Chapter 9: Nikolai: Taking Back What’s Mine: Chapter 9

“Oh my god, I never knew Kirk could sing like that. Why is he a lawyer? He could be making a killing on Broadway.”

Mr. Fletcher throws his head back and laughs. “I know, right? I guess some of us are just gluttons for punishment.” He sidesteps a restaurant owner putting out his trash for the night before adding on, “I always thought money was the most important thing in life. Only now am I realizing it doesn’t make a difference. Quality of life has nothing to do with assets, and everything to do with who you spend your time with.”

“That’s easy for someone with money to say.” I waggle my brows, ensuring he knows my statement wasn’t in malice. I’m being as playful as my tipsy state allows.

Mr. Fletcher laughs again. “True.” His eyes lift to my apartment building peeking over the horizon before he returns them to me. “I’m glad you came out with us tonight, Justine. Nights like tonight make our team stronger.”

I smile, humbled by him saying “our team.” After my foolishness the past week, it is nice to know he still considers me a member of his team.

“I’m glad I came too. It was a lot of fun.”

When my hand reaches out to open the door of my apartment building, Mr. Fletcher beats me to it. “Allow me; what kind of man would I be if I offered to walk you home, but didn’t ensure you arrived at your apartment safely?”

Not waiting for me to answer, he heads to the elevator bank and pushes the call button. I breathe out my unease before following after him. Although Mr. Fletcher has been in my apartment before, there is an odd set of nerves jittering in my stomach. I wouldn’t necessarily say it is worry, but my intuition is warning me to be cautious.

Mr. Fletcher’s flirty tendencies tonight were as vigorous as they’ve always been, but they weren’t as appealing as usual. I don’t know if my lack of interest is because we’re not in a work environment, or because of Nikolai.

Considering the churning of my stomach ramped up during my last confession, I’d say it is the latter.

Suddenly, my heart launches into a crazy beat, startled by Mr. Fletcher’s hand unexpectedly diving into my hair.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, clearly stunned by my skittish response. “You have a piece of straw stuck in your hair.”

With his eyes locked on mine, he removes the offending article from my unruly curls, which are extra buoyant from the scattering of rain we dodged on our walk home. Although his gesture is innocent, I can’t lower my heart rate. He is a mere inch from discovering a gritty scar nestled behind my right ear.

“See? Just a piece of straw.”

He waits for me to acknowledge the tiny blade of grass before he releases it from his grasp. It floats to the floor, its whoosh nearly audible in the edgy silence bouncing between us.

“You’ve got another piece right here.”

Air rushes out of my mouth in a hurry when Mr. Fletcher’s fingers glide past my left temple before drifting down my inflamed cheek. To an outsider, it could appear as if he is ridding my hair and face of evidence of our fun night, but I know it is more than that. I can see it in his eyes. Mr. Fletcher exudes confidence by the bucket loads, but that’s not what’s lighting his inky black eyes. It is the spark of desire.

With his eyes bouncing between mine, Mr. Fletcher takes a step closer to me, testing if I too can feel the energy bristling between us. When I fail to protest to his intrusion on my personal space, the hankering in his eyes triples.

As much as I know I should be shutting this down, I can’t. Has your ego ever been so low, you’re willing to do anything to get back the smallest slice of confidence? That’s what I’m dealing with right now. I know I should stop this; I know I’ll regret my lack of worth in the morning, but with my woozy head and low self-esteem playing havoc with my mind, bad intentions suddenly seem honorable.

My heart smashes against my ribcage when Mr. Fletcher’s hand glides over my inflamed cheek before dropping to float past my lips. His touch is gentle and reserved, adding to the giddiness in my head.

My lips tremor when he cups my jaw in his hands, but instead of pulling away from his embrace, shockingly, I lean into it. He stares into my eyes, ensuring the alcohol lacing my veins hasn’t caused me to mistake his intentions.

Grazing my teeth over my bottom lip, I faintly nod, acknowledging I understand his objective. The tightness in his shoulders loosens as relief floods his eyes. When he leans in even closer, bringing his lips to within an inch of mine, the smell of salt lingers into my nostrils. Mr. Fletcher’s scent is a unique tangy aroma, amplified by the orange liqueur and lime juice in the margaritas we shared this evening. It is an intoxicating smell, but nowhere near as appealing as Nikolai’s masculine scent.

