Nikolai was calm.
Way too calm.
Sitting there with that polite little smile, lounging as if guns weren't pointed at their heads, as if danger was nothing more than a stage play put on for his amusement. Too calm, too sharp, and—God help him—too handsome. Suspicious as hell.
Lucien's smoky eyes cut back to him, sharp and cold. "Tell me something, Mr. Responsible Gambler—" His tone twisted the words into pure mockery as he leaned forward just slightly, chin lifted in defiance. "If you had that kind of cash lying around, why the fuck didn't you pay before they dragged you here? You just like the drama?"
Like the drama?
The words curled inside Nikolai's mind like smoke. He tilted his head, considering. Was that the correct word for it? Did he like it? Obviously not.
…But absolutely, he loved it.
The gazes of fear, the tight lines of anxiety etched into desperate faces. The occasional flash of pride, the stubborn tilt of a chin, the quiet despair when hope was finally snuffed out—it was intoxicating. Sweet, like marshmallows melting into hot chocolate.
Nikolai's lips twitched, though his eyes stayed cool, deliberate. He placed the card back onto the clipboard with a smooth, practiced motion, his voice honeyed, calm to the point of unnerving.
"I'd like to pay two-thirds of the amount today," he said softly, directing his words to the waiting employee with perfect courtesy.
Every move of his arms was precise. His smile—measured. Even his tone, smooth as silk. Too calm, far too calm for the storm brewing in the room.
"Six months though…" he echoed, almost idly, as though rolling the words around in his mouth. A low hum followed, pensive, as his fingers toyed absently with the band of his watch. "That's a long time. A lot can happen in six months." His gray eyes slid lazily back to Lucien, flickering with amusement, curiosity, something darker.
The blonde's easy manner, his too-smooth tone, it all grated against Lucien's frayed nerves. Suspicion and irritation mingled, dragging his scowl deeper. His eyes narrowed, voice dropping low, sharp as broken glass.
"What do you mean by that?"
Nikolai's eyes turned into vicious, crescents, "What happens if those buffoons leave here tonight only to come crawling back to the tables?" His voice dipped quieter, sincere in tone but heavy with undertone. "What then?"
The question lingered, uncomfortably genuine despite the smooth delivery.
Would Lucien take the fall for them again?
How much did this man truly know about Mark and Liam? How much of his loyalty was choice, and how much of it was the curse of his own pride?
Lucien's shoulders flinched as though hit. Not because of what the blonde said, but rather a new ominous train of thoughts. Those papers and everything already indicated that Mark and Liam were serial gamblers. So what if he never gets his money back? In the first place, it's not like he had that kind of money laying around.
Besides exactly what could he expect from people who had used his good nature to push him in fire.
He grumbled, running a hand down his face before growling, "If they do it again, it's on them. I couldn't let them get killed—not on my watch." His voice cracked with restrained fury before he forced it back down, teeth grinding.
"Once I get out of here…" He exhaled, bitter and seething. "I'm never setting foot in this hellhole again."
His hand raked through his hair, tugging at the roots as he muttered under his breath, his expression hardening again. "Fucking swamp. That's all this place is." And he was already sinking.
Words of resentment spilled from Lucien like venom; the alpha beside him listened, expression unreadable, as the man he'd only just met bit and spat at their supposed friends. This act of "heroism" — offering to shoulder Mark and Liam's debt — didn't sit clean in Nikolai's gut. He'd watched men promise the moon and hand over others to burn for it before. Lucien didn't strike him as the type who'd really abandon coworkers once the pressure turned real… which made the itch to test Lucien worse.
Still, for reasons that surprised even him, Nikolai held back. He hummed a low, indulgent noise at Lucien's sneer about the casino — a swamp, shallow and quick-sanded, full of people knee-deep before they felt themselves sink — and let the jab slide. He could have pushed, prodded, pulled out the thing that would make Lucien crack. Instead he sucked the edge off his curiosity and nodded, just enough to look engaged.
