Nickolai's POV
The ropes bit into my wrists, skin already raw from hours of stillness. My head tilted forward, pretending to hang heavy under the drug she thought would keep me weak. My breathing, deliberately uneven, rasped like someone caught between wakefulness and oblivion. A low hum from the distant machinery vibrated through the floor, a constant, low-level thrumming that I used to anchor my mind. She thought she had me. That was her mistake.
Years of training, of beatings, of learning to slip through restraints when there was no air left in my lungs—those lessons never left me. Anger sharpened me, but rage was useless without control. I forced my muscles to remain slack, hiding the slow, meticulous work of my fingers against the knot. The coarse hemp fibers dug into my flesh with every subtle twist, but the pain was a familiar companion.
Her voice drifted closer, silk over steel. "You know, Nickolai... you're just as stubborn as I remember."
Every word she spoke scraped against old scars I didn't even know I carried. Memory tried to surface, fragments of something I couldn't yet name—a gentle hand, a soft laugh, a distant memory of her face. I shoved them down. Focus. The knot loosened, each thread surrendering beneath subtle twists of my thumb. I felt a small, triumphant give in the rope.
I could hear the click of her heels against the concrete floor, the sound sharp and precise in the cavernous space. I smelled the faint, intoxicating perfume of jasmine mixed with worn leather. Her presence was intoxicating in the worst way—like poison wrapped in beauty. She crouched before me, her crimson heels a defiant splash of color in the gloom, eyes glittering in the dim light.
"Still pretending?" she teased, her fingers brushing along my jaw. The touch was playful, taunting, but I caught the quick flicker in her eyes—calculating, waiting for me to react.
Good. Let her believe she was ahead.
The final knot gave way. My pulse surged, a frantic beat in my ears. I kept my wrists angled behind the chair, making no sudden movements. One wrong twitch and she'd notice. I waited until her lips curved into that dangerous smirk, the one that said she knew she had won.
Then I moved.
My hand shot forward, a blur of motion, catching her wrist midair before she could strike. My grip was a steel vise. Her gasp was sharp but not startled—almost... excited. I rose, shoving off the chair, the rest of the rope falling away with a soft thud. The chair scraped against the concrete. She staggered back, but her balance was feline, elegant.
Her laugh cut through the tension like a blade. "Finally."
We collided. My fist swung, a blur of fury and frustration, but hers blocked, the smack of flesh against flesh echoing in the empty room. She moved with a fluid precision I hadn't anticipated, years of training matching mine beat for beat. I ducked her kick, swept her leg, only for her to twist midair and land like a dancer. The air between us crackled with a charged energy.
The fight wasn't just violence. It was a brutal, intimate dance.
Her body brushed against mine in every counter, heat sparking where skin grazed skin. My knuckles ached, my chest heaved, and still her infuriating smile never faltered.
"You've improved," she murmured, catching my arm and twisting it behind me. Her breath ghosted across my ear, sending a jolt through me that had nothing to do with pain. "But you're still predictable."
I slammed her into the wall, the impact a jarring thud. I pinned her there, muscles straining against hers. Her hands were on my chest, not pushing, but holding. "Predict this."
Her lips curved, inches from mine, the smirk maddeningly close. I could feel the thrum of her pulse where my hand pressed to her throat—not choking, just holding. Her eyes burned with something dark and amused, a silent challenge. My body was on fire, a mixture of rage and a raw, unwanted desire.
And then she kissed me.
The shock stole a half second from me. It was warm, insistent, and deliberate. Her mouth moved against mine, and every nerve screamed confusion—rage, desire, betrayal, hunger. My body, a traitor, answered before my mind caught up. I felt myself leaning in, a desperate, guttural sound catching in my throat.
That was all she needed.
A sharp sting pricked my side. My eyes widened as I realized what she'd done. The syringe was already empty, liquid fire spreading through my veins.
I staggered back, shoving her away, but the world tilted. My fists clenched, trying to fight the inevitable. My vision blurred, limbs heavy. She stepped forward, watching me with triumph in her gaze, her smile a beautiful, wicked thing.
"Two steps ahead, Nickolai. Always."
The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was her smile—satisfied, dangerous, victorious.
Anastasia's POV
He fell like I knew he would, eyes blazing even as the drug pulled him under. I caught his weight before he hit the ground. Strong. So strong, even in defeat. My chest rose with exhilaration, my lips still tingling from the kiss. It had been a calculated move, a final, intoxicating show of control, but the taste of him... it was more potent than I'd imagined.
I pressed my fingers to my mouth and laughed softly. "Predictable, yet intoxicating."
Dragging him wasn't easy. He was heavier than he looked, though every inch of muscle was familiar to my grip from our brief, violent dance. I bound his wrists again—tighter this time—and secured the lock around his ankles. Not ropes now, but steel. He'd earned that.
The sound of the helicopter's blades thundered overhead, the whirring a stark contrast to the quiet of the warehouse. My men lifted him into the cabin, and I followed, settling beside his unconscious form. His jaw was tight even in sleep, his body resisting the drug's pull. It stirred something dangerous in me—admiration, hunger, maybe even nostalgia.
The flight to the island was an hour, yet it passed in a blur. The ocean spread beneath us, black silk rippling under moonlight. The city lights of Moscow became a distant memory, replaced by the vast, silent expanse of the sea. By the time we landed, the world felt entirely ours—isolated, untouchable.
My penthouse rose like a jewel carved into the island cliff, its glass walls glinting beneath the stars. Inside, everything was sleek, cold elegance—white marble floors, silver accents, the faint scent of sea air seeping in through open balconies. The minimalist design was deliberate, a clean, sterile canvas for my life, a stark opposite to the chaotic, bloody world I commanded.
He stirred as we carried him into the master suite. I dismissed the guards. This part was mine alone.
I locked the cuffs around his wrists and ankles, chaining him to the heavy steel fixture bolted to the floor. The chain was long enough for him to move within the room, but never beyond it. A cage disguised as luxury.
When his eyes finally flickered open, I was waiting.
Nickolai's POV
The drug clung to me like fog, but I forced myself upright. Cold steel rattled at my wrists, and the chain at my ankle tugged when I tried to move.
Not ropes. This time she had learned.
The room around me was nothing like the dark cell I'd expected. White, gleaming, expensive. The kind of wealth that mocked restraint. My body ached, a deep, bone-weary protest against the lingering sedative. I turned slowly, every muscle screaming, and found her leaning casually against the balcony door.
Moonlight poured around her, outlining her silhouette in silver. She wore black silk, flowing yet sharp, as if she were carved to belong in shadows.
Her smile was infuriating. "Welcome to my sanctuary."
My voice was rough, but steady. "This isn't over."
"Of course not," she purred, stepping closer. Her heels clicked softly against marble. She crouched in front of me, fingers tracing the chain at my wrist like it was jewelry. "I wouldn't want it to be."
Her eyes lifted to mine, molten with secrets. "But maybe it's time I gave you... clues. Little pieces to help you understand the past."
Past. The word struck me like a blade. My mind flashed with fragments—fire, a scream, a name I couldn't grasp. My pulse hammered, fury clawing at my chest. I fought the chains, the metal biting into my skin, the sound of the clinking a deafening echo in the quiet room.
I leaned forward, chains clinking, my voice low. "You think I'll play your game?"
Her smirk widened. "You already are."