Night fell heavy and silent over the penthouse like a velvet curtain drawn tight, shutting the world out.
The scent of dinner still lingered faintly in the air—roasted garlic, seared spices, rich tomato sauce—but the food sat untouched on the table. Elara hadn't taken a single bite, her stomach tied in such agonizing knots that even the idea of food made her feel nauseous. She had sat across from Nikolai in tense silence, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, eyes fixed on a point far away.
He hadn't pushed her.
Not when she refused to eat.
Not when she wouldn't meet his gaze.
Not when she stood up from the table without a word and walked straight past him, leaving only the dull sound of her footsteps echoing down the hallway.
She had closed herself off, locked the doors not just around her body, but around her heart.
Later, in the dim corridor outside the bedrooms, Nikolai had found her just standing—arms wrapped around herself, staring at nothing.
"You can take my room tonight," he said quietly, voice careful, almost cautious. "I'll sleep in the guest room."
She turned slowly, eyes red-rimmed but dry. Her face was a mask of conflicting emotion—anger, confusion, heartbreak… longing.
"No," she said sharply. "I'll take the guest room."
"Elara," he began, but she cut him off.
"Your room smells like you."
Her words were whispered, but they might as well have been shouted. The silence that followed was thunderous.
He stood frozen for a moment, his breath caught in his throat. She didn't wait for a response. She turned her back to him and walked into the guest room, closing the door behind her with a soft, final click.
---
The room was nice—neutral, elegant, sterile. Nothing like Nikolai's room, with its warm cedar scent, its personal chaos, the trace of his cologne in the sheets and pillows. This space didn't belong to anyone. It was simply a place to sleep. But Elara couldn't sleep.
The bedside lamp was off, the room blanketed in soft darkness, but her eyes stayed wide open, glued to the ceiling. She lay stiff on her back, tangled in the unfamiliar sheets, the mattress beneath her feeling too soft, too foreign, too lonely.
Minutes ticked by like hours. The quiet was too loud.
She turned on her side. Then her back again. Then sat up. Her fingers pulled at the hem of her oversized shirt—his shirt—her nails digging into the cotton like she wanted to rip it apart.
She felt trapped.
Trapped between the walls, between her thoughts… between her own heart and her logic.
Because the truth was this: She loved him.
God, she loved him.
With a fierceness that terrified her. With a depth that made it impossible to simply walk away.
And he loved her. He had shown her that time and time again—in his gentleness, in his patience, in the way he looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that made sense to him.
But that wasn't enough. Not when the world he belonged to—the world he wouldn't leave—was soaked in blood. It was wrong. It was cruel. It was dangerous.
How could she love a man who ruined lives for a living?
And yet… how could she not?
She wrapped her arms around her knees, pulling them tightly to her chest. Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears. The image of him—his eyes, the way he said "I love you," the way he held her like she was fragile and sacred—all of it burned behind her eyelids like a brand.
Why not choose?
If he loved her so much, why not choose her?
But she already knew the answer. Nikolai hadn't been recruited into the Bratva. He'd been born into it. Molded by it. His bloodline was inked in shadows and oaths, the family name wrapped around every inch of his identity. The same way her conscience was wrapped in hope and empathy. They were two opposing truths trying to live in the same story.
She buried her face in her knees.
Leaving him would break her.
But staying… staying would break her, too.
---
On the other side of the penthouse, Nikolai lay in the darkness of the master bedroom, staring up at the ceiling like it held answers he couldn't find. He could still smell her faintly in the sheets.
Her laughter still echoed in his ears like a ghost of the mornings they'd spent tangled in warmth and whispered confessions.
Now it was all ice. Cold words and avoidance. Her heart retreating from his like it had never belonged there.
He shut his eyes.
He wasn't sure who he hated more in this moment—her, for forcing the choice…
Or himself, for knowing he could never make it.
Because he wouldn't give up the Bratva.
But he also couldn't let go of her.
And that contradiction was the cruelest war he'd ever fought.
----------
The light slipped through the edges of the blackout curtains like reluctant fingers, brushing over the still form of Elara, who sat curled on the edge of the guest bed, wide-eyed and exhausted. She hadn't slept a single second. Her thoughts had been a battlefield all night—her mind warring with her heart, her love for Nikolai fighting her fear of the man he was, the world he came from.
Now, her body was tired, her eyes were gritty, and her stomach was growling angrily, reminding her she had skipped dinner the night before. The emptiness twisted deep in her gut, and no matter how hard she tried to ignore it, it refused to let her rest.
She slowly pushed herself up, padding barefoot across the room. Her limbs felt heavy, her heart heavier.
