Nikolai

by Shandi Boyes

  Up until two days ago, I would have said it wasn’t possible. I am beyond saving. Now I’m not so sure. They say it takes a devil to make a good angel. Who’s to say that logic doesn’t work in reverse. All devils were an angel at one stage, so perhaps only an angel can see the one percent of good Satan missed during my fall from grace.

  My eyes snap from Justine to Vladimir when he pushes off his feet and heads Justine’s way. When a lusty glint brightens his dark eyes, no amount of muscle will stop me rising to my feet. A snake doesn’t hide in the grass when he’s being threatened. He looks his aggressor dead-set in the eyes while preparing the perfect strike.

  When Vladimir stops in front of Justine, I push Roman out of my way. He fumbles for barely a second before he grips my shirt so firmly, the cotton thread pops from his force. For a man double my age, his has a lot of strength in his hold. Under different circumstances, it would be inspiring, but right here, right now, it has me tempted to pull out my knife and slice his tendons. He’s putting Justine’s life at stake for mine. Can he not see how wrong that is?

  Roman ignores the threat in my slanted gaze by issuing one of his own. “He will kill her where she stands if you don’t keep your mouth shut.” His words are only whispers, but not even my furious pulse can drown them out. “If you want to save her, convince Vladimir she isn’t worth his time. Show him he has no reason to crave her. When he sees she is marked, he’ll lose all interest in her.”

  While glaring at him as I usually do Vladimir, my mind fills with the many ways I will kill him for suggesting Justine is anything but perfect. She may be scarred, but they show she walked through the gates of hell and survived. They are a part of who she is.

  I will not use them against her.

  Hearing my unvoiced threats, Roman mutters, “Then she will die.”

  Before I can assure him I’d slit the throats of a million men before I’d ever let that happen, the need in Vladimir’s voice when he speaks to Justine sends a chill down my spine. “As fine as a rose petal, but with the intensity of a huntress. You’d be a lot of fun… But no woman disrupts the rightful order. Not even one as pretty as you.”

  While pressing his thumb against the throb in Justine’s neck, he slings his eyes to me. “Is she yours, Niki? Is she the reason you tried to slit your cousin’s throat?” Roman loosens his grip on the back of my shirt when Vladimir’s gameplan finally dawns on me. He likes what he’s seeing, but his needs will never be higher than his wish to keep my wings clipped. “You’re letting a woman weaken you like Rico did. I thought I raised you better than that.”

  Roman’s relieved breath hits my neck when I say, “She isn’t mine. She isn’t anybody’s. Sergei has been stepping out of line for years. I simply put him back in his place.”

  Even knowing every word I speak is a lie, Roman has my back like he always does. “Sergei disrespected Nikolai. He was punished for his insolence, not a whore.”

  “So you wouldn’t mind if I made her my whore?” Vladimir asks, his tone a cross between interested and taunting.

  When he smiles at Justine’s faint beg for me to save her, my hands itch to drop his smile three inches lower. If I weren’t aware Roman is right, Vladimir will kill Justine before I get within an inch of her, I would. Alas, a war can’t be started when there’s only one team.

  The suspicion on Vladimir’s face shifts to consideration when I say in Russian, “Would you like her? You can have her if you want. As a gift, perhaps?”

  I almost bend in two when moisture floods Justine’s eyes a mere second after my offer. Although curious to uncover how she knows what I said, now is not the time to interrogate her. Her pureness has caught the eye of Satan, and it’s being tainted for every second he stares at her.

  While watching Vladimir like a hawk, I pray for a breeze strong enough to whisk Justine’s hair off her neck. Even being bald, fat, and ugly, Vladimir craves perfection, so his interests will diminish the instant he knows Justine is marked.

  Since Justine’s windows are closed, I don’t get the breeze I’m praying for, but mercifully, the shudders wreaking havoc with Justine’s body pushes her hair back far enough, a bite mark on her arm is exposed. It’s faded over the years, but it is large enough even someone with poor eyesight could see it.

