Morning crept into the penthouse with a soft wash of pale gold spilling through the tall windows. The light slid lazily over the polished floorboards, across the vast bed where Rose stirred, buried in a cocoon of tangled sheets. Her lashes fluttered, a groan slipping past her lips as the brightness poked insistently at her eyelids. Her head throbbed—not brutally, but with the faint echo of last night's chaos.
When she finally peeled open her eyes, the first thing she noticed was the emptiness beside her. The space where Nikolai usually slept was cold, untouched. No weight, no warmth, no intimidating presence. Just silence.
Rose sat up slowly, hair a glorious disaster, strands sticking in every possible direction. The memories began to seep back—like scattered puzzle pieces finding their fit. She remembered drinks. Laughter. Ordering Nikolai around like he was her personal model. Making him take off his shirt. Drawing on his chest.
Her stomach lurched.
"Oh, God…" she muttered, dragging both hands over her face. "I didn't. I couldn't have…"
But she had. She remembered enough to know it wasn't just some fever dream. She had actually bullied the terrifying Nikolai Ivanov into lying on the couch so she could doodle on him with a permanent marker. And worse—she remembered ordering him to get a tattoo of her ridiculous five-year-old scribble.
She groaned, collapsing back into the pillows. "Kill me now."
The embarrassment pulsed in her chest like a second heartbeat. Facing him after that was going to be pure torture.
Eventually, she dragged herself out of bed, her body heavy with reluctant energy. She padded to the bathroom, peeled off last night's clothes, and stepped into the shower. The water was hot, cleansing, and she let it pound against her scalp, trying to wash away not just the alcohol but the memory of her absurdity.
"Pretty boy," she whispered to herself, remembering calling him that, cheeks heating. She buried her face under the spray, mortified. "Why do I open my mouth?"
By the time she emerged, her skin was flushed, and her hair smelled faintly of citrus shampoo. She wrapped herself in a towel, walked back into the bedroom, and stared at the closet. She wasn't in the mood to pick out a whole outfit.
Her eyes drifted to the wardrobe on the other side. His wardrobe.
With a mischievous shrug—part rebellion, part laziness—she tugged one of Nikolai's shirts off a hanger. It was oversized, drowning her small frame, the sleeves reaching past her wrists. She buttoned it halfway, the fabric smelling faintly of his cologne: crisp smoke, cedar, something dark and sharp. She inhaled it like it was oxygen, and for a moment, the embarrassment softened into a strange comfort.
Padding barefoot through the silent penthouse, she made her way to the kitchen. The marble counters gleamed, pristine as ever. The fridge was intimidating, stocked with ingredients she didn't even know how to pronounce, let alone cook.
Rose sighed. "Nope. Not today."
She reached for the cereal. It was safer, faster, and didn't risk burning the place down. She poured milk into the bowl, grabbed a spoon, and perched on a stool, munching slowly. Each bite tasted like a small victory. At least she could feed herself without catastrophe.
When the bowl was empty, she rinsed it halfheartedly and wandered into the living room. The enormous television loomed over her, screens glowing as she flipped through channels—news, sitcoms, old reruns she barely paid attention to. She curled up on the couch, hugging a pillow to her chest, still silently praying that Nikolai would stay gone long enough for her to recover some dignity.
The universe, however, had other plans.
The front door clicked open.
Rose froze, pillow still clutched tightly. Her eyes darted to the entryway as Nikolai stepped inside, dressed in dark jeans and a casual black jacket, his expression unreadable as always. He carried an aura of sharpness even when he wasn't trying, like danger wrapped in elegance.
Her stomach knotted.
"You're back," she said, voice high-pitched in her own ears. She tried to play it casual, but her fingers tightened on the pillow. "Where did you go off to?"
Nikolai shut the door behind him, sliding the jacket off his shoulders with slow precision. His gaze flicked to her, cool and piercing, then softened into something smug. "I went to do what you asked."
Rose blinked. Her mind scrambled. "What… I asked?"
He stepped further into the living room, letting the jacket fall over a chair. His lips twitched, like he was suppressing a smirk. Without another word, he gripped the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion.
Rose's eyes went wide.
Because right there, across the planes of his sculpted chest, etched in stark black ink—was the drawing. Or rather, the cleaned-up professional version of her drunken doodle.
Her breath caught.
It was a face. Her face. Not realistic, not beautiful—still stylized, simple lines—but undeniably hers. And it sat directly over his heart. Below it, in bold script, were the words:
PROPERTY OF ROSE.
Rose's jaw dropped. Words deserted her. Air deserted her. Her entire soul seemed to evaporate into thin air.
She just stared.
Nikolai stood there, unbothered, like it was the most casual thing in the world. His chest rose and fell, muscles flexing slightly as he tilted his head, watching her reaction with quiet amusement.
Finally, she found her voice—or at least a fragment of it.
"You—" She jabbed a finger at him, then at the tattoo, sputtering. "You didn't. You did not. Tell me you didn't actually—"
"I did," he interrupted smoothly, as if she'd asked him if he had remembered to buy bread.
Rose's legs buckled, and she collapsed back onto the couch, hands flying to her face. "You're insane. Absolutely insane. Oh my God, you actually did it."
His lips curved into a slow, wicked smile. "You ordered me to, did you not?"
"I was drunk!" she exclaimed, muffled through her palms. "I was drunk out of my mind! You weren't supposed to listen to me!"
"You seemed very sure of yourself," he countered. His voice was calm, teasing in a dangerous way. "You pushed me onto the couch, marker in hand, and declared it your masterpiece. I am a man of my word. You asked, I delivered."
Rose peeked at him through her fingers, utterly scandalized. The tattoo glared back at her like proof of her stupidity. "That's not just insane. That's—you're—ugh!"
He chuckled, the sound low and husky, vibrating in the air. "Speechless?"
She groaned, flopping sideways onto the couch, hugging the pillow tighter. "Beyond speechless. I don't even have words for this level of madness."
Nikolai moved closer, his bare footsteps soundless on the floor until he loomed beside her. He crouched slightly, forcing her to look up at him, his chest and that tattoo all but shoved in her face.
"Get used to it, Rose," he said softly, smugness dripping from every syllable. "Because you live with madness now."
She slapped a hand over her eyes dramatically. "Why me? Why, God?!"
His laugh was unrestrained this time, rich and full, echoing through the penthouse. It was the laugh of a man who had thoroughly enjoyed watching her unravel.
Rose peeked again, cheeks blazing. The tattoo was still there. Permanent. Real.
"I can't believe you'd mark yourself like that," she muttered.
"I told you," Nikolai replied, leaning back with ease, his grin sharp. "You are mine. Now the world knows it too."
Rose buried her face into the pillow, muffling her scream. "This man is insane."
"Correction," he said, straightening and pulling the shirt back over his head. "This man is yours."
Her heart stuttered, and despite her embarrassment, something deep inside her trembled—not with fear, but with something far more dangerous.