I freeze, suddenly disturbed. I’m moments away from being kissed by one man, yet my mind strays to another.

I came to Vegas to coerce the best defense lawyer in the country to work on my brother’s conviction, but all I’ve done the past week is watch four years of hard work circle the drain.

With only a second to spare, I slant my head to the side, forcing Mr. Fletcher’s lips to land on my cheek instead of my mouth. Even with our exchange being as innocent as a schoolyard peck, guilt smashes into me hard and fast. It may be uncalled for and utterly ridiculous, but there is no doubt it is guilt clutching my throat.

When a faint ding sounds into my ears, I mumble, “Thank you for a wonderful evening.”

I dash into the waiting elevator car, the timing of which couldn’t be any more perfect. The elevator attendant, Simon, smiles a greeting before pressing the button for the fifteen floor.

“It’s fine, Simon can take it from here,” I advise Mr. Fletcher when he attempts to enter the elevator. “Can’t you, Simon?”

Simon’s eyes bounce between Mr. Fletcher and me for several uncomfortable seconds before curtly nodding his head. Although horrified I’m using one man to deflect the attention of another, I don’t alter my approach. When you are backed into a corner, nothing is off-limits, not even your pride.

Mr. Fletcher’s brows furrow, his confusion at an all-time high. He knows Simon isn’t a threat—his retirement-colored hair and coke bottle glasses ensure he is no competition for a man as handsome as Mr. Fletcher—but he still seems stumped.

“You don’t want me to walk you to your door?” The throatiness of Mr. Fletcher’s reply wipes the innocence from his question.

The lust raging in his heavy-lidded gaze clouds with uncertainty when I shake my head. He eyes me peculiarly, wordlessly requesting clarification on the conflicting messages I’ve sent all night.

“I can’t. I just. . .

.”

If I could offer him a better reason for my stupidity, I would, but I’m honestly lost for an explanation. I’m the most discombobulated I’ve ever been. I know it is guilt bombarding me, but it’s not the same guilt I’ve dealt with the past four years. Just like the love you have for your family is different from the love you have for a spouse, this guilt is different because it isn’t associated with my family. It is about Nikolai. He deceived me, but until I understand why he did that, two wrongs don’t make a right.

Thankfully, I’m saved from further interrogation when the elevator doors snap shut. Breathing deeply, I lean against the glass wall of the car. I need a moment to ease the pain sitting on my chest before it cripples me. I know why I led Mr. Fletcher on—I wanted him to ease the pain of Nikolai’s deceit. I just wish I was strong enough I didn’t need a man’s touch to make me feel worthy. I’ve gone four years without requiring validation from the opposite sex, so why am I suddenly craving it like it’s more valuable than life itself?

When the elevator dings, announcing its arrival at my floor, I bid Simon farewell with a dip of my chin before exiting. My steps down the hallway are heavy, weighed down by the conflict sitting on my shoulders. I should hate Nikolai for how he betrayed me, but dislike is the last thought to enter my mind when he sneaks into my memories without warning. We only had four days together, but the shortness of our time can’t weaken the impact he made on my life. What he did for Maddox was beautiful, but the way he looked at me. . .

. . . I felt like the most valued treasure on the planet.

After throwing open my apartment door, I toe off my heels and kick them under my entranceway table. I smell like cheap liquor and cigarettes, but I stumble toward my bedroom instead of the bathroom. With my sleep severely lacking the last three nights, I am exhausted—both physically and mentally.

My sluggish steps stop halfway across my living room when a deep Russian voice asks, “Where have you been, I’ve been waiting for you for hours.”

The alcohol warming my veins burns off in an instant when a dark shadow stands from a chair at the side of my living room. Although the room is pitch black, I know it is Nikolai. I can sense him with every nerve in my body.

He turns on the lamp next to my couch before pushing off his feet and heading in my direction. My first thought is to demand an explanation for him being in my apartment unannounced, but I swallow my words, paralyzed by the murderous rage pumping out of him in invisible waves. His natural arrogance is at an all-time, leaving no misconception on who is standing before me. He is the man behind his title. He is Nikolai: Russian Mafia Prince.

