Sloane
I decided that I didn’t want to run anymore.
Sure, I could disappear and make a new life for myself somewhere on a beach with those deliciously boozy drinks with the cute little umbrellas, but that wasn’t what I wanted anymore. That was boring.
This? This was living. Maybe I was sick for liking it. Maybe it said something about the way I was wired that I didn’t flinch when Nikolai opened the car door and ordered me to get in.
I slid into the passenger seat without asking where we were going, or what we were doing. He climbed into the driver’s seat and the low rumble of the engine purred to life. In moments, the city of Boston was sliding by like a moving picture.
“I meant what I said back there,” he said finally, his voice breaking through the quiet.
I glanced at him, cautious. “Which part?”
“The part where I said I was proud of you.”
My stomach flipped.
I looked away too fast, eyes flicking to the city like the skyline might rescue me from that kind of sincerity. It didn’t. The window only reflected my own stunned face back at me.
“People don’t say that kind of thing unless they want something,” I muttered.
“I already have what I want.”
I swallowed. Hard.
“You’re dangerous when you talk like that,” I said, trying to smirk, trying to hold back the part of me that needed that sentence to be true more than I cared to admit.
“I’m always dangerous,” he said, turning the wheel with one hand, eyes still fixed on the road. “But I’m never careless. And I don’t hand out praise like candy.”
“You’re not exactly a Hallmark card, no.”
“And yet,” he said, glancing at me for just a second, “you stood in a room full of men who run this city, and you didn’t even flinch.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything at all.
I just let the quiet fall again, heavier this time. Like it meant something. The dynamic between us had shifted and we were both waiting to see what would settle in its place.
He didn’t speak again until we pulled up to the curb at what appeared to be a really nice steakhouse. The valet opened my door before I could really get a look at anything beside the name of the restaurant.
Relic.
Nikolai was already at my side.
He didn’t offer his arm. Just placed a hand on my lower back like a silent claim. We went through the doors and into the warmth of candlelight and stone walls, velvet booths and shadows. We stepped into the kind of hush that only came with raw power and exclusivity.
He didn’t have a reservation, per se. He didn’t need one. Apparently, he’d bought the whole place out.
Because of course he had.
The host led us to a table at the far end of the room, semi-private, lit by the flicker of soft gold light from a hanging lantern. At the table, he pulled out my chair, not as a gentleman, but as someone who knew I would sit where he wanted me to. As someone who expected obedience without demanding it.
He ordered our food without asking me what I wanted, and I let him.
The truth was my thoughts were still spinning, still tangled around what had happened back at the Iron Wolf. I’d stood up to my father. I’d told a room full of criminals exactly how to burn a man to the ground. I’d claimed a seat I was never supposed to have.
Now here I was, being rewarded for it. Seen for it.
I glanced at Nikolai as he studied the wine list, as calm and collected as ever, like the war we were about to wage was just another business transaction. The waiter came back, and he ordered a bottle of red. I was too lost in my own head to pay attention to what kind it was, but when a portion was poured into my glass, I nodded, sipped it, and groaned with pleasure at the taste of rich blackberries and smoky bourbon exploding across my tongue.
The first course arrived without fanfare, just the soft thump of porcelain against the wooden tabletop and the quiet clink of silverware.
The waiter didn’t speak. He just placed the plates down with a practiced grace and disappeared into the velvet-lined shadows like he hadn’t even been there at all.
In front of me, a delicate starter: charred bone marrow with sea salt and thyme, served beside torn hunks of warm baguette and a smear of smoked garlic butter that made my mouth water. Across from me, Nikolai’s plate held a twelve-ounce wagyu ribeye, cooked rare—still bleeding slightly at the center—and sliced perfectly across the grain. It glistened under the low lighting, juice pooling on the plate.
He cut into it without a word, like it wasn’t unusual to be dining alone with the woman you’d taken from her own apartment and were going to force to walk down the aisle in a few days. As if this wasn’t the aftermath of a political war meeting where I’d nearly come to blows with my father in a room full of Russian power.
I watched him chew slowly, savoring the bite. I didn’t know why, but it did something to me. The way he ate. Calm. Intentional.
I hadn’t even touched my fork yet.
Instead, I tilted my head slightly and asked, “What do you think it’s going to be like?”
He looked up from his plate. “What?”
“Us. You and me. As husband and wife.”
A flicker of something passed through his eyes, amusement maybe, but not mocking. “Bold question.”
I shrugged, tearing off a corner of the baguette and dragging it through the marrow, not looking at him. “You’re the one who just decided you were going to marry me, Morozov. Don’t act surprised that I’m trying to understand the terms of my impending captivity.”
