The car eased into the curved driveway, its tires whispering against the polished stone like the opening notes of a symphony. Golden light spilled from the towering entrance of the hotel, reflecting off glass doors that gleamed as though they had been polished for royalty. The world outside smelled faintly of rain on asphalt, a storm having passed earlier in the day, leaving the city washed clean.
The building itself loomed above them, an ivory monolith crowned with glass windows that caught the last blush of twilight. It was the kind of hotel she remembered—where chandeliers sparkled like captured constellations and velvet drapes muffled the sound of too much laughter. She had been in this kind of hotel before, escorted on Salvatore's arm, her smile brittle under the weight of his touch, forced to endure his charade as he played the doting father in front of the world. The memory made her throat tighten, but tonight was different.
The car came to a stop. The driver in a dark suit quickly stepped out, and so did Alexei, his sharp eyes scanning the entrance like a predator ensuring no threats lingered in the shadows. Then, Nikolai moved.
He opened the door, his presence filling the space like a shift in gravity. No flourish, no exaggerated gesture—just his tall frame bending toward her, his hand reaching in. He offered no words at first, only the quiet steadiness of his touch as he helped her onto the wheelchair.
The scent of his cologne—smoky, understated, edged with cedar—brushed against her senses, grounding her.
Her voice, small but steady, broke the silence.
"Will we be staying here until I'm cleared to board a flight?"
"Yeah." His tone was firm, but not harsh, his words carrying the weight of a vow. His hand rested lightly against the wheelchair for a beat too long, as though reluctant to let go. "Don't worry. I won't leave your side. Ever."
She blinked at him, stunned by the certainty in his voice. Her lips tugged into a weak smile. The irony gnawed at her. Just weeks ago, they'd been circling each other like wolves—snapping, snarling, thinking of the many ways they could end each other.. And now… now he was the one pushing her forward, carrying the weight of her frailty with the ease of someone who'd decided she was his responsibility.
It was maddening. It was comforting.
She couldn't tell which unsettled her more.
"Cheesy," she muttered, almost under her breath.
He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest that made the air between them vibrate.
"Shoosh," he said, his accent thickening just enough to make the word sound both dangerous and tender.
The wheelchair rolled forward, his hands steady on the handles. Behind them, Alexei and the driver collected the luggage with swift precision, their movements sharp, efficient, like shadows that existed only to orbit Nikolai.
The revolving glass doors admitted them into the lobby, and the world outside dissolved.
Inside, the hotel was a cathedral of wealth. Marble floors stretched wide beneath crystal chandeliers that dripped light like liquid gold. Polished brass accents glimmered at every corner, and the muted notes of a grand piano drifted through the cavernous space, played by a man in a tuxedo who never once looked up from the keys.
The air carried the faint scent of roses, mingled with aged wood and the clean, crisp fragrance of luxury that had no name. Her eyes darted over the opulence, memories clawing at her chest. She remembered the same chandeliers overhead, the same staircase curving upward like a promise that always led to her prison. She remembered Salvatore's voice—booming, charismatic, venom disguised as velvet. My daughter, my pride, my joy.
Her stomach knotted. She tightened her grip on the armrest of the wheelchair until her knuckles whitened.
Nikolai's voice cut through the fog.
"Breathe," he said quietly, so low that only she could hear.
Her head snapped back slightly, her eyes meeting his profile as he leaned forward just enough to look at her. The world blurred behind him, the hotel fading, until all she saw was the strange steadiness in his green-gray eyes.
So she breathed. Shallow at first, then deeper.
He straightened and continued pushing her across the polished floor, ignoring the lingering glances of the staff who immediately recognized power when it walked into their hotel. Nikolai didn't need to say his name. He didn't need to announce himself. His presence was enough—an aura carved out of danger and control, the kind of presence that made the world instinctively lower its gaze.
At the reception desk, the manager himself appeared, bowing slightly, speaking in quick, deferential tones. Nikolai didn't bother with pleasantries. A card was handed over, a pen scribbled a signature, and within moments, the keys to the penthouse were theirs.
The elevator ride was silent. Mirrors reflected them back: her pale, fragile frame slouched in the chair, his broad shoulders tense behind her, Alexei looming like a phantom in the corner. She couldn't look away from the quiet storm etched in Nikolai's features.
When the elevator finally chimed, the doors opened onto a private floor. The penthouse.
The suite was another world entirely.
Double doors opened into a cavern of elegance. White marble met dark mahogany, a modern chandelier hung like a constellation frozen mid-collision, and floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the city sprawled below, its lights flickering like scattered jewels against the velvet night. The air was cooler here, quieter, as if the room itself had been designed to swallow sound and cradle secrets.
Nikolai guided her across the living space, past leather sofas and glass tables gleaming under soft golden lamps. The bedroom awaited at the end of a short hallway, the bed an expanse of silk sheets and pillows that looked almost too perfect to touch.
He bent slightly, his arm sliding under hers as he lifted her just enough to settle her onto the mattress. The sheets whispered beneath her weight.
"Rest," he ordered gently, his voice carrying no room for argument. "I'm going to take a shower."
She nodded, unable to muster words.
He disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of water beginning to run moments later. She lay back, staring at the ceiling where shadows danced in patterns across the molding.
Her chest rose and fell with a shaky sigh.
Was this really happening?
The thought looped endlessly. Him, here, caring for her—it still felt unreal. Nikolai's problem, she had always said, was that he was an emotionally constipated bastard. Her words, not his. And yet here he was, peeling away the edges of that cold exterior, piece by piece, until she no longer knew what to make of him.
Different. That was the only word that fit.
Unpredictable.
And it scared her more than Salvatore ever had.
Because for the first time, unpredictability didn't mean danger. It meant possibility.