She didn't want to see him.
She couldn't see him. Not now. Not when her resolve was still hanging by a thread. But hunger was a cruel master. And when she stepped out of the guest room and into the hallway, she was immediately greeted by the unmistakable scent of food—crispy bacon, freshly brewed coffee, warm toast, eggs cooked just the way she liked.
Her stomach growled again, louder this time.
She cursed softly under her breath.
Of course, he had to be in the kitchen. Of all the times.
But she couldn't exactly avoid him forever. They were still under the same roof—for now.
She sighed and walked slowly down the hall, her bare feet silent against the polished floors. The kitchen came into view, and there he was, standing by the stove in a fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms flexing as he moved. His hair was slightly tousled, a faint bruise still shadowing the edge of his jaw from some scuffle she hadn't asked about—and now maybe never would.
He looked up the moment she entered.
"Good morning," he said, voice calm, careful.
She hesitated in the doorway, arms crossed protectively over her chest. "Morning," she replied stiffly.
"Did you sleep well?"
A small, bitter smile flickered over her lips. She lied. "Yes."
He studied her for a second longer—eyes lingering on the slight puffiness under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders, the guarded way she held herself. He didn't press it. Instead, he turned back to the stove, plating the food he had just finished cooking.
"Here," he said, placing a full plate on the counter in front of the stool she always sat in. "You didn't eat last night."
She didn't respond, but she walked over and sat down slowly. The food smelled divine, and her body didn't care that she was emotionally wrecked. It demanded to be fed. She picked up the fork and began to eat, silently, chewing methodically while her eyes stayed on the plate.
He leaned against the counter across from her, sipping his coffee.
A few minutes passed in silence—awkward, fragile silence.
Then, he cleared his throat.
"I'll be going out this afternoon," he said casually, like he was commenting on the weather. "Family lunch. Mandatory."
She said nothing.
"You should stay," he added after a pause, "I'll see you when I return."
Her fork froze mid-bite.
She slowly lifted her eyes, her brow arching.
"We agreed," she said tightly, "that I would leave this afternoon."
"That was before," he replied. His voice was low, steady. "Before… this misunderstanding."
"This?" she repeated with a scoff. "You can't be serious. You're calling this—everything—a misunderstanding?"
"I don't want you to go," he said, ignoring her rising sarcasm. "Because what if you don't come back?"
She laughed, but it wasn't amused. It was tired. Pained.
"Oh please, Nikolai. You're Nikolai fucking Volkov," she snapped, placing the fork down with a soft clink. "Heir to the Bratva. You'd find me in three seconds. I'm not stupid enough to think I could disappear from you. So no, I won't run."
He sighed deeply, rubbing a hand over his jaw, his thumb tracing the stubble absently.
"That's not the point," he said. "I don't want you gone at all. I don't want you to leave this apartment, not for a few hours, not for a night. I want you to stay. Permanently."
Her brows furrowed.
He looked up, eyes dark and certain.
"I want you to move in with me."
The words hung in the air, echoing between them.
Elara blinked.
For a moment, it felt like everything tilted—like the floor shifted beneath her chair.
She had expected resistance. She had expected possessiveness, even the possibility of him chasing after her if she left.
But this?
This was something else.
"Nikolai…" she began, her voice low, unsure. "You're asking me to—what? Live here? While you go on being part of something that destroys people?"
"I'm not asking," he said softly. "I'm telling you what I want. I want you here, with me."
Her heart beat painfully in her chest.
He kept going. "I know it's not perfect. I know the Bratva is a world of blood and control and things you hate. But you are the one thing in my life that makes me feel human, Elara. The one thing that reminds me I have something worth protecting, something worth feeling. I don't want to go back to how things were before you."
She stared at him, jaw clenched.
"And what about me, Nikolai?" she said, her voice cracking. "What about what I want? What about the fact that I can't sleep because I know what you are—what you're capable of?"
He nodded slowly, swallowing hard. "I know it's a lot. I'm not expecting this to be easy. But if you need time, I'll give you time. If you need space, I'll give you that too. But I won't let you go."
She looked down at her plate, her appetite suddenly gone.
He took a tentative step closer but didn't touch her.
"Think about it," he said gently. "You don't have to answer now. Just… don't leave before I get back."
She didn't answer.
He waited for a few more seconds, then slowly turned and left the kitchen, the sound of his footsteps fading into the hall.
Elara sat alone, eyes fixed on the half-eaten breakfast in front of her. Her heart was a storm of longing and dread. How could she stay? How could she leave?
Either way, a part of her would shatter.