by Shandi Boyes
My pulse quickens when Nikolai pinches my chin to return my eyes to his. His heavy-lidded gaze is more intimidating than any I’ve seen. His eyes are icy, pulse-quickening, and terrifyingly delicious.
"And don't think I won't know if he touches you, Justine." He purrs my name in a throaty rumble, making it sound more feminine than it is. “I smelled your purity. I’ll know if it changes.” He whispers his last two sentences as if they were only intended for my ears.
I nod, spinelessly agreeing with his assessment. It isn’t because I’m fearful Mr. Fletcher will lose a beloved member of his body. It's because Nikolai’s statement was laced with so much confidence, I’m not willing to test its accuracy. Nikolai’s eyes expose that he’d rather slay a man than be seen as a fool.
Nikolai smiles an unabashed grin, pleased by my cowardly agreement. When he takes a step back, I secure my first breath in what feels like several minutes.
"Let's get this wrapped up. I have crack to be snorting.”
He stalks to the other end of the room by walking backward, his eyes never leaving mine.
Excited at the prospect of securing him as a client, Mr. Fletcher and the junior associates jump to his demand, neglecting to notice he didn't disclose whose chest he'd be snorting crack from. They flurry around the room, oblivious to the fact Nikolai's eyes are filling in the gaps his mouth failed to speak.
Although his forthright eyes relay every thought streaming through his roughish mind, he articulates his notions out loud, ensuring I can’t mistake his eyes’ silent admission. “Don’t make plans this weekend, Ahren. Your calendar just got blacked out by the man determined to read your wicked thoughts.”
He smirks a grin I’ve only seen once before. It was when I went head to head with Satan.
Chapter Three
“Nikolai was drinking at the same bar as the accused; that alone will dismiss his fingerprints on the bottle lodged in the complainant’s neck. Unless they have surveillance footage or a witness willing to side with the complainant’s account of events, it's the accuser's word versus our client’s. No judge will let that pass.”
My tone is more confident than my facial expression. I’ve spent the past forty minutes ensuring there’s a minimum of four inches between Mr. Fletcher and me, and my exhaustion is more apparent than ever.
Mr. Fletcher shrugs, the tiredness of a long week also evident on his face. “The vault-load of evidence the DA has isn’t our concern at the moment. It's ensuring our client doesn’t spend Fourth of July weekend in lockup.”
"Nikolai can clearly afford bail, so why aren't we proceeding to a bail hearing?" My eyes roam the exorbitant amount listed at the bottom of Nikolai’s financial statement. “Even if the judge demands a record bail amount, it isn’t above our client’s means. I doubt he’d bat an eyelid at a multi-million dollar term.”
Mr. Fletcher slouches into his chair before his eyes drift to Nikolai. I don’t follow his gaze. I’ve felt the heat of Nikolai’s eyes on me the past forty minutes, so I’m confident he is watching me. You can’t mistake the heat of covetousness.
“With Nikolai being positively identified in a lineup and having a criminal record that rivals inmates on death row, I don’t see a judge agreeing to any bail terms presented. If it were a DUI or a misdemeanor, different story, but this is an attempted murder charge. The complainant has thirty-three stitches in his neck, and he identified his attacker. Our chances of securing bail are slim to none.”
“What about house arrest? Nikolai won’t technically be incarcerated, and he wouldn’t be tempted to skip bail. Then we will have the long weekend to work through the obstacles in front of us.” Michelle adds to the ideas bouncing between Mr. Fletcher and me.
Mr. Fletcher’s lips purse. “I considered that, but there's only one judge who approves house arrests in Nevada.”
Michelle scoots to the edge of her chair, her interests unmissable. Michelle is an attractive twenty-nine-year-old female with platinum blonde hair, olive green eyes, and a trim body, but shockingly, not once the past forty minutes has Nikolai’s focus diverted to her.
I honestly don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted by that notion. Is Nikolai watching me to entice flattery? Or is he trying to scare me? Considering every time our eyes subtly meet across the room he is smirking, I’d say it's the latter.
