Rose walked into her room and shut the door behind her with a quiet click. She leaned back against it, letting out a long, drawn-out breath that trembled at the edges. Her heart was still thudding, not from fear, but sheer embarrassment. "Stupid," she muttered, dragging her hands down her face.
Her mind reeled back to just minutes ago. Her standing half-naked in front of Nikolai, tossing his shirt at him like some defiant, drunken siren. What the hell was she thinking? She could still feel the heat crawling up her neck, spreading across her cheeks.
She moved deeper into the room, her bare feet padding against the soft carpet. The yellow-toned decor that scream mockery. "Blame it on the damn sunshine walls," she muttered.
The bathroom light was already glowing faintly when she stepped in. Without thinking too much, she peeled off her lace panties — the only thing she still had on — and stepped into the glass shower. The tiles were cold against her feet until she turned the water on. Hot water streamed down, a sharp contrast that jolted her from her spiral.
She stood there, motionless at first, eyes closed. Letting the water pummel her skin. Washing away not just the stickiness from the night before, but the shame. The shame of not remembering everything. The shame of needing help. The shame of feeling so utterly exposed.
And yet, amid the chaotic fog of her memory, one thing was crystal clear: Nikolai hadn't touched her. He hadn't used her vulnerability against her. He could have. He had every opportunity. But he didn't.
She sighed, water soaking through her curls as she leaned her head against the tile wall. That infuriating, brooding vampire had shown restraint. Humanity. Maybe just a shred of it. Enough to keep her safe, and for that, she owed him something she didn't like owing people: gratitude.
If it had been Salvatore...
She clenched her jaw at the thought. Salvatore would have taken what he wanted without a second thought. He liked her drugged or drunk. Called her boring when she was sober, called it a game when he crossed the line.
She opened her eyes, staring at the droplets of water snaking down the glass. "Maybe being bought by Nikolai isn't the worst thing that's ever happened to me," she whispered.
---
After the shower, wrapped in a towel, she padded back into her room. She paused at the sight of her purse and phone on the bed. That wasn't there when she walked in. Her head tilted.
"Either I've got a ninja maid or the emotionally constipated vampire was just in here."
She stared at the bed for a beat longer before shrugging. She didn't hear the door. No footsteps. That was... creepy. But also impressive.
She moved to the closet, pulling out a pair of high-waisted black leggings and an oversized graphic tee with the words Don't Be A Prick under a cartoon cactus. The irony made her smile.
Her red curls were still damp, so she twisted them into a high messy bun. A few strands slipped down, framing her cheekbones. She rubbed at the steam on her phone screen and tapped it awake. Messages.
ALEJANDRO: Please tell me that this new whore is someone his age.
A small laugh bubbled out of her. She opened the thread.
ALEJANDRO: Rose, come on answer. How old is she? What does she look like?
She started typing back.
ROSE: She looks young, probably around my age, early twenties. She looked like she was enjoying his company and he was all smug when I saw him getting out of his car.
She hit send.
Seconds later:
ALEJANDRO: Oh my God. I am so glad I moved out early. Well at least he didn't marry her.
ROSE: I wouldn't be surprised if he did. I mean he did tell the world I was his adopted daughter while behind closed doors I wasn't. Maybe he would marry this one.
ALEJANDRO: If I have someone younger than me as my stepmother I swear I will smother her in her sleep.
Rose chuckled, her fingers dancing.
ROSE: I'll have the knife ready.
She smiled at the exchange. She didn't tell Alejandro about what happened last night. No need to worry him. Knowing him, he'd show up at the door in five seconds flat, ready to punch Nikolai or burn the building down.
Her stomach growled, breaking her out of her thoughts.
"Well, let's see if the vampire made anything to fill you up," she muttered.
She stepped out of her room. The apartment was unusually quiet. The air felt still, almost expectant. Then she saw him.
Nikolai stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, one hand holding his phone over his ear, the other holding a lowball glass filled with something amber — whiskey, probably. He was on the phone, speaking Russian. His voice low, sharp. His profile was etched by the morning light, jaw locked, brow furrowed. Like a storm always simmering beneath the surface.
She didn't understand a word, but the tone was enough. Business. Threats. Power.
She turned her attention to the kitchen. She opened the oven, and sure enough, there it was. A warm plate of food. Waffles. Not bad.
"At least he's consistent," she mumbled, pulling the plate out. She poured herself a glass of orange juice and sat at the bar stool. He always cooked, all because he didn't want a slob like her touching his pots.
The moment she took a bite, the crispy edges and buttery center made her eyes flutter closed. "Damn you, vampire. Why do you have to cook like a fucking five-star chef?"
Nikolai's voice faded out. He ended the call and turned. His gaze locked on her.
She didn't look up, pretending to be focused on slicing the waffle just right.
"I have to go somewhere," he said, his voice flat but not cold. Just matter-of-fact. "I probably won't be back until later tonight or tomorrow morning."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Okay. Cool. Why are you telling me?"
"Because Alexei will be here."
Her knife clinked against the plate. She looked up slowly.
"Excuse me?"
"He'll be watching you while I'm gone."
She blinked. "A babysitter? Are you serious right now?"
"Last time I left you alone, you turned my living room into an animal hound. Crumbs on my polished floors. My couch pillows on the floor. Speakers blaring music like a rave in a warehouse."