  When Vladimir spots it, he’s quick to announce his disgust. “She’s marked! That makes her worthless.” His roar doubles my desire to kill him. I want to hurt him. I want to beat him until he chokes on his own blood, and I want to do it front of Justine so she knows his words hurt me as much as they hurt her when he continues to taunt her, “I could have looked past her lack of innocence to witness her face in ecstasy, but I’ve tasted the richest wine, and I refuse to settle for anything less than perfection.”

  Roman holds me back for the second time when Vladimir gathers a blob of moisture off Justine’s cheek. He stares her in the eyes while popping his tear-stained finger into his mouth. I plan his death in my head on repeat when he growls, “It's a pity you’re marked; if your cunt tastes as sweet as your tears, we could have had a lot of fun.” It will be a bloody death, full of the horror and gore he instilled in my life since I was a boy.

  When Vladimir shifts on his feet to face me, I stare at him like he did Justine. My glare isn’t fueled by admiration. It’s pronged with venom and voiceless warnings on how numbered his days are.

  Three days ago, he had months.

  Yesterday, he had weeks.

  Now he has days—if he’s lucky.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Oblivious to the hell I’m about to rain down on him, the corners of Vladimir’s lips tug into a grin as he says, “Thank you for the offer, Niki, but I must decline your invitation.”

  After signaling for his men to follow his exit, he hightails it out of Justine’s apartment, once again leaving me to clean up the mess he made. If the carnage had occurred to anyone but the woman standing across from me, I would have passed the burden onto Roman. But since it is Justine, a woman I have and will again kill for, I commence cleanup the instant her front door slams shut with Vladimir and his goons standing on the other side.

  When I cradle Justine’s jaw, she yanks away from me. “I’ll slit the throat of any man who dares look at you sideways. Family or not,” she quotes, her voice a dangerous mix of shame and anger. “You’re such a liar.” I’m about to tell her every word I spoke is true, but before I can, she continues talking, stopping me. “Why did you do that? Why did you offer me to him as a gift?”

  Shock registers with my gut as pride heats my veins. I knew she understood what I said.

  The smart, beautiful woman I’ve seen since day one roars to life when Justine shouts, “I can speak thirteen languages, Nikolai… including Russian. Perhaps if you hadn’t thrown me away like trash, you would have discovered that.”

  “I offered you to him to save you from him.” I keep my tone low, my trust as nonexistent as my mood. Vladimir’s exit was dramatic, but I guarantee you he is listening in. To a sicko like him, the clean up after a bloodbath is just as entertaining as the massacre.

  Justine laughs like a witch. “Don’t treat me like an idiot! I know what your father is like. I know exactly what he would have done to me if he had accepted your offer.”

  I clench my hands so fast, my knuckles pop. “He wouldn’t have touched you. I wouldn’t let him touch you like that. I’d kill him before I’d let him touch you.” As my anger gets the better of me, my volume increases. Let Vladimir hear what I plan to do to him, let him prepare for my attack, because no matter what he does, his fate is already decided.

  Nothing but heartache bellows in Justine’s tone when she shouts, “You offered me to him! You gifted me to a man who sells his own daughters to the highest bidders and tortures his sons as if they are animals.”

  When tears roll down her cheeks, I tug her into my chest. “I offered you to him to save you. If I thought there was any chance he would have accepted my offer, I would have never said it.”
>
  Not believing a word I speak, she pounds her fists on my chest before pulling away from me. “Don’t touch me.” She makes a beeline for the door. “You lost the right to touch me the instant you offered me to that monster.”

  “Justine...”

  The look on her face when she ignores my warning growl guts me. It cuts deeper than any knife ever has, and has me throwing caution to the wind. I’m already open and bleeding, so what’s another nick to a wound I’ll carry to the grave?

  “If Vladimir knew how much I wanted you, he would have taken you away from me. If not for himself, for someone else. He’s been that way my entire life. Anything I love, he takes. I only offered you to him as I knew he wouldn’t take you. Vladimir craves perfection, so I used anything I could to save you from him.”

