Her lips crashed into his with a ferocity born from pain, from longing. Her fingers fisted in the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him as if she could drown out everything else with the heat of him.
Nikolai staggered back slightly, catching her by the arms. Her tears brushed against his skin, hot and silent.
"Elara…" he whispered against her lips, pulling back just enough to search her face. "No. You're not thinking straight."
She blinked at him, eyes wide, the shine of tears reflecting the city lights.
"I know exactly what I'm doing," she said, voice trembling. "I just don't want to feel anything else tonight."
And then she pushed him.
He let her.
He landed on the floor with a quiet grunt, the rug soft beneath him. She straddled him without hesitation, her thighs bracketing his hips as she kissed him again, slower now—aching, messy, desperate. Her lips moved to his jaw, then down the curve of his neck.
His hands caught her waist, but he didn't stop her.
"Elara…" he tried again, but his voice faltered as her hands moved to his shirt, unfastening each button with trembling fingers.
She peeled it open, revealing the taut muscles of his chest. Then she kissed him again—his collarbone, his sternum, the place right above his heart.
She was unraveling. He could feel it in every touch. She wasn't here to seduce him. She was trying to forget.
He could've stopped her.
He should have.
But her warmth, her lips, the way she whispered his name like he was both a sin and salvation—it broke his resolve.
Her hands moved down, fingers brushing over his belt. She unbuckled it, slow and clumsy from the alcohol, but determined. He groaned when her hand slid into his pants, fingers curling around him. He was already hard—had been the moment she kissed him like she meant it.
"Elara…" he gasped, but his voice was thick now, ruined by want.
She leaned down, her breath warm, and then her mouth wrapped around him.
Nikolai let out a guttural sound, his fingers threading through her hair, his back arching slightly off the floor. She moved with instinct rather than experience, her tongue swirling at the tip, sliding him deeper with each pass. Her name tore from his lips more than once, whispered like a warning, like a prayer.
She pulled back after a moment, wiping at her lips with the back of her hand, eyes unreadable. Then she stood just long enough to slide off her sleep shorts, letting them fall to the side. She climbed back over him, guiding him with her hand, positioning herself above him.
He held her hips, breathless.
"Elara… if we do this…"
"I know," she whispered.
She lowered herself slowly, inch by inch, her breath catching, her forehead pressed to his shoulder. Her body trembled—not from fear, but from the overwhelming mix of feeling. When he was fully inside her, she stilled, clinging to him, her fingers digging into his chest.
Nikolai gritted his teeth, his hands gripping her tighter, fighting the urge to take control.
She began to move—slow at first, dragging her hips forward and back, her breath coming in soft whimpers. His name slipped from her lips again, hushed and raw.
He sat up slightly, one arm wrapping around her back as his other hand slid along her thigh. His forehead pressed to hers, and for a few stolen seconds, nothing existed but the rhythm of their bodies, the shared warmth, the sound of their uneven breathing.
She kissed him again, her lips trembling.
"I hate that I love you," she breathed.
He didn't respond. He just held her tighter.
The pace quickened, her movements more desperate, his thrusts meeting hers, building something wild and wordless between them. Her hands were in his hair, on his face, on his chest—like she didn't know where to hold on. Like she wanted to hold on everywhere.
When her climax hit, it wasn't loud—it was silent, breath stolen from her lungs as she trembled in his arms, burying her face in his neck.
He followed a moment later, holding her still, his body going rigid before finally relaxing beneath her.
Afterward, the silence was unbearable.
She stayed curled against him, chest rising and falling rapidly, heart racing. Her tears returned—quiet, unannounced. They streaked down her cheeks as she lay there, her body still tangled with his.
He brushed her hair back gently, his lips finding her temple.
"Elara…"
But she shook her head.
"Don't say anything," she whispered.
He didn't.
Instead, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer, holding her through the storm he had helped create.
-------------
The light of the morning spilled in through the penthouse windows in wide, golden bands, casting warmth over everything it touched. But Elara felt anything but warm.
Her body stirred under the silken sheets, every inch of her aching in ways that weren't entirely unpleasant, but instead came with a slow, painful dawning of realization. Her limbs were heavy, her throat dry, and her head throbbed with the deep, pulsing beat of a hangover that seemed to match the chaotic rhythm of her thoughts.
She turned her head slowly, the delicate muscles in her neck protesting the movement. The sunlight hit her face and she blinked a few times until her vision cleared.