She snorted. "Jeez, buzzkill much? It was just a little fun. You act like I burned the place down."
"Not yet. But I'm not taking chances."
"So who is this glorious babysitter? Another emotionally stunted vampire with anger issues?"
He gave her a deadpan look. "He's the man you've been referring to as Scar Face."
Her eyes lit up with mischief. "Oh. Him. Well in that case... a babysitter doesn't sound so bad."
She popped another bite of waffle into her mouth, grinning.
"Yes, I'm sure you'll find it delightful," he replied, setting his glass down. "Considering he'll be under my orders."
She narrowed her eyes. "What kind of orders?"
"You'll find out."
He turned and walked out of the kitchen, his long strides silent against the floor. She watched his back, suspicion narrowing her eyes.
Something told her Scar Face wasn't here just to watch movies with her and make popcorn.
"Fabulous," she muttered, stabbing her waffle like it had personally wronged her.
-------------
Nikolai stepped out of his matte black SUV, the engine humming softly behind him as he made his way up the cobblestone path to Sergei's mansion. The night air was cool, brisk even, but he barely noticed. His mind was focused, sharp, running through possible scenarios that would warrant being called here without prior notice. The guards at the entrance bowed slightly as they opened the doors for him. His boots clicked against the marble floors, echoing ominously through the grand hallway.
He was led into the sitting room, a grand space with velvet drapes and expensive furniture that reeked of old money. Sergei sat in his usual armchair, a crystal glass of whiskey in hand. But it wasn't just Sergei. Across from him, lounging like he owned the room, was Lorenzo.
Nikolai's brows furrowed slightly. He didn't expect Lorenzo. He had settled the deal with Lorenzo the previous night at the club, and they had agreed to meet again at the warehouse in three days. And now he was here, that want that whatever it is that Nikolai was called here for, was not business.
"Sergei," Nikolai said in greeting, nodding.
"Nikolai," Sergei returned flatly, his jaw tight. He didn't look pleased.
Lorenzo stood slowly, a glint of amusement in his cold eyes. "Nikolai Ivanov," he said, drawing out his name as if tasting it. "We need to talk."
Nikolai didn't sit. He didn't speak either. He watched. He had a bad feeling about this meeting.
Lorenzo took a manila envelope from the table and tossed it toward Nikolai. It slid across the polished surface, stopping just in front of him.
"Open it," Lorenzo said.
Nikolai did.
Photographs spilled out. They were graphic—bloody, mangled. The man was barely recognizable. His face was a shattered mosaic of flesh and bruises. But Nikolai knew who it was.
The man who had dared touch Rose. The man he shot ajd ordered Scar Face to clean up. Cleaning up menat making sure he was unrecognisabke even if he was already dead, which was a shame consodering the fact that Nikolai would have loved inflicting the pain on him while he was still alive and give him a slow ajd painful death that he deserved for touching Rose. But what he didn't know or understand was why Lorenzo took pictures of him.
"I assume you recognize the body," Lorenzo said, voice eerily calm.
"I do."
"You killed him."
"He drugged my woman," Nikolai said, each word slow and sharp. "And he intended to rape her. I acted accordingly."
Lorenzo barked a laugh. "Accordingly?" he echoed, stepping closer. "You butchered him. My men found what was left of my son dumped in the middle of nowhere like garbage. And you think that's 'accordingly'?"
"Your son?" Nikolai asked, he did not expect that that man was related to Lorenzo. And now that he knew it only meant one thing. Their deal was at stake.
"Yes. My son. You killed my son."
Nikolai didn't flinch. "It was necessary."
"No. What's necessary is keeping business intact. What's necessary is maintaining alliances," Lorenzo snapped. "You didn't just kill a man. You killed my son. And in doing so, you destroyed the deal."
Sergei's jaw ticked. He hadn't said a word yet, and that in itself was concerning.
"The deal is off," Lorenzo declared.
Nikolai's hands curled into fists at his side. "He was a threat."
"He was my heir!" Lorenzo roared. "You think I care that he couldn't keep his dick in his pants? You think I didn't know what kind of bastard he was? But he was still mine. You should've come to me. We could've settled this like men. Like businessmen."
"You're wrong," Nikolai said coldly. "I am a businessman. And I protect what's mine. And I didn't know he was your son. I did what was right, and that was protecting what is mine."
Lorenzo shook his head with a bitter smile. "You let emotions cloud your judgment, Ivanov. That's dangerous in our world." He turned to Sergei. "I'll be seeing myself out."
And with that, Lorenzo walked out, leaving a heavy silence in his wake.
Now it was just Sergei and Nikolai.
Sergei stood, setting his glass down. His eyes, steely and unreadable, locked on Nikolai.
"I told you," he said quietly, "that if this deal failed, it would be on your head."
"It was Fabio," Nikolai growled. "He crossed a line."
"And now we've lost a major trade route. A vital connection. Do you know how long it took to get Lorenzo to the table?"
Nikolai didn't answer.
Sergei walked slowly toward him. "You had a choice. You could've reported it. Let us handle it. Instead, you acted on instinct. On rage. That's not what leaders do."
"Leaders protect their own."
Sergei stopped in front of him. His expression didn't shift.
Then, in a blink, he drew his gun.
A shot rang out.
Nikolai grunted as the bullet tore through his upper arm. He staggered back, clutching the wound. Now he knew he fucked up.