watch your mouth."
The man called Kostya limped over, hawk-sharp bloodshot eyes scanning me up and down. Suddenly, he grinned—meaningful, knowing.
"This the 'little writer' who had you destroying sandbags at dawn?" Kostya scratched his stubbled jaw, eyes gleaming with mockery. "The one screaming at the airport wearing a pink dick headband?"
My eyes went wide. I whipped around to stare at Nikolai. "You told him about the pink dick headband?"
Nikolai's expression went black. His hand tightened on my waist.
"Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Cole. I'm Kostya." He ignored Nikolai's murderous glare entirely, extending a callused handwith gleeful malice. "Heard you nearly put old Volkov in an ambulance at the Maryland estate? Well done. This guy's lived thirty years surrounded by nothing but profit-calculating corpses. About time he had an actual living person around."
I raised an eyebrow, shaking his hand. I liked this unfiltered hardass.
