Page 50 of Gilded Shackles
I place a hand to my chest. "Thank you. I accept this award with deep humility and a lot of pride."
Nikolai's lips twitch. That almost-smile again. It's becoming his signature move around us, like he's trying not to show too much but can't help the reaction.
"He's brilliant," I say, turning to Nikolai. "You do know that, right?"
"I do." Voice low but sincere. "He's always been like this. Since he could hold a screwdriver."
I look between the two of them. This tall, quiet man with sharp blue eyes and this bright, soft-hearted boy who still carries some of that guardedness but lights up when he's seen.
"You should be proud of him," I say gently. "He's not just smart. He's kind. Curious. He's exceptional."
Nikolai's eyes meet mine. Something passes between us, unreadable but warm. He doesn't say more. Just gives a small nod, like the words are sitting heavy in his chest and he doesn't know yet if it's safe to say them out loud.
To me.
That's okay. I'm getting used to the way he communicates, because beneath the grunts and the silence is solid gold. It's in the pauses. The eye contact. The way he pours Pasha's juice without being asked. The way he listens when I speak, even when he pretends not to.
Halfway through dinner, his phone buzzes on the table. He glances at the screen and something shifts in his face, a shadow crossing those blue eyes like a cloud passing over a cold lake. He silences it without answering and tucks it in his pocket, but the set of his jaw stays tight for a moment longer than it should.
I don't ask. He doesn't explain. But the reminder is there, quiet as a knife slipped back into a sheath: this worlddoesn't stop being dangerous just because dinner feels normal.
We finish eating without any of the usual awkwardness that's followed us since the wedding night.
The silence, when it comes, isn't uncomfortable.
It's just quiet.
The kind that lets things breathe.
Pasha asks for a second helping of dessert. Nikolai agrees with a nod. I help Pasha serve himself while Nikolai pours a small glass of whiskey.
I think, for a moment, about asking the question that's been burning through me all day.
Where is Pasha's mother? What happened to her? The questions pile up like kindling, but Pasha is right there, and something tells me this isn't a conversation for little ears.
Later, I promise myself. When it's just us.
Pasha yawns hugely, trying to hide it behind his hand. Nikolai notices immediately.
"Bedtime," he announces.
"But Papa..."
"The robots will still be there tomorrow." Nikolai rises from his chair. "And Elle isn't going anywhere."
Pasha turns to me with pleading eyes. "Will you come say goodnight? And check on Sir Isaac?"
"Of course," I say, my heart doing that strange squeezing thing again.
As we all stand to leave, Nikolai's hand brushes mine. Barely a second. Probably accidental. But my brain lights up like someone plugged me into a wall socket, and suddenly I'm hyper-aware of everything: the shape of his fingers, the ink on his knuckles, the heat of his skin, the fact that in just a few hours I'll be sleeping in his room.
His bed. His space. His rules. And me, casually trying not to die of anticipation.
God help me. I need a paper bag and a sedative.
13
ELLE