“You have to the count of five to answer my question, After that, I’ll reach my own conclusion,” Nikolai warns, his voice as hot-tempered as his face. “I can guarantee you my findings won’t be as pleasant as yours. Five. . . Four. . . Three. . .”

“I went out for drinks with friends.” My voice trembles when I articulate the word “friends.”

It isn’t the slight deceit in my reply that made me stammer; it is Nikolai stopping to stand in front of me. The darkness of the room can’t hide his soul-stealing blue eyes and traffic-stopping face I’ve missed ogling the past three days. He appears just as he does in my dreams every night: perfectly haunting.

I’m freed from being ensnared by his entrancing eyes when he grumbles, “Friends?”

His tone is rough, like his throat was scorched with the same deceit mine was scolded with earlier this week. I shouldn’t get pleasure from his jealousy, but I do. I want him to be angry, because if he is, that means I wasn’t just a side dish he used to keep himself occupied while his fiancée was away. He was with me because he wanted me as badly as I craved him.

“Answer me, ,” Nikolai demands.

“Yes,” I stammer out, feebly nodding. “I was with friends.” Since my statement isn’t a lie, it sounds as it should—honest.

Angling his head to the side, Nikolai circles me like a shark, his steps purposely slow. He reeks of pigheaded cockiness, but there is something deeper, more tangible in his slit gaze.

In a matter of seconds, the heat in the room turns excruciating, suffocated by both arousal and unbridled fury. I don’t know how two such contradicting responses can occur at the same time; I’m just calling it how I see it.

My heart rate spikes when Nikolai’s hand dives into my hair. Unlike my frightened response to Mr. Fletcher’s touch, this time, my body reacts positively.

Disturbed by my needy response to his touch, I blubber, “What are you doing, Nikolai? You can’t just arrive at my apartment unannounced.”

Acting like he didn’t hear a word I spoke, he leans in and takes a deep and undignified whiff of my hair. Goosebumps prick my skin, excited by the throaty growl he releases not even two seconds later.

“What did I tell you, ?” Although he is asking a question, he continues speaking, stealing my chance to reply. “I told you I’d know if touched you.”

Fear and excitement roll down my spine when he locks his narrowed gaze with my wide eyes. “I can smell on you.”

I shake my head, futilely trying to deny his claim. It’s a woeful waste of time. Nikolai’s eyes reveal his opinion on the matter, and it is far more sinister than reality. His body is gripped with tension, his eyes as bleak as my heart felt when I realized he is a taken man.

I look away, fighting the bile surging up my throat. I thought it would feel good to see him as pained as I was when I discovered he was engaged. I was wrong—

. This doesn’t feel good at all.

“I wanted you to experience what I went through, and I wanted him to take away my pain. . .”

My words stop when the sound of feet stomping booms into my ears. Nikolai is retreating away from me at a faster rate than my foggy brain can comprehend.

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” he murmurs under his breath, throwing open my front door with so much force, the door handle smacks into the drywall, leaving a significant dent.

With four margaritas flowing through me, it takes me a few moments to register who his threat pertains to. When the light bulb finally clicks on, my stomach violently gurgles.

“Nikolai, wait,” I murmur, chasing after him. “You didn’t let me finish.”

I freeze halfway out my door when Nikolai’s furious gaze spears me in place. His nostrils flare as his fists clench into firm balls. “You don’t need to finish your story. You confirmed what I already know.

touched you.

touched you.” His face screws up when he snarls Mr. Fletcher’s name.

“Not in the way you’re thinking.”

“I don’t fucking care!” Nikolai yells. “I warned him what I’d do if he got within an inch of you. I fucking told him to stay away from you.” His face reddens with every syllable he speaks. “Now I will show him I’m a man of my word.”

When he pivots on his heels and stalks down the hallway, I match his steps stride for stride.

“Don’t follow me, ,” he warns, hearing my soundless steps. “Not unless you want to witness him taking his last breath.”

His threat freezes my steps and my heart. I heard the promise in his words—the determination. His warning wasn’t idle; he fully intends on following through.

When the elevator arrives at my floor, Nikolai issues me one last, dangerous stare. “Go inside, . I’ll deal with you when I get back.”

Not waiting for me to reply, he enters the elevator.