That earned the barest twitch of his lips. “Captivity?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t like the word.”
“I like what it means when you say it.”
I rolled my eyes. He set his knife down gently, wiped his mouth with the linen napkin, and leaned back in the booth.
“It will be loud. And chaotic. Because you are. It’ll be a constant battle of wills until you realize I’m always going to win, each and every time.”
I huffed, even as heat swirled low in my belly. “Sounds exhausting.”
“It’ll be worth it.”
He spoke with conviction, certain what he said was true.
Maybe that’s what threw me off the most—how damn certain he was. Like he wasn’t just hoping this would work. He’d already decided it would. He’d chosen it. Chosen me.
“You ever wanted someone like me before?” I asked, my voice softer now.
“No.”
“Why now?”
His eyes met mine, unflinching.
“Because you don’t need saving. You need containment and I know how to do that without putting out your fire.”
The breath left my lungs in a long, slow exhale.
I tried to deflect. “Your brothers think this is a good idea?”
“They trust me,” he said, cutting another bite of steak, the sound of the knife against the plate oddly grounding. “They’ve seen what happens when I decide something is mine.”
I stared at him for a moment. “And the fighting? Is that going to keep going?”
He nodded. “I fight because I’m good at it.”
“How good?”
“Undefeated.”
The word landed in my chest like a fist.
I twisted the stem of my wineglass between my fingers. “You love it, don’t you?”
“I love what it does to the men who step in the ring with me.”
That made me shiver.
I took a sip of my wine. Let it settle. Then asked carefully, “What about the Bratva side of things?”
He didn’t even blink. “What about it?”
“You’re still going to run it? With your brothers?”
He tilted his head. “Yes.”
“And… is it all fight rings and smuggling and dirty money, or—”
“Be specific, Sloane.”
I exhaled. “Have you ever killed anyone?”
He didn’t answer right away, just stared at me: flat, composed, calculating. Then he nodded. Once.
Something in my chest twisted—half fear, half something darker. A throb in the base of my spine, the kind of instinctive thrill that came with knowing the man across from me could end lives… yet had chosen not to hurt me even when I’d messed around in his world.
I didn’t look away, and neither did he.
He lifted his wineglass, drank slowly, and when he set it down again, I knew we’d just crossed into something else entirely.
“You still want to marry me?” I asked, voice too breathless for my own comfort.
“Yes,” he said, with a finality that sent heat rushing through every inch of me.
The second course came and went.
Some kind of roasted duck with glazed figs and wild mushroom risotto, perfect and delicious and expensive, but my fork barely moved.
I took another sip of wine, letting the decadent red glide down my throat as I tried not to think about how deeply I was already in this. I so badly wanted to lean across the table and touch the hand he wasn’t using to eat, just to feel the heat of it, just to remind myself that he was real. That this was all real.
When dessert arrived—a dark chocolate tart with raspberry coulis and a little dollop of cream so perfect it looked like art—I finally broke the silence.
“This was…” I cleared my throat. “A lot of effort.”
“I like feeding what’s mine,” he said simply.
I looked down at the tart, then back at him. “So that’s what I am now? Yours?”
His eyes didn’t flinch. “You were always going to be. From the second I saw you watching me at that fight.”
I should have rolled my eyes. Should have laughed, maybe. But instead, I picked up my spoon and tasted the dessert. It melted on my tongue: dark, rich, a little bitter, a little sweet. Like something self-indulgent and wrong and impossible to walk away from.
Like him.
That’s when it really hit me. I’d never been with a man like Nikolai Morozov. Not even close.
The guys I’d dated—boys, really—had been pretty and messy. All cocky grins and soft hands. Sloppy kisses that didn’t go anywhere. Fingers that fumbled and begged. All ego and nothing to back it up. All play, no purpose. They wanted attention. Nikolai wanted obedience. They wanted to be adored. Nikolai wanted to own.
Fuck.
I was falling for him. Right here, right now at this very table. Headfirst. Straight out of the plane. No parachute.
He must have seen something in my face, because he leaned in a little, voice subdued now.
“You’re thinking too hard.”
“I’m thinking exactly the right amount,” I said, but my own tone had softened as well.
He smiled. Just a little. Then stood, circled the table, and offered his hand.
“We’re done here.”
I looked up at him and put my hand in his.
The drive back to the penthouse was silent again, but this time it didn’t feel heavy. It felt inevitable. Like we’d stepped into the current of a rushing river too strong to fight, and now we were just being carried away by it. His fingers brushed my thigh once at a red light, and the heat it sparked made my breath catch.
When we pulled into the garage, I expected him to go around the car to open my door, but he didn’t. He just looked at me.
