The penthouse was quiet now. Too quiet.
Nikolai had faced ambushes, backstabbings, and firefights in alleys. He had stood his ground against men who wanted nothing more than to put a bullet through his skull. But none of that prepared him for this—Rose drunk, flushed, swaying slightly on the leather couch, with a mischievous grin curving her lips like she had just plotted the downfall of an empire.
"Pretty boy," she slurred, narrowing her eyes at him as though studying prey.
Nikolai arched a brow from where he leaned against the doorframe. He had been called many things; Monster, devil incarnate, useless, and many other things. But pretty boy?
"What is it this time, little one?" His tone was cautious.
Her grin widened, feline and lethal in its own way. She pointed at him with exaggerated drama, the champagne still fizzing faintly in her glass. "Take off your shirt."
He blinked. Once. Slowly. "Excuse me?"
"Shirt. Off. Now." She gestured with her free hand like a queen commanding her servant.
Nikolai's laugh was dry, edged with disbelief. "You must have lost your mind."
"I'm serious, pretty boy. Off. Or…" She tapped her chin, pretending to think. "Or I'll scream. Loud. Like bloody murder. And then I will call the police and then I'll tell them you kidnapped me."
He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something in Russian that sounded suspiciously like a prayer for patience. "Rose…"
Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Don't Rose me. Shirt. Off."
For a long moment, they stared each other down. The infamous Nikolai Ivanov, feared by entire crime families, versus one drunk redhead with zero shame and way too much wine in her veins.
Finally, with a groan that sounded like it was ripped from his soul, he tugged his black shirt over his head and tossed it onto the chair.
"Happy now?" he bit out.
Rose gasped dramatically, clutching her chest as if she'd been given the greatest gift. "Holy hell… You have tattoos. You didn't tell me you had tattoos!"
Nikolai rolled his eyes heavenward. "I don't think that this is the first time you have seen them."
She ignored him completely, leaning forward like a predator spotting shiny prey. Her fingers, warm and unsteady, traced the ink along his chest, skimming the ridges of muscle. The dragon coiled across his ribs. The dagger inked over his shoulder blade. The black geometric patterns that disappeared under the waistband of his trousers.
"Cool…" she whispered, wide-eyed. "You're like… like a badass coloring book."
He barked a laugh despite himself. "A coloring book?"
"Mhm." She nodded solemnly, as though it were the most profound truth in the universe. Then her expression shifted into one of pure mischief. "Wait here."
Before he could stop her, she stumbled off the couch and made her way to the tall chest of drawers against the wall. He watched, suspicion growing, as she yanked open drawer after drawer, tossing aside the contents in it.
"What the hell are you looking for?" he demanded.
"Something important."
"Rose—"
"Aha!" She spun around, triumphant, holding up her prize. A thick, black permanent marker.
Nikolai's jaw slackened. "Absolutely not."
"Oh yes." She stalked toward him, her grin wicked. "You, pretty boy, are about to become my canvas."
He shook his head firmly. "No."
"Yes."
"Rose."
She shoved a finger in his face. "Lie down on the couch. Now."
He stared at her, incredulous. "You think I'm just going to—"
"Don't test me," she warned, though her words slurred around the edges. "I will sit on your face until you suffocate."
Nikolai choked on a laugh, rubbing his temple. "You are insufferable."
But she wasn't bluffing, and the manic gleam in her eyes told him she'd follow through with her threat in the most embarrassing way possible. With a long-suffering groan, he sank onto the couch, lying flat on his back.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered.
"Shut up," she ordered, straddling his hips to reach his chest better. "Hold still. Don't ruin my art."
His eyes narrowed, but he complied, watching her with the wary patience of a man allowing a toddler to play with a loaded gun.
She uncapped the marker with her teeth and leaned down, her hair tickling his skin as she began to draw. The sharp scent of ink filled the air as she sketched furiously, her tongue sticking out in concentration.
Nikolai stared at the ceiling. "What exactly are you drawing?"
"Shut up."
He sighed. "Rose—"
"Shut. Up."
For several minutes, the only sound was her little grunts of effort, the squeak of the marker dragging over his skin, and his steady breathing as he endured her chaos. Finally, she sat back with a flourish, cap popping back onto the marker.