Then Lucien produced his card and offered it up. The plastic was sleek, the sort of black that declared status without needing currency to explain itself. Nikolai raised an eyebrow at the matching design — amusements at the coincidence flickered across his face —
'To think we have same taste.'
But Lucien barely glanced. Finance theatre wasn't his concern; surviving was. He shoved his card forward with a clipped, "Here." It felt like a stomach drop to hand over anything of value. He would get it back. He told himself so, steady as a lie.
That tiny showdown let a sliver of composure creep back across Lucien's face. The flirty bloke had drifted away, the chatter dying like a spent thing, and for a moment the alpha's face settled into something close to normal. Nikolai noticed the relief, and the corner of his mouth twitched with amusement.
An attendant took both cards, tapping and typing the details into whatever system these people used to log transfers of life and death. While they waited, the mood shifted. Nikolai's aloof mask slipped; attention sharpened. He moved his gaze over the room with the precise assessment of a hunter: employees, routes, exits, the way some of the guards' hands lingered on holsters. His posture narrowed, hands slipping into his pockets, jaw setting.
A small cluster of workers huddled at the far end caught his eye; he frowned. He was about to snap something when the crisp click-clack of the woman's heels cut the air — she returned with both cards in hand, perfect nails glinting. "Here you are, gentlemen," she cooed, voice syrup and steel. "We'll need to bind you again and obscure your vision for the escort."
Two men stepped forward. Bags snapped back over heads, ropes bit wrists. They guided the group up toward the casino proper, through corridors that smelled like bleach and old money. Once there, with no witnesses and no eyes left to watch, the sacks came off. Orders barked. "Everyone out. No questions. If any of you report this — we have eyes and ears everywhere. Consequences." The woman smiled like a hostess and meant it as a threat.
They started to file out. Almost everyone moved, stunned and shaking, carrying the weight of whatever had just happened. One person, however, was missing from the escorted crowd. Nikolai was not among the departing set.
Down below, in the murky heart of the underground, he had been occupied with his own business. The alpha's hands were wet and red, the skin of his knuckles raw where he'd been testing the competence of certain employees. Flesh and bone met leather and muscle in quick, efficient corrections — a private lesson in obedience. He flung an icy glance at the woman as he flicked excess blood from his hands, casual as someone blotting a spill. "I want detailed files on Lucien Hale, on my desk," he said, voice flat. "And arrange a meeting with the trainers. That performance was pathetic."
The woman nodded once, fingers still curled possessively around her superior's card she'd been reluctant to return. She truly hoped, she could survive this.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
When Lucien's hood peeled away the second time, his instinct was all teeth and bitterness. He wanted to swear at the crowd, at the sham of civility, at the fact that his 'friends' had disappeared into the night. He kept his tongue. He took stock instead: fresh bruises, wrists smarting where ropes had bitten. He hissed under his breath; adrenaline finally started to ebb.
The echoes of gunshots, of bodies falling, still thudded in his memory. He had watched two men die in front of him. The weight of that — the irrevocable, terrible finality — lodged in his gut and wouldn't let go. He scanned the heads and shoulders spilling out into the casino foyer. Mark and Liam weren't among them. He started to worry in a way he didn't want to admit.
Phones went to black. He tried Mark. Straight to voicemail. He tried Liam. Silence. He left messages, each one firmer than the last, diagnostic. "Mark — where are you? After this stunt, call me back. Liam, you too." He let the messages breathe into the dark, then trudged to his car like a man moving through molasses.
Tomorrow was a shoot. He didn't want to even think about how he was going to answer the question on set, to his girlfriend and God help if his father ended up seeing his bruises.
He made a mental list as he drove home: pick up foundation, bring a shirt with sturdy cuffs, call the cop friend from highschool — the one who owed him a favor.
He would makes all of these bastard pay!
Lucien drove home with his jaw set and his hands white on the wheel, the city lights slicing at his thoughts. He knew how to play this — he wasn't reckless, just stubborn and loyal.
He parked, let the engine die with a harsh exhale, and let the dark roll over him like a cloak. He would fight. He always did.