$1,500,000
His lips twisted. Jesus Christ. A bitter snort escaped him, papers snapping between his fingers. The number alone made his blood run cold, but he couldn't back out now—it was a matter of life and death. His pale knuckles whitened on the edges of the clipboard, the inked zeroes swimming in his vision.
"You gave them this money? To gamblers?" His voice cracked sharp as a whip, disbelief and disgust bleeding through every word. "Smart investment, really."
A child-like giggle slipped from the woman, shrill and sharp against the heavy silence. Her lashes fluttered as she smirked, amused at the bite in his tone. To her, it was entertainment—watching a cornered man rage at a system designed to strangle him.
It was almost worse than the number itself.
Lucien's jaw locked the second that irritating sound hit the air. Under any other circumstance, he might've thought it cute, might've even smirked at the irony—but right now it scraped across his nerves like nails dragged over metal. Every muscle in his body coiled tight, his pale eyes cutting toward her, sharp and venomous. If she hadn't been a woman—and if there weren't half a dozen rifles trained on his chest—he would've broken his own rule and shut her up with his fists. Instead, he swallowed the words searing in his throat and redirected his glare elsewhere, exhaling hard through his nose.
Nikolai, meanwhile, had been given his own clipboard and pen. Yet his attention wasn't on the page. His focus was locked to the man beside him, eyes tracing the curve of Lucien's scowl, glued to the way his mouth twisted with contempt. That expression of disdain—it was raw, honest, unfiltered.
A very minuscule part of him envied the woman for receiving it. Even hatred was a kind of attention. He wanted those stormy, silver-lavender eyes turned fully toward him, wanted the sound of Lucien's voice, sharp or low, directed only at him. He wanted the man's body in contact with his own—whether intimately or violently. Even a punch to the face would've been enough.
The blonde busied himself with sifting through his own stack of papers, pretending to read the forged debt numbers as if they meant anything. In truth, he barely skimmed them. He was far more interested in Lucien.
And he wondered—did Lucien even have enough to cover this? One and a half million wasn't the kind of money someone pulled out of thin air. Of course, Nikolai himself could've easily written it off; it wouldn't even have made a dent in his accounts. But he was a rare case, both in inheritance and in the empire he had built with his own hands. He could intervene, yes. But he didn't—not yet. Watching Lucien rage, watching that tightly bound control fray at the edges, was too compelling.
Lucien, on the other hand, was not having the luxury of fascination.
He signed his name in angry, jagged strokes, the pen cutting into the page, his signature etched so deep it nearly tore through the paper. His scowl never softened, jaw clenched as he shoved the clipboard back at the waiting employee.
"Give me six months," he snapped. "I'll pay one third now, the rest in six months. And give me a damn copy of this circus act you're calling a contract."
One button of his shirt came undone as he dragged a hand through his hair, strands sticking up wildly as pale eyes flashed. That temper—it only burned hotter the more he tried to cage it. He was going to bleed those bastards dry for this. Milk every last penny out of them once he got out alive.
For now, survival came first.
The woman didn't respond with another irritating giggle. Instead, she simply took the clipboard with a doll-like smile, gesturing to one of her men to prepare an additional copy. There was no use in poking the bear when her superior wanted business carried out smoothly. She knew better than to cheer for the other team—victims were always on the losing side of the game. Still…to see a man willingly shoulder such a monstrous debt was nothing short of impressive.
Lucien's pale eyes shifted. That's when he noticed the blonde was still staring at him.
His lips pulled into a humorless smile, teeth flashing briefly before twisting into a snarl. "Stop staring at me." His voice cracked with anger, but under the sharpness lurked something else too—confusion, maybe even defensiveness. His glare deepened. "How much are you in for, huh? Don't even think I'm going to do it for you as well."
The tension laced his words, but he was utterly oblivious to what was really behind that steel-gray stare.
The woman's brows arched with quiet amusement, curiosity pricking at her composure. She watched the interaction with open interest, entertained by the way Lucien barked and snapped at the blonde simply for staring.