Michelle’s barefaced enthusiasm is doused when Mr. Fletcher grumbles, “That judge is currently sipping champagne on a chartered jet returning from a four-week writing retreat in Honolulu.”
I sigh, hating that forty minutes of tossing around ideas hasn’t unearthed a way to fix the error I made encouraging Mr. Fletcher to goad the complainant into identifying Nikolai. Without the complainant formally pressing charges, we wouldn’t have a case, but it doesn’t ease the guilt weighing heavily on my shoulders.
Seeking a way out of our predicament, I snag my iPhone from my bag to research Nikolai’s former charges. Nikolai’s previous defense attorney was a brilliant man, but even someone with Erik’s expertise would have had a hard time getting his client off his numerous previous charges, so there must be something we’re missing.
My heart thumps my ribcage when a notification flashes across the screen of my cell.
“Were you referring to judge Ryder?” I ask Mr. Fletcher, my tone high with excitement.
When he nods, I disclose, “Judge Ryder’s flight landed fifteen minutes ago. With weather forecasts grim, it was either fly out six hours earlier than planned or wait for the storm to pass.”
“He decided to fly out early,” Mr. Fletcher intuits, his lips curling into a grin. “He’s always been an inpatient old bastard.”
With a smile, I nod.
“With the right amount of persuasion and an incentive or two, he could be in chambers within ten, fifteen minutes max,” Michelle exclaims, her pitch higher than normal.
Mr. Fletcher jackknifes into a half-seated position, startling me. “Get Judge Ryder’s wife on the phone.” He points to Trent, a junior associate at Schluter & Fletcher.
Mr. Fletcher’s eyes drift to Michelle, spearing her in place with his soul-capturing gaze. “I need the most expensive bag of golf clubs on the strip, and I needed them five minutes ago.”
Michelle smiles a beaming grin before lurching from her seat. She exits the interview room with a bounce to her step that mimics the thump of my heart.
When Mr. Fletcher’s eyes lock with Kirk’s, Kirk leaps into action. “Transport. I’m on it,” he perceives, reading the demand from Mr. Fletcher’s eyes. He darts out of the interrogation room, leaving only three people remaining: Mr. Fletcher, Nikolai, and me.
Wanting to showcase that his impressive pull doesn’t just work on members of the opposite sex, Mr. Fletcher had the armed guards removed within seconds of Nikolai agreeing for us to counsel his case. Considering we’ve gone from ten members to three, the room feels surprisingly claustrophobic.
“We need to fill in the house arrest forms, have them signed by Nikolai, endorsed by the DA, all before lodging them with the court within fifteen minutes,” Mr. Fletcher mumbles, his words forced out of his mouth in a hurry.
“Eleven,” I correct, glancing at the wall clock that reads 4:49 PM.
Mr. Fletcher grumbles a curse word under his breath while snagging his briefcase from the ground. After seizing a five-page document from a hidden pocket inside, he thrusts them onto the desk in front of me. His rummage in the breast pocket of his blazer for his lucky pen is so reckless, a cotton thread popping breaks through the silence teeming between us.
Once he has everything in place, Mr. Fletcher locks his wide, panicked eyes with mine. “If this works, I’ll begin preliminaries on your brother’s case this weekend.”
I want to scream. I want to slap Mr. Fletcher’s cheeks and smack a sloppy kiss right on his grinning lips, but instead, I tuck away the flare of excitement blazing my veins and timidly nod my head. This is everything I’ve ever wanted, but I can’t get too excited. First,
I must ensure a known criminal doesn’t spend a night in lockup, then I’ll pop open the bottle of chardonnay chilling in my fridge and toast my success.
After pressing a kiss to my temple, Mr. Fletcher exits the room, loudly shouting for an update on the location of the assistant district attorney, Sasha, on his way. I take a few moments to calm my euphoria before setting to work on the forms required for our client to be released on the proviso of house arrest.
I've only just pressed pen to paper when the hairs on my nape prickle. My brows stitch, stunned by the odd response of my body, but I shut it down, blaming the cold air blasting from the vents for its bizarre reaction. I don’t have time for an in-depth review of my peculiar responses today.