  Shock about my underhanded declaration of love doesn’t register on Justine’s face. Humiliation does. She heard my comment in the wrong manner. I wasn’t saying she isn’t perfect—she’s perfect in every fucking way. I meant her scars were the only way I could save her from Vladimir because he doesn’t understand that beauty is found in imperfections.

  Not giving me the chance to clarify my statement, Justine recommences her race across the living room.

  “Justine…”

  I snag her wrist, needing her to calm the fuck down for just a minute. If she’d give me the chance to speak, I wouldn’t blurt out the wrong shit all the time.

  The chance of me maintaining a rational head is lost when my tug on Justine’s wrist sends her free hand sailing through the air. She slaps me hard across the face, rattling both my teeth and the devil I’m trying to keep contained. I was raised by violence, so it’s my quick go-to when I’m spiraling out of control. I’m trying to be different this weekend. I want to be the man Justine sees when she looks at me for just a day—even if it kills me.

  My grip on Justine’s wrist tightens as I talk through the anger clutching my throat. “Don’t ever hit me.” My words are as violent as the abuse I endured during my childhood.

  I’ve been burned, stabbed, shot, beaten with fists, sticks, and chains, but nothing hurt me as much as my mother’s hand colliding with my cheek. She was my blood, the only person I ever loved without wondering what she wanted from me, but not even that was enough for her. She abused me as much as Vladimir.

  “I’m sorry,” Justine mutters on a sob as tears flow down her cheeks. “I shouldn’t have hit you. No one has the right to put their hands on another. I let my emotions get the better of me, and I’m sorry for that.”

  Sorry is another word people use without significance. They rarely mean it, and it’s only expressed once it’s too late. The damage has already been done.

  Justine’s apology didn’t sound worthless. It was the most genuine I’ve heard. There was no malice in her tone when she spoke, and her eyes aren’t just full to the brim with moisture, they’re also crammed with remorse.

  She’s as sorry she slapped me as I am about hurting her. I shouldn’t have used her scars to free her from Vladimir’s madness. I should have shielded her from him as I plan to from here on out.

  Roman peers up from his shoes when I ask him to leave. As he takes a step toward me, the worry on his face becomes unmissable. “Your father, Nikolai. You know what he is like after Rico. Disobeying his direct order could result in—”

  “I’ll deal with him,” I interrupt, my hostile voice warning him my mood is already on edge, so he’d do best not to test me. I’ve never struggled with my emotions as I am now. Usually, I give a demand, and you either follow it or die. Today, the only thing I want to kill is the pain in Justine’s eyes.

  After a stretch of intense silence, Roman asks, “Will the benefit outweigh the penance?”

  He has asked that question many times the past decade. Not once have I been able to answer yes. This time is different. Justine is unlike any woman I’ve ever met. She’s smart, beautiful, and when her eyes aren’t filled with pain, she sees the real me, the man I hide from others.

  Although hurt continues reflecting from Justine’s eyes, its rate slows when I drag my thumbs across her cheeks to clear her tears. I don’t know if my touch is responsible for the flare of hope drying the wetness in her eyes, or what I say while touching her. “Yes. Do I not deserve a night of pardon after all the years I’ve served?”

  I killed for Vladimir; I forgot who I was for him, so I deserve more than one lousy night, but if that’s all I can get, I’ll take it. A lifetime of apologies won’t fix the mistakes I’ve made, but one night of showing Justine who I really am is a great start.

  Roman’s eyes hold the sentiment they did when my shattered ankle was set without anesthetics when he mutters, “You deserve that, and so much more.”

  After dipping his chin, wishing me luck, he exits Justine’s apartment without so much as a backward glance. Strangers would believe he’s leaving me high and dry. I trust that he’d never do that. He will put measures in place to ensure my one day off isn’t interrupted because he knows I’ll come out the other end more powerful than I’ve ever been.

  A grin tugs at my lips when Roman’s deep timbre booms through Justine’s rapidly closing door. “You know how to reach me. Contact me when you’re ready.”