"Done!" she announced proudly.
Nikolai lifted his head to look down—and froze.
His jaw slackened.
Right over his chest, scrawled across hard planes of muscle and curling around his tattoos, was a face. Or at least, what Rose considered a face. Two lopsided circles for eyes. A crooked line for a mouth. Hair that looked like flames bursting out in every direction.
It was… an attempt. At best.
Rose clapped her hands like a delighted child. "It's me!"
Nikolai stared at it for a long beat. Then, unexpectedly, his lips curved into the slowest, most reluctant smile. He let out a deep chuckle, shaking his head.
"That's supposed to be you?"
"Yes!" She jabbed her finger at the doodle. "Look, see? The hair? The little smile? That's me!"
He couldn't stop laughing now, the sound rumbling in his chest, genuine and unrestrained. "You look like a goblin."
Her mouth dropped open in mock offense. "Excuse you! That's a masterpiece. The next Da Vinci."
"Da Vinci would turn in his grave."
"Shut up." She smacked his shoulder, then grinned devilishly. "You know what? You have to get it tattooed."
His laughter cut off instantly. "Excuse me?"
"Tattooed," she repeated, poking the drawing right over his heart. "Right here. My face. Forever."
He stared at her as though she'd grown another head. "You can't be serious."
"I'm dead serious. Imagine—big scary Nikolai, mafia boss, killer of men, with a tattoo of his girl's face on his chest. That's commitment."
He huffed out a laugh, sitting up and easily flipping her onto the cushions beside him, caging her with his arms. "You're insane."
She giggled, utterly unbothered. "Maybe. But you love it."
Nikolai glanced down at the crooked little face scrawled across his chest, then back at the flushed, giggling redhead beside him. And despite himself, he smiled again, softer this time.
"God help me," he muttered under his breath.
Rose just patted his cheek with drunken seriousness. "Better start booking that tattoo appointment, pretty boy."
Rose was still grinning at her handiwork, eyes sparkling with drunken pride. She leaned back against the cushions, legs tucked under her like a child showing off a crayon drawing. Nikolai shook his head in disbelief, rubbing at his chest as if the absurd little doodle might sink through his skin.
"That," he muttered, "is never becoming permanent."
"Yet." She corrected him, wagging her finger. "Never say never, pretty boy. You're mine. Property of Rose."
He gave her a long, flat look. "Property?"
"Mhm." She tapped her temple, swaying slightly. "Don't fight it. You're stuck with me. Which is why…"
She trailed off, her lips curling into a mischievous smile that Nikolai instantly recognized as dangerous.
"Which is why what?" he asked warily.
Rose leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, even though there was no one else in the penthouse. "Marry me."
The words hung there like a firecracker in the silence.
Nikolai blinked. Once. Twice.
Then, to her utter shock, a low chuckle rumbled from his chest. He tilted his head, studying her flushed face, the hopeful glint in her glassy eyes, and the absurd seriousness in her tone.
"That's my job, little one," he murmured. "Not yours."
Rose pouted. "Why not mine? It's the twenty-first century. Girls can propose."
"Not to me." His voice was warm, teasing, but firm.
She groaned dramatically and flopped against the cushions. "You're no fun. Just say yes."
He leaned over her, bracing one hand on the back of the couch, his face close enough that his hair brushed her forehead. His smile was crooked, dangerous in a softer way than she was used to.
"When I ask," he said slowly, like a promise wrapped in steel, "you'll be sober. And you'll remember it."
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe. The world tilted—not from the alcohol this time, but from the weight of his words.
Then she blinked, recovering, and smirked. "So you are planning to ask."
His eyes gleamed with amusement. "Go to sleep, Rose."
"Dodging the question…" she sang softly, poking his chest right where her doodle stared up at him. "But fine. I'll wait. Just don't take forever, pretty boy."
Nikolai chuckled again, low and rich. He pressed the lightest kiss against her temple, and though she scrunched up her nose and muttered, "Ew,"
He watched her a moment longer, the doodle on his chest catching his eye again, and shook his head with a quiet laugh.
This girl was chaos. Pure, unfiltered chaos.
And somehow… he wanted nothing else.