That's when she felt it. The sheets against her bare skin. The absence of fabric. The unmistakable sensation of being completely, utterly naked.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Her eyes darted around the room, and she bolted upright, clutching the sheet to her chest. It wasn't the guest bedroom. No, she would have known that faded lilac wall color anywhere. This was Nikolai's room. Darker, more masculine, designed with cool greys and blacks. Her gaze whipped to the side—and there he was.
Nikolai.
Lying beside her. Shirtless. Still asleep, his expression unguarded and unbothered, lips slightly parted, strands of raven-black hair falling across his forehead.
Her stomach twisted in horror and disbelief. No.
No. No. No.
Memories came rushing back in pieces. The drinking. The crying. The feel of his arms around her. The way her lips had found his. Her voice begging him not to stop. And then... the rest.
A broken, vulnerable mess—that's what she'd been.
And he hadn't pulled out.
They had always used protection. Always. Nikolai had never once taken a risk with her body, not without her consent. Until now.
Panic clawed up her throat like a wild thing. She threw the sheets off and scrambled out of bed, ignoring the soreness in her thighs, the tremble in her legs. She scanned the room for her clothes. There—on the armchair. Neatly folded. Her shorts and oversized t-shirt from last night. The sight made her chest tighten. Of course, he would be meticulous about that, wouldn't he?
She quickly dressed, the silence in the room suffocating.
Then a soft voice behind her broke the quiet.
"Elara..."
Her heart stopped.
She turned halfway, enough to see him propped up on one elbow, his eyes blinking open, sleep still clinging to the corners. He looked confused, then slowly realization began to settle into his features as well.
She opened her mouth, but the words clawed their way out before she could compose them.
"You didn't pull out."
The silence that followed was thick.
Nikolai sat up straighter. "Elara, I—"
"I'm not on anything," she interrupted sharply, her voice trembling. "No birth control. Nothing. We always used condoms. Always. But last night you didn't."
He inhaled like he was about to say something, but she wasn't done.
"And if I remember correctly," she added, a bitter laugh slipping from her lips, "yesterday was my ovulation day."
She could see the color drain from his face.
"Fuck," she muttered, her hand shaking as she ran it through her hair.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Elara, please. I didn't plan that. You were hurting, and I... I should have stopped it. I knew you weren't in a good place."
She turned to him slowly, eyes red and glassy. "But you didn't. You let it happen. You let me come to you when I was broken and you let me give myself to you without even thinking about the consequences."
His jaw tightened. "I tried. I really did. But when you kissed me, when you said those things, I broke."
Her lips trembled. "Well, good for you, Nikolai. You broke. And now I might be pregnant."
He stood, towering over her even as she backed away.
"I'll take responsibility," he said quietly. "No matter what happens, I'll be there."
She laughed bitterly. "Of course you will. You always find a way to tie me to you."
He stepped toward her, but she held up a hand.
"Don't. Just don't. I need air."
Without waiting for a reply, she grabbed her phone and bag and walked out of the room, her pulse thudding loudly in her ears.
---
The drive to the pharmacy was a blur. She barely remembered how she got there, only that at some point she parked the Audi outside a small 24-hour drugstore and walked in with her hood up and her head down.
The fluorescent lights were harsh. The rows of shelves too bright, too sterile. The cashier, a bored teenager with gum in her mouth, barely looked up when Elara brought the Plan B to the counter.
She paid in silence.
It wasn't until she got back in the car and the door shut behind her that the tears came. Not loud, not hysterical. Just silent, gut-wrenching sobs that left her breathless.
This wasn't how things were supposed to be.
She wasn't supposed to fall in love with a man like Nikolai Volkov.
She wasn't supposed to get drunk and fall into his bed again. And she sure as hell wasn't supposed to wake up wondering if she might be carrying his child.
With trembling hands, she opened the box, read the instructions through blurred vision, and took the pill.
---
She stayed in the car for nearly an hour after, watching the sunrise crawl across the sky. The city was waking up, oblivious to her internal collapse. Somewhere across town, Nikolai was probably pacing, waiting for her to come back.
And she would.
Not because she forgave him.
Not because she trusted him again.
But because she didn't know what else to do.
She had nowhere else to go. No one she could tell. Not without dragging Maya into something that could put her life at risk.
So she drove.
Back to the penthouse.
Back to the man she both loved and feared.
Back to the war between her heart and her mind.
And when she walked through the door, the silence greeted her like an old friend. She didn't call out. She didn't look for him. She just went to the guest room, crawled into bed, and stared at the ceiling.
There would be consequences for last night.
Whether physical or emotional, she wasn't sure yet.
But either way, she had a feeling this was only the beginning.