  When the latch on the front door clicks into place, announcing we're alone, I commence rebuilding my empire by removing the tears slipping down Justine’s face. Even a devil needs a queen at his side when he takes his throne, and bratva queens don’t cry when they’re hurt by their enemies. They annihilate them.

  Once Justine’s face is free of moisture, I plop her backside on the couch so she’s out of the way while I remove the one object I know will foil my attempt to make things right. The surveillance equipment monitoring every inch of her apartment.

  “Wait here.”

  Although confused by my quick change in demeanor, Justine nods, agreeing with my request. Her chin has barely lowered an inch when I drag the armchair I sat on last night while watching Justine dance up a storm to the far corner of the living room.

  An idea of the madness I want Justine to be a part of is showcased in an unfavorable light when the electrical cord maintaining the live feed breaks through the crown molding in the living room.

  “They were hardwired?” Justine mumbles, shocked.

  Nodding, I cut through the wire with my knife before moving for the camera in Justine’s room. It’s still covered by her yoga pants, but that won’t stop its microphone from being activated.

  While removing the blinking red contraptions from Justine’s dead silent apartment, I feed off the torment slicking my skin with sweat. Before ending the live feed with my knife as I plan to do to Vladimir’s life, I smile down the lens. Each condescending smirk should add another nail to my coffin, but I was raised by a master manipulator, so I know all his tricks.

  I have something Vladimir needs. I’m his golden ticket to a power he’s been striving for his entire life. Without me, his greatest wish will never come true. Not only does that knowledge free me from the fear of prosecution, it also changes my game plan in an instant. Vladimir will still class what I’m doing as disobedient, but he will also respect it, because as far as he is concerned, I’m being the man he raised me to be.

  With my veins as icy as my blue eyes, I stare down the lens of the camera in Justine’s kitchen before singing a nursery rhyme no one but Vladimir will understand. “Send the angel to the devil’s bed, hold her, cherish her, then cut off her head. She danced with Satan and now she is dead, all for lying in the devil’s bed.”

  Everyone of Vladimir’s men understand Russian. They just have no clue what his rhyme means. It isn’t about good or evil, or coercing an angel to dance with death. It’s a warning to Vladimir’s sons on what will happen if they let a woman fracture the rightful order. They can be bedded by the devil, and cherished by him, but the instant they dance with Satan by placing themselves between him and the spawn born solely to protect him, they’ll lose their lives by the devil
they’ve fallen in love… or die alongside him.

  I’ll never let anyone hurt Justine. I will protect her how Dimitri failed to do years ago, but I can only do that by convincing Vladimir she means nothing to me. Reciting Vladimir’s rhyme adds to the ruse Roman and I pulled on him earlier. When he hears it, he will believe Justine is nothing more than a night or two of entertainment, and that the words I spoke moments ago were said to trick her into my bed.

  I meant every word I spoke, but I’m happy for Vladimir to think otherwise. Then, once Justine is off his radar, I’ll play the game with the ruthlessness it deserves, and I will win.

  The crown.

  The throne.

  The queen.

  They will all be mine.

  As will Vladimir’s life.

  Once I have the dismantled surveillance cameras in my hand, all seven of them, I request for Justine to follow me into the bathroom. The air turns roasting when she immediately jumps to my command. Her steps are shaky, but a gleam in her eyes has me skeptical fear isn’t solely responsibly for her wobbly knees.

  The strong don’t cower when fear comes knocking. They welcome it with a smile.

  When I dump the cameras into the bottom of the bathtub before twisting on the faucet full pelt, Justine gasps in a sharp breath. She watches me with her mouth hanging open when I climb into the tub to crush the small black devices with my boots, preferring to be cautious than be played for a fool for the second time today.

  Just because the devices were hardwired, doesn’t mean they don’t have backup batteries. My men were caught out by a rival once before. They learned from their mistake.

  Once the recording apparatuses are as shattered as the expression on Justine’s face when I offered her to Vladimir as a gift, I stray my eyes to Justine’s. “Happy?”