Page 22 of Gilded Shackles
"And I'm just supposed to believe," Nik says with lethal quietness, "that of all the men in this city, you just happened to pick me?”
“Here?” Gayle snaps. “When were you here?”
Neither I nor Nik answers.
The honest answeris worse than a setup. I did recognize him from the stairwell of this very building but I assumed he was someone else. The truth is messier than a conspiracy and twice as hard to believe.
"I swear, I have no idea who you are."
"Cunning, aren't you?" he hisses, and each word is a small, precise wound.
I look at him. At the fury and confusion in his eyes. At the blood drying on his temple. At the zip ties cutting into the same wrists that held me an hour ago like I was something worth being careful with.
What have I done? What have I stumbled into?
I wanted freedom, and instead I set the city on fire. All because I wanted to feel alive for one night. All because I picked the wrong man in a crowded room, or maybe the right one at the worst possible time.
And I thought being a virgin was hard.
6
ELLE
My life breaks down like this: twenty-six years of being watched round the clock, one night of freedom, and now whatever fresh hell this is.
I'm standing in our living room like a disobedient pet while Nik sits tied to a chair nearby. We're straight out of some sick crime show, except the set design costs more than most people's houses.
We've been here over an hour. Just when I think it can't get worse, the elevator doors slide open with a cheerfuldingthat doesn't match the thunder in the new arrival's eyes.
The man who steps out is older, silver threaded through dark hair, but the resemblance to Nikolai is instant. Not in the face. In the gravity. That same don't-fuck-with-me energy that made my knees malfunction last night, except aged into something harder, like a blade that's been sharpened so many times there's barely any metal left.
Perfect.
This must be Viktor. Whoever the hell he is.
He doesn't look like a monster. He looks like he eats monsters for breakfast with a silver fork and a pressed napkin. Dark suit, darker eyes, the kind of stillness that makes your spine remember its manners. He brings two men with him, armed, of course.
My mother is already center stage, queen in her glass terrarium. She doesn't rush to meet him. She lets him arrive. It's her favorite trick: make power cross the room.
"Viktor," she says. Voice like a velvet guillotine.
"Gayle," he returns, smooth and low. His gaze slides over everything like he owns the patent on eyesight: the windows, the exits, me, and then the sunroom where they've parked Nik like modern art. Wrists zip-tied behind him. Ankles bound. Jaw set.
Viktor stops at the threshold, and the temperature drops two degrees.
"What is the meaning of this?" His accent is thicker than Nik's, vowels rounded and carrying an old-country weight. "Untie him."
Mother's smile flickers. She hates being told what to do.
"He's under restraint for a reason," she hisses.
Viktor's eyes don't leave Nik. "Untie my nephew right now, Gayle, or my men will paint your floor red before you can even say sorry."
Nephew. So Nikolai doesn't just work for Viktor. He's blood. That explains the matching murder vibes.
I steal a glance at Nik. He's watching his uncle like this whole thing is a show he didn't buy tickets for but plans to review.
Viktor takes a step forward. Jeffrey moves to block.