My pen freezes halfway through the second T in Schluter & Fletcher when the scrape of a chair booms into my ears. My head rockets up, suddenly mindful I’m in the presence of a man who freely admits he stabbed a man with a broken beer bottle because he bumped into him while heading to the restroom.
The air in my lungs is brutally evicted when I notice the chair Nikolai was seated in the past hour is empty. It sits neatly pushed into the boardroom table, void of any indication which direction he went. I attempt to scan the room, but with my unease, my eyes refuse to follow the prompts of my brain.
Abruptly, I stand from my chair, sending it toppling onto the ground. I feel the mad beat of my heart all the way to my hands as I gather my belongings before making a beeline for the door. Although my footing is unsteady, my strides are long, and I reach the only exit of the room in two heart-thrashing seconds.
Just as I clasp the door handle, Nikolai appears out of nowhere, slapping the door shut. I squeal, surprised he moved so agilely I didn't hear his steps. Panicked my frightened squeals will alert the guards standing outside the door, Nikolai clamps his hand over my mouth. His hand is so large, it covers half my face.
I tell myself not to panic. I’m not the same woman I was years ago, but the worry shimmying down my spine dampens my efforts.
“My crew calls me ‘The Snake.’ So do the ahrens I bed.” Warm air hisses between Nikolai’s teeth when he discloses, “But you, my sweet Justine, you can call me Catacha.”
He burrows his nose in my hair as he leans into me deeply, squashing me between his impressive body and the door. When his other hand slithers around my stomach, the faintest memory filters through my mind, holding me captive with its ghastliness. It's quick, but clear enough to ignite my survival tactics.
Silence is not a defense. Courage is.
With all my might, I rear back, planning to execute a move my brother taught me years ago to escape the clutches of an attacker.
Nikolai foils my attempts of stomping on his foot and head-butting him by plastering himself to me even more closely. He presses into me so insistently, we almost become one.
“I won’t hurt you, Justine.”
Contrary to the dominating hold he has on me, his voice is full of assurance. But that’s all a part of their tactics, isn’t it? To catch you off-guard, you’ll fail to respond appropriately at the most critical time. I’ve been fooled once. I won’t let it happen a second time.
Recognizing I need to match his wit with my own, I lessen the frantic thrusts of my body and compose the panic scorching my veins. Just like dogs, men like Nikolai feed off fear, so if I calm down, his interest will fade. I hope.
In a matter of seconds, my heart’s crazy beat matches Nikolai’s, which is pulverizing my left shoulder blade. Our hearts thud at an unnatural rate, but Nikolai’s tempo is more controlled, like he can puppeteer his heart as well as he’s been controlling mine the past hour.
Noticing I’m no longer fighting against his hold, Nikolai asks, “If I remove my hand, will you squeal?”
The moisture pricking my eyes nearly glides down my cheeks when I gingerly shake my head.
His breath beads sweat on my temples when he hisses, “Don’t break my trust, Justine.”
My head grows woozy when he drops his hand from my mouth to my neck. Although my lungs squeal in delight with every hurried breath I take, my panic sits at an all-time high. I suffer from terrible sinus issues, so the limited amount of oxygen my clogged nose sucked in wasn’t efficient enough to ward off my panic. I’m so lightheaded, if Nikolai hadn’t released me when he did, I may have passed out.
A knot twists in my stomach when he murmurs, “I thought we had a connection, Ahren, but when I came to offer you assistance, you bolted for the door without even saying goodbye. It’s rude to run off without first issuing a farewell. That’s your second strike of the day. One more and I don’t think we can be friends. You might be too naughty for me.” He whispers his last sentence in a seductive purr.
“I wasn’t meaning to be impolite. I was just rushing to have these documents lodged with the court before 5 PM.” My voice is as weak as my excuse. “Unless you want to spent the next three nights in lockup. If you don’t want that to happen, you need to let me go.”
“Hmm.” His deep his groan vibrates through my body. “I think the pleasure would outweigh the penance.”
He jerks his hips upward, ensuring I can’t mistake what pleasure he is talking about. He is thick, hard, and extended halfway up my spine.