“You were a good girl today.”
It was a loaded statement. My heart pounded harder than it should have from something that simple.
“Was I?”
“Yes,” he said. “And I will always reward my good girl.”
The elevator ride up was fast and silent. My thighs clenched in anticipation with every floor we passed. My pulse was in my throat. That heavy ache already starting to blossom low in my belly, because I knew what was coming.
I wanted what was coming.
When the doors opened to the penthouse and I stepped out ahead of him, I could almost feel his eyes on me like a tangible caress. On the curve of my spine. On the way my dress clung to my body with every movement.
He didn’t say a word as we entered the space, but I could feel it, the tension between us stretching tighter, like a thread about to snap.
He didn’t touch me right away. He just closed the door behind us and stood there watching me like I was a present he wasn’t done unwrapping. I stood in the middle of the penthouse, the silence swallowing the sound of my heartbeat, the city stretching out around us like it was watching too.
I shifted slightly, not nervous, just aware. My skin prickled under his gaze, every inch of me suddenly more sensitive, more alive.
“You were such a good girl today,” he said again. “You spoke like you belonged at that table. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t hide. You showed them exactly who you are.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything.
He crossed the room slowly. He moved like the kind of man who always got what he wanted. He didn’t demand it; he just waited long enough for you to offer it up yourself. He stopped in front of me, reached up, and traced the edge of my jaw with the back of his fingers.
“I told you I’m going to reward my good girl.”
I swallowed, breath catching.
“And what’s the reward?” I asked, voice barely more than a whisper.
He didn’t answer, not out loud. He just reached for the black tie at my waist and tugged it loose.
The gray dress fell open like it was meant to, slipping from my shoulders and puddling at my feet with a whisper. I stood there in nothing more than a pair of lacy panties and a matching bra, the necklace still around my throat, my skin flushed, thighs pressing together like I could hide how badly I ached for him.
His eyes dragged down my body, slow and heavy, like every inch of me belonged to him and he was reminding me of that without needing to say a word.
Then he stepped closer.
“Walk to the bedroom. Get on the bed.” His voice was a gruff command. “On your stomach. Facing the window.”
I turned without a word, walked down the hall into the master bedroom, climbed onto the mattress, and obeyed.
The city lights wrapped around me through the glass. The cold air from the overhead fan kissed my skin, but I was burning inside. I could hear him behind me removing his jacket, undoing the buttons on his shirt, every sound amplifying another notch of anticipation inside me.
I felt him, his hands on my hips firmly, grounding me. He pulled down my panties, sliding them down my legs and letting them fall to the floor. My bra followed.
He pressed a kiss to my shoulder, soft and warm.
“This isn’t a punishment,” he murmured against my skin. “This is a reward. You’re going to feel exactly how fucking proud of you I am.”
I sucked in a breath as his hands moved lower, over my thighs, between them, parting me gently. His fingers grazed the slick heat already waiting for him, and he made a quiet, pleased sound in his throat.
“Look at you,” he said roughly. “Soaking wet just from following Daddy’s instructions.”
I bit my lip, eyes fluttering shut.
He slid his hand slowly down my spine, then gently guided me to turn over onto my back. He moved around me, sinking to his knees and then suddenly his head was between my thighs before I knew what was happening.
I jolted at the first swipe of his tongue—warm and firm—licking through the mess he’d already made of me. He groaned like I was the best thing he’d ever tasted, and when his hands gripped my ass to pull me back against his face, I nearly arched clean off the bed.
I moaned, breathless, as he worked me open with his mouth, devouring me like a starving man. Tongue flicking, circling, sucking, until I was shaking and sobbing and clinging to the sheets like they might anchor me to earth.
“You like that?” he rasped, voice dark with heat between my thighs. “You like being my good girl?”
“Yes,” I gasped. “God, yes.”
“Then come for me.”
I did.
Hard.
Everything inside me snapped. My body went rigid. My breath caught. I cried out, throwing my head back as my vision went white-hot and I came all over his tongue.
He didn’t stop. He didn’t fucking stop.
He licked me through every wave of pleasure, drawing it out until I was crying and shaking through one orgasm after the next, until tears streaked down my cheeks.
Finally, he pulled back.
Slowly, he stood, looming over me. His dark eyes burned with a possessive hunger as he watched me sprawled across his sheets, panting, utterly wrecked.
He climbed over me, and I felt him press a kiss to the center of my forehead. Gentle. Possessive.
“You earned that,” he said.
It might have been the adrenaline, or the warmth still blooming inside me, or the way he said it like it meant something deeper than just sex, but I felt my eyes sting.
For the first time in a long time… I felt wanted.
Maybe even loved…
