It was around 6:00 p.m. when Nikolai finally made it back to the penthouse.
The sky outside had already begun to dip into a dark, bruised shade of indigo, the city below glowing with amber streetlights and neon signs. His footsteps echoed down the marble-floored hallway of the high-rise, slow and heavy, each one a dull throb that matched the pain splitting through his head. His skin stitched together from where Sergei had struck him. The crimson stain had bloomed like a macabre rose on the collar and shoulder.
The elevator dinged softly, opening directly into the penthouse. Nikolai stepped into the apartment and closed the door behind him, exhaling quietly. What he wanted—desperately—was silence. Stillness. A moment to breathe, to let the pain subside and push the memories of Sergei's sneering voice out of his mind. But what he got was the exact opposite.
Blasting through the penthouse like a personal assault was heavy metal music, loud enough to make the walls tremble. The sound was jarring—raw guitars, guttural screams, crashing drums. He stopped mid-step, blinking. Was that...a guitar solo?
His jaw clenched.
He walked forward, each step stiff and controlled, the vein on his temple beginning to pulse. When he reached the living room, he stopped dead in his tracks.
The space—once pristine, minimalistic, and perfectly curated to his tastes—was now a chaotic disaster. An empty pizza box lay abandoned on the floor, surrounded by greasy napkins and crust crumbs. The plush gray pillows on the couch were askew, some thrown to the floor, one hanging off the edge like a drunk clinging to a barstool.
And there she was.
Rose.
Dancing.
On the couch.
Not on the floor. Not sitting, relaxing. No. She was barefoot, balancing on the cushions like it was a stage, hair whipping around her head as she belted out lyrics to the metal song blasting from a sleek black speaker that he certainly did not own. She was wearing one of those oversized graphic t-shirts that just barely covered the shorts underneath, that he now regretted including as part of her closet. and she moved with all the grace and abandon of a drunk rockstar at a house party.
His jaw ticked.
His eye twitched.
He closed his eyes for a beat. Prayed to whatever God or long-dead ancestor might have mercy on his soul. Because he was certain—certain—that if he opened his mouth right now, he might say something that would land him in jail.
He walked over to the corner of the room, yanked the speaker's cord from the socket, and the music died with a painful static pop.
Rose gasped and stumbled slightly, looking around in confusion as if someone had just doused her in cold water.
"Hey!" she called out, hopping off the couch.
She did not look like the broken girl he had seen earlier that morning, trembling and sobbing over shattered glass. No, this version of Rose was lively, defiant, and possibly insane.
"What. The. Hell. Are. You. Doing?" Nikolai asked, his voice low and slow, laced with venom as he tried—tried—to remain calm.
"Having fun, duh. What the hell does it look like?" she replied, throwing her hands up like it was the most obvious answer in the world.
He stared at her. Took a deep breath. "Where did you get those speakers?"
She grinned. "You told me to press number five on the telephone for anything I wanted. It was too quiet, I got bored. So, I asked for speakers. Your men hesitated, but they brought them up after I threatened them using your name, of course. Damn, those guys fear you. Do you spank them when they fumble?"
Nikolai pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Clean up your mess. Now."
She groaned. "Jeez, why are you acting like I just dumped a whole bag of compost in here? It's just pizza, Nikolai. Relax."
His voice turned colder. "My patience is wearing thin, Rose. Clean. Up. Your. Mess."
She tilted her head, noticing the crimson bloom on his shirt. "Your shirt has blood on it. What kind of business did you go out for? Did it involve torturing someone?" she asked casually, eyebrows arched in amusement.
"That is none of your goddamn business," he snapped. "Clean up your mess. Fix the pillows. And get those speakers out of here."
She rolled her eyes dramatically, groaning again. "Ugh, you are such a control freak. You are no fun."
"You have ten minutes," he growled. "Not eleven. Ten."
And then, without another word, he turned and stormed off down the hall, slamming his bedroom door shut so hard that the wall vibrated.
Rose stood there for a beat, lips pursed. "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the coffin," she muttered.
She padded over to the telephone and pressed number five. It rang twice before a gruff voice answered. "What is it now?"
"Scar Face, hey. I need you to come grab the speakers. Vampire Warlord is back and very, very pissed." She called him Scar Face because he had a scar running across his eye.
There was a pause. "Didn't you say he said you could have them?"
"Well, let's just say we had a disagreement. Anyway, you've got five minutes. Chop chop."
She hung up before he could answer.
Grumbling under her breath, she began picking up the pizza box and napkins, sweeping the crumbs into her palm. She muttered curses about overbearing men and the injustice of being forbidden from enjoying music. As she bent over to straighten the pillows, she found herself pausing, eyeing the dark hallway where Nikolai had vanished.
Something in her stomach twisted.
Despite all her sass and reckless behavior, she had noticed the way he winced when he walked in. The blood on his shirt. The deep lines of exhaustion carved into his face.
For a moment, just a brief moment, she felt sorry for him.
But she shook it off quickly. Because he didn't deserve her pity or anyone else's.
"Nope," she muttered to herself, tossing a pillow back onto the couch. "Not my circus, not my vampire."
The elevator dinged again.
Two men stepped out—one of them Scar Face, the other she mentally nicknamed Buzz Cut. They exchanged a long-suffering glance as they surveyed the speakers.
"You got him mad," Scar Face muttered, hauling the speaker into his arms.
"Yup," Rose replied with a smug grin. "Let's hope he doesn't explode, maybe he already did. Who cares."
Once they left with the equipment, Rose stood in the center of the now-silent living room. It felt too still. Too clinical. Too much like before.
But she also knew not to push her luck further. Nikolai had limits. And judging by the way he'd looked tonight, she was already dangling at the edge of them.
She retreated into her bedroom, still humming the song that had gotten her in trouble in the first place. Even if he didn't admit it, she had a feeling she was starting to chip away at his walls. Slowly. Like a persistent storm against stone.
One mess at a time.