Don't even think I'm going to do it for you as well.
Nikolai's lips twitched. Silver flecks glimmered with mirth, anticipation, and a touch of bewilderment. What drove this man to immolate himself for scum who'd sold him out, yet guard his pride so fiercely in the same breath? Loyalty like that was rare, dangerous even.
"I'm flattered the offer even crossed your mind," Nikolai drawled, his voice a lazy purr. "Refreshing, honestly. Not many people would bother to ask about a stranger's misfortunes when they're already neck-deep in their own shit." His smile sharpened. "I was merely captivated by your pretty face. The way your eyebrows furrow—it's rather cute."
There was no use pretending, not for him. Attraction had never been something Nikolai bothered to hide, and if timing made it inappropriate, well—that was the nature of his timing.
Lucien's face flickered through emotions too fast to pin down: confusion, annoyance, shock, even a flicker of amusement. Finally, it settled into something halfway between disgust and disbelief. His lips curled, torn between a growl and a laugh.
"…Can you stop flirting for a minute? It won't kill you," he said flatly, voice sharp with incredulity. A rough, humorless laugh escaped him, cutting the air like broken glass. "And don't flatter yourself. I couldn't give a damn about your debts."
As if to punctuate his words, Nikolai tilted the clipboard just enough for Lucien to see the numbers printed there. Six digits, crisp and damning.
$230,000
It wasn't anywhere near the mountainous sum of Mark and Liam's combined debt, but it was still enough to carve a formidable dent.
Lucien scoffed, disgust curling in his gut. "Jesus Christ. These stupid fuckers…" he muttered under his breath, disdain rolling off him in waves. "All of you gambling junkies."
Nikolai gave a low, shame-tinged chuckle—smooth, practiced, but threaded with just enough truth to sell it. "It seems I played a little too much when I borrowed. But of course," he added, tone dipping into a purr, "it was just for entertainment. I'd never take what I couldn't pay back immediately."
Then, with a flourish almost too casual for the tension in the room, Nikolai signed. Fluid motions, elegant strokes, ink dancing like a performance. His thumb pressed to the pad with no hesitation, sealing the charade.
From his pocket, he produced a platinum-black obsidian card and placed it neatly on the clipboard, sliding it back to the waiting employee with the air of someone handing over a dinner check instead of blood money.
Lucien gave a low, bitter chuckle, the sound scraping out of his throat like broken glass. His scowl deepened, carving hard lines into his face.
"Good for you. So responsible with your gambling money. Paying it off like a fucking champ."
The sarcasm dripped from every syllable, sharp enough to cut. And yet, despite himself, his lips twitched faintly. His pale eyes narrowed, snagging on that sleek black card as it glinted under the low light. He couldn't quite ignore the way the blonde had pulled it out without so much as a blink, like money meant less to him than air.
Nikolai's eyes lingered back on him, deliberate, unapologetic. Damp strands of hair clung stubbornly to Lucien's forehead, framing the stark lines of his face. The dim light cast his collarbone into relief, every contour looking too damn tempting for Nikolai's restless imagination. That lean waist, pulled taut with fury and tension—it was maddening. His lips curled in the faintest smirk, voice low and velvet-smooth, heavy with suggestion.
"Keep scowling at me like that," he murmured, "and I might just take it as an invitation."
The words landed like a spark in dry tinder.
Lucien exhaled hard through his nose, a sound closer to a growl than a breath. His shoulders stiffened, chest wound tight as though braced for a blow. It wasn't often he found himself caught between wanting to punch someone square in the jaw or laugh at their sheer audacity—but here he was, jaw clenched, pulse thundering like war drums in his ears, pretending none of it touched him.
"Be a little more aware of the situation, will you?" he muttered, a scornful snort punctuating the words. His eyes narrowed, but his voice lacked its usual bite, as though the irritation was tangled with something else—something he refused to name.
This guy. This infuriating, too-composed stranger.
Lucien just couldn't put his finger on it, but there was definitely something up this guy.