Nikolai
Elijah looks like shit.
He's sitting in the passenger seat, tapping his fingers against his jeans like a caged animal, the bruises on his knuckles a fresh reminder of just how close he came to rotting behind bars tonight.
I pull into my driveway, jaw tight, my blood still simmering from the phone call that dragged me out of my office earlier.
I cut the engine and turn to him. "You think this is a game, don't you?"
He doesn't answer, just stares out the window, his mouth set in a hard line.
I grab the back of his neck, not gently. "Look at me when I'm talking to you."
His eyes finally meet mine, defiance burning in them. The same defiance that got him caught with drugs in the first place.
"You want to 'rebel'? Do it on your own time. Next time you get locked up, don't expect me to bail you out. You'll rot in there. Understand?"
His jaw works, teeth grinding. Finally, he mutters, "Yeah. I get it."
"Say it properly."
His nostrils flare. "I understand."
"Good." I shove him back into the seat and step out of the car. "You're staying with me for a while. Clearly, you need someone to keep you from destroying yourself."
"What?" he snaps, climbing out after me. "I don't need a babysitter, Nikolai."
"Too bad. You've got one."
He grumbles something under his breath, but follows me into the house anyway.
The second I step inside, the hair on the back of my neck rises. Something's off.
My gaze sharpens, scanning the entryway. A glass on the counter that wasn't there this morning. The faint smell of garlic.
Someone's been here.
I reach for the gun tucked at the small of my back and draw it in a single, fluid motion. Elijah freezes behind me.
A noise comes from the kitchen—movement. A pan clattering.
I raise the gun and step in, silent, precise, every muscle coiled.
And then I see who it is.
Rodrigo.
In an apron. Stirring a pot, my pot.
I squeeze the trigger. The bullet slams into the wall a breath from his head.
He doesn't even flinch. Just turns slowly, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
"Welcome home, honey," he drawls, voice dripping with sarcasm.
Elijah snorts behind me, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
I lower the gun, sliding it back into the waistband of my trousers. My glare doesn't waver. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop breaking into my house?"
Rodrigo shrugs, turning back to the stove. "What can I say? These are the cons of having a best friend who owns a tech company. I could hack my way into the Pentagon. Your security system is child's play."
"Don't you have a house of your own?"
"I do," he says breezily, tossing something into the pan. "But yours is better. And I ran out of food."
I shake my head, already walking away. Elijah disappears down the hall, no doubt grateful to avoid the circus that is Rodrigo.
Behind me, I hear Rodrigo call out in mock sweetness: "So, what would you like to eat, darling?"
"Fuck you," I snap back without missing a beat.
He laughs, loud and careless, like he's exactly where he belongs.
And I hate that he's right.
When I step back into the living room, Rodrigo's sprawled across my couch. Feet propped on the table, lasagna balanced in one hand, eyes glued to the television.
My jaw tightens. "Get your feet off my table."
He doesn't even look at me. Just takes another bite, mouth full as he mumbles, "Relax, man. It's just furniture."
"Furniture that costs more than your entire apartment," I snap. My gaze narrows at the screen—some pastel-colored rom com playing out in the background. "And what the hell are you watching?"
Rodrigo grins, fork stabbing into his lasagna. "Rom com. Classic. You wouldn't get it."
I shake my head, disgust curling in my chest. "I swear, you should've been born a girl."
That gets me a glance, a flash of teeth as he smirks. "And you should've been born with a heart. You don't know what good things you're missing in life." Then, without missing a beat, he points his fork at the TV and shouts, "No, not her! She's using you, you idiot!"
I pinch the bridge of my nose, refusing to dignify that with a response. "Don't let Elijah leave without telling me first."
Rodrigo waves me off, already sucked back into the screen. "Yeah, yeah."
I sigh and leave, already regretting letting him stay in my house.
…
By the time I'm back in my office, the weight of work has settled back over me like a second skin. I pick up the phone, voice clipped. "Send in the file I asked for this morning."
Minutes later, the door opens. My secretary walks in, heels clicking against the marble. She's carrying the file, but the way she moves makes it clear she thinks she's delivering more than paperwork.
Her blouse is tight, the top two buttons undone, and the skirt she's poured herself into barely qualifies as professional.
She places the file on my desk and lingers, her gaze flicking up, waiting.
I don't bother looking at her. My eyes are already on the papers, flipping through them. "If there's nothing else," I say coldly, "you can be on your way."
She hesitates. Then she heads for the door,but before she can leave
"Stop."
Her breath catches. She turns back, eyes bright with something she won't get from me.
I lift my gaze just enough to pin her in place, my voice like steel. "Did no one teach you how to dress? Or common professional etiquette? If so, learn it."
The color drains from her face, heat rushing in its place. She opens her mouth, then shuts it quickly.
"Shut the door behind you," I add, already dropping my attention back to the file.
The sound of her heels retreating, the door clicking shut—it's the only answer I need.