Nikolai
I sit in my Tesla in front of Chelle’s spin class.
She’s been a perfect angel for the two and a half weeks I’ve owned her. I’ve used and abused her body in as many dirty ways as I can think of, and the more I do, the softer she gets.
So when she asked me over breakfast this morning if she could go to her spin class, I felt like only a mudak would say no.
But I didn’t want to let the leash out too long, so I’m here to pick her up. Maybe take her out to dinner. She’s cooked for me all week. Not always fancy like the first night and her Sunday brunches, but she does like to be in the kitchen, even if it’s just throwing together a salad, or baking peanut butter and chocolate chip cookies.
I love having her in my kitchen. In my apartment. Turns out it wasn’t the furniture that was wrong before. It was missing Chelle. Although she’s right-the new thick glass dining set she found is a delight beside the big windows.
Chelle exits the building and looks around. I pull out from where I was illegally parked to pick her up right in front. She slides in the passenger seat with a broad smile. “Sorry, were you waiting long?””No,” I lie. I came to haunt the place like a stalker almost the minute the class started.
“Would it be all right if we stopped by my apartment to pick up a few things?”
“Sure.” I change lanes to head in the right direction. “Do you want to go out to eat?”
She looks down at her workout outfit, which I’d forgotten to consider when I developed my plan. “Um, yeah. If I can take a quick shower and change at my place.”
“That works.”
She looks over at me. “How was your day?”
I shrug. I’m not going to tell her I was contacted by and arranged a meet with Rattlesnake’s boss to find out the scoop on his sex slave trade. “Uneventful. How about yours?”
“It was good. I guess the skaters are actually moving forward with using the Storyteller’s music for their videos. I’m going to do some events around it, like a live video chat with the band and the skaters talking about their collaboration. I need to get in touch with Story to get all their info. I figured you would hook me up?”
“Of course,” I say. “She lives upstairs.”I haven’t brought Chelle up to the penthouse yet. She’s not one of us, and she’s not my girlfriend, either. She’s just someone I’m screwing for the month. Someone who will be gone in thirteen days. A fact that makes me want to wrench the steering wheel off and throw it out my window.
I shouldn’t bring her upstairs. I can’t let her see anything about the bratva, including the way we live or the layout of things. We learned the hard way with Dima’s girlfriend Natasha, that the FBI could use anyone to get information on us. I also don’t want the guys knowing about the deal I made with her. Dima already figured it out when we talked this week, but if I can keep the rest from knowing, I will.
“I’ll get her number,” I tell Chelle. I don’t even have it because it’s not like we text each other’s girlfriends, especially when we live in the same suite. I can text Oleg for it though.
We get to her place, and I walk upstairs with her. The moment we get in front of her door, I know something’s wrong. The door frame appears cracked.
I grab her wrist as she stretches her hand out to unlock the door, and I yank her behind my body. Pushing the door with my toe, I watch it swing wide-locks broken. I motion for Chelle to stay in the hallway and creep forward, reaching for the Glock at the back of my waist. Her place is trashed. Her television is gone. The kitchen drawers all stand open like they’ve been searched. I creep forward, listening closely for any sounds. The bedroom has also been trashed-her dresser drawers pulled out and upended, things scattered everywhere.
I search the place thoroughly before I go back out to the hallway where I find Chelle standing pale and trembling. She looks at the gun in my hand with bug eyes.
Dammit.
“Looks like a burglary. They took your TV and searched all your stuff. Probably looking for jewelry or cash. They’ve gone now.”
“Oh God. What should we do?”
“Call your brother first.”
She blinks at me. “Wh-why?”
I take her phone from her cold fingers, pull up Zane’s number, and press the call button. I hold it out to her. “Find out if he knows anything about this.”
Her golden eyes grow even wider, and she lets out her breath on a small sob.
Zane answers, which I didn’t expect. “Chelle?” he sounds alarmed. I don’t like it.
“Zane? My place has been trashed. They stole my TV, and I don’t know what else.”
“Fuck! Where are you now? Are you there? Is Nikolai with you?”
I grab the phone from Chelle’s hand, a white-hot rage burning through me. “What did you do, Zane?” I snap.
“Nikolai.” Zane sounds breathless. “Get my sister out of there, would you? Keep her safe.”
“What in the fuck is going on?” I snarl. I am seriously going to kill that kid for doing this to Chelle.
“I, ah, I had a drug deal going on, but the shit got stolen. Now I’m into the dealer for the cost of goods.”
“A drug deal with who?”
I watch Chelle mouth the word, whom, while her eyes stare straight forward, like she’s shell-shocked and scared.
“Not your problem.”
“You just made it my fucking problem when they came after Chelle,” I snarl.
“You’re the one who came after Chelle!” Zane thunders back. “You took my sister. I’m trying to buy her back, you insane fucking Russian. So just get her out of there, and I’ll get you your damn money!” He ends the call before I can rip him a new one, and I hold the phone against my chest like that will somehow shield Chelle from what she just heard. Blyad.’
Zane is right. I took his sister. I triggered all of this by bringing her into the equation. And even though this is completely consensual on her part, I made veiled threats about harming her from the beginning, so Zane’s assumption of the worst is on me.
Fuckity fuck fuck.
Chelle’s chin starts to shiver, and I pull her slender body against mine. “It’s okay. It’s going to be fine. I’ll take care of your apartment. Let’s get you out of here.”
“Shouldn’t we call the cops?”
“No. I’ll replace your stuff, okay? Don’t worry about any of it.” I close the door as best I can, turn her around and maneuver her down the hall, still tucked tightly against my side.
“Are you going to explain to me what’s happening?” Her voice quavers, and it kills me.
“Zane is trying to rescue you from me and whatever he did backfired.”
“Is he in danger?” Alarm peals through her words.