My pulse quickens as a flurry of inappropriate thoughts filter through my depraved mind. “I’m flattered you think I’m worth spending three nights in a concrete cell. . .”
The remainder of my sentence trails off when his lips graze my earlobe. His touch is brief, but potent enough for the spark of desire to rocket through my body.
“I don’t think you’ll be worth three days in lockup, Ahren. I know you’ll be worth it.”
If he continues speaking, I don’t hear a word he is saying. I can't comprehend a damn thing that isn’t associated with his teeth sinking into my earlobe. His bite isn’t painful, but it's a clear warning I’m trapped by a dangerous man—not just physically—mentally as well.
After soothing the sting of his touch by sucking my earlobe into his mouth, Nikolai asks, “Do you want to leave, Ahren? Or shall you stay and let me play?”
Although shocked he is seeking permission, and beyond baffled he finds me enticing enough to serve time, I gingerly answer, “Leave.”
I keep my reply to a bare minimum, praying my brisk response will conceal my conflicting emotions. He doesn’t need more ammunition added to the stockpile he’s been amassing the past hour any more than I need to be reminded I’m not here to play. No matter how much my body wishes to be untrue, I am a part of Nikolai’s defense team, not a prospective bed companion.
“If you truly want to leave, Ahren, all you need to do is say goodbye.”
He drops his hand from my neck to my right hip. The shaking in my extremities moves to a needier region. His fingers are so long, they’re mere inches from a part of my body begging for a momentary lapse in judgment. I’m so high strung, his hold has excitement roaring through my veins so hard and fast, my skin is slicked with sweat, and I’m blinded with need.
“You have to the count of five.” His words are as corrupt as his wicked smirk. “If you haven’t bid me farewell by then, I’ll start my weekend by discovering if you’re a true redhead. Five. . . Four . . . Three—”
"Goodbye," I barely whisper, my throat hoarse from the furious heat roaring through my body.
I'm appalled by my body’s response to a stranger, much less a known criminal, but with eighteen hours of my day full of legalese, I’m not wholly surprised by its reaction. It’s nice to be craved, even if it's by a sadistic masochist.
“Louder.” Nikolai’s tone is clipped with mocking arrogance.
I swallow to relieve my burning throat before murmuring, "Goodbye, Nikolai."
He groans a moan I’ve only heard in the bedroom. It's rough and dangerous—much like its owner.
The pressure of the door on my cheek loosens when he takes a step back, unpinning me.
I sigh softly, disappointed.
Although he rel
eased me as promised, his hand remains slapped over the doorjamb, hindering my effort to leave. “Turn around.” His voice as tempered as lava. “No one says goodbye without a farewell kiss. Not even your boss could leave this room without putting his lips on you.” His last sentence is drenched with haughtiness.
When I remain facing the door, refusing to participate in his latest mindfuck, he adds on, “Hurry, Ahren. The courts close in five minutes, not only trapping me in here for the long weekend, but also costing you the chance to have Carmichael I'm-going-to-gut-him-alive Fletcher defend your brother.”
My eyes widen, shocked he knows about my brother’s incarceration. My surprise doesn’t last long. Only as long as it takes for me to remember Mr. Fletcher’s pledge in the seconds leading to him leaving me alone with Nikolai. Obviously, my belief he was watching me the past hour rings true.
“Now four and a half minutes,” Nikolai warns, his tone gravelly and thick.
On a wobbly pair of knees, I spin around to face him, determined to prove the love I have for my brother. This industry is tough, but the love I have for my family is even tougher.
Since he is standing so close to me, it's impossible for me to spin around without some part of my body touching his. Just as I had suspected, his ego is impenetrable. Even being rejected hasn’t dampened his excitement. His cock is as hard as a rod, bulging against the seam of his jeans so furiously, it appears seconds away from escaping.
His crass grin enlarges as he taps his index finger on his right cheek. I don’t know if his cocky demeanor stems from forcing me to kiss him against my wishes, or because he busted me staring at his crotch. Either way, I lean forward to press my lips to his cheek, buckling to his unbendable control.