“Ah… yes, probably.” It’s not fair to lie to her. “But you’re in more danger.” I know how this shit works. I’m usually the guy shaking people down for money. They’ll leave Zane free and hold his sister hostage for payment. I hustle her down the stairs, my hand on the pistol in my waistband in case we meet anyone along the way. “I will help Zane when I know you’re safe,” I promise reluctantly. The douche doesn’t deserve saving, but I can’t stand Chelle being frantic over his safety.
Besides, the danger to her won’t end until Zane’s problem is solved.
I get her into my car and take off, going zero to sixty in under four seconds-my favorite reason for having a Tesla.
“I’m sorry, Chelle,” I say. I don’t want to apologize. I want to blame it all on Zane, but he’s right. I played a part in this shit.
I feel her golden-eyed gaze on the side of my face but don’t look because I’m weaving in and out of cars, racing to get back to the Kremlin where Chelle will be safe.
“What are you sorry for?” Her voice is a hoarse whisper, like she’s terrified of hearing my answer.
“Involving you,” I say. “I never would have hurt you, zayka. I don’t harm the innocent. But I made Zane think I would. Now he’s acted out of desperation to save you from me.”She lets out an audible breath. “What did he do?” The break in her voice kills me.
“I don’t know.” I grind my teeth. “I’m going to find out, and I will take care of it. I’ll protect you both.”
Chelle drags in a terraced breath and then lets out a whimper, like she’s trying to keep from crying.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat because hearing her anguish makes me want to burn this entire city down.
When I get her home, she gets in the shower, and I try to call Zane, but the little asshole doesn’t pick up. I call one of our soldiers and ask him to go over to Chelle’s place and fix the door. “Bring back-up,” I warn.
Chelle stays in the shower so long I figure she’s turned into a raisin. I enter the bathroom and push open the glass door to my huge walk-in shower. She’s huddled under the water, her shoulder propped against the tile wall. She’s not crying, but she looks lost.
“Zayka,” I murmur and strip out of my clothes to join her. I’ve fucked her in this shower before. Taken her roughly against these walls. But this time is different. This time I just hold her. I hold her and kiss her head. And after a stretch, I maneuver her under the spray and wash her hair.
“Nikolai,” she moans the way she does when we’re having sex, only this time it sounds more broken. Lost.
“It’s okay, Freckles. Everything is going to be okay.”
“Is it?” She turns and searches my face, and I know she’s asking about more than Zane. She’s asking something about us, only I don’t know what the question is, so I don’t know how to answer.
Does she want us to be something more?
Could she be with a man like me?
Or is she saying she can’t do this anymore? I saw the way she stared at the gun in my hand, like she was terrified to see it. Like it was a snake that might bite her, rather than a tool to protect her.
I pick up the bar of soap and run it over her breasts, soaping them until she moans and falls against me for a different reason. I slide it down her belly, soap her ass, then squat to soap both her legs. Then I pin her against the shower wall and lick her until she screams.
When her orgasm is over, I pick her up and carry her out of the shower. I sit her on the counter and grab a towel from the rack.
“Everything is going to be okay, little bunny,” I promise, wrapping her and drying her soft skin. I’ll pay off Zane’s debts. I won’t let anyone touch you. I promise.””Why?” Chelle asks.
I should tell her.
I should explain what she means to me. That she’s the light in the dark corridor. She’s the magnetic axis I want to orbit around. She fills the vacuous spaces of my life.
I should say, “For you, Chelle.”
But I don’t.
I guess she’s right. I do hold my cards close to my chest. Because I don’t want to show her my hand. The one that’s all hearts. And they’re all for her.
Instead, I just leave her there in the bathroom to go and find us something for dinner. I let her decipher me all on her own.
If she can.
Chelle
I try calling Zane, but he doesn’t answer, so I text instead. What is happening? To whom do you owe money now?
When he doesn’t answer, I try again. Nikolai will pay them off.
I don’t even think twice about getting in deeper with Nikolai. I don’t want to unpack it right now, but I’m probably secretly relieved our thirty days might not be over in less than two weeks. That I might owe him more.
Because I love the way he exacts his due from me.
This time Zane replies. Are you crazy? I was trying to get the money to pay the bratva off. I hate what you’re doing for me.
Grr. Logically, his response makes sense, but it brings up a huge wall of defensiveness. Fuck. Him. I chose to do this, and I told him I was fine. I hate the way he makes it feel icky. Sordid and shameful and wrong.
I hate all of it.
No, that’s not necessarily true. I don’t hate being here. I don’t hate what I have with Nikolai.
Except, what do I have? The guy just held and washed me with total kindness in the shower, but he’s basically bought-well, rented me-for a month. We have an expiration date. So I don’t really have anything.
I write back, I don’t hate it.
Zane texts, ???
I start to text, Nikolai is and then stop. Nikolai is what? Not so bad? Wonderful? Good to me? That’s when it hits me full force. I’ve been resisting this whole time, but it was useless: I’m falling in love with Nikolai.
The thought strikes new anxiety in me, sharp and electrifying. Different from the gut-churning worry over Zane. This is a full-throttle out-of-control sensation that zings from my scalp to the soles of my feet. I can’t be with Nikolai.
I can’t.
It’s not possible. I’m a good girl. I have a college degree and a career as a junior publicist. I’m going places. I’m not going to-I can’t-mix with the Russian bratva.
I can’t.
I won’t.
But I type it anyway because Zane should understand that I trust Nikolai. Nikolai is good to me.
He must trust Nikolai on some level, too, because he wanted him to protect me from the people who trashed my apartment.
Zane doesn’t answer, but I experience a trickle of relief at having explained. Zane will let Nikolai pay his debt. This one crisis can be solved.
The other one-the one about my foolish heart-can be dealt with later.