The sun filtered gently through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, painting soft gold patterns across the bedroom walls. Elara stirred slowly, her limbs feeling surprisingly well-rested for someone who'd spent the night imprisoned in velvet luxury. Her body had surrendered to the mattress, but her mind never truly shut down.
She lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling like it held the secrets to her freedom.
This wasn't sleep. This was surrender by exhaustion.
Her gaze drifted to the other side of the bed.
Empty.
Nikolai's side was already cold. No faint warmth, no imprint of his body. It didn't surprise her. The man operated like a machine when he had a goal, and right now, that goal was keeping her exactly where she didn't want to be.
She sat up with a groan and rubbed her temples. Her thoughts were a mess. Would she ever escape again? And if she did, would it cost her more than it did the first time?
With a tired sigh, she dragged herself to the bathroom. She brushed her teeth with unnecessary force, as if scrubbing out the taste of submission. Then she stepped into the shower, letting the hot water cascade down her shoulders and back, hoping it would wash off the suffocating sense of being watched.
After drying off, she pulled on a soft pair of cotton shorts and a blue T-shirt printed with a cartoonish white bunny. It was something she would've worn on a lazy Saturday morning, back when she still believed lazy Saturdays were a thing. Comfortable. Familiar. Innocent.
But none of that matched the reality she was living in now.
She padded barefoot down the hallway, the silence of the penthouse making every footstep sound louder than it should. As she rounded the corner into the open-plan kitchen, the smell hit her first—rich, golden, and unmistakably sweet.
Waffles.
Of course.
Because nothing said "welcome back to your gilded prison" like fresh waffles and domestic normalcy served by a Bratva heir who would rather chain her to the bed than admit he had no clue how to make her love him.
She entered the kitchen and immediately regretted it.
Nikolai was standing at the stove, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair damp, his watch catching the morning light. He looked maddeningly domestic. Like a man who'd never stormed into another country to kidnap his pregnant lover. Like a man who didn't make threats with calm precision and icy conviction.
"Good morning," he said smoothly as he flipped a waffle onto a plate.
She stopped in her tracks.
Her eyes narrowed into slits.
"Bad morning to you. I hope you choke on those waffles and die today."
Nikolai's lips twitched. Not in anger. In amusement.
"Cursing me so early in the morning, malishka?" he said, reaching for the syrup like they were just two lovers bantering before brunch.
"Don't call me that," she snapped.
The word tasted wrong now. It used to make her chest flutter. Now it made her stomach turn. Her arms folded over her chest, her posture defensive. She didn't sit down. She didn't plan to.
He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, placing the waffle plate carefully on the marble counter. His calm was infuriating.
"What exactly is your plan, Nikolai?" she asked, voice clipped. "Keep me under surveillance until I give birth? And then what? Put the baby on a leash too? Microchip us both like your favorite dogs?"
He turned to face her fully now, arms crossing loosely over his chest. His expression didn't shift much—still cool, composed—but there was something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
"I'll keep you under surveillance until I can trust you," he said quietly. "Until I know you won't run."
She laughed—a bitter, biting sound.
"And when will that be, huh? After I've been broken into submission? Because I have news for you, Nikolai… I'm not going to give in. I'm not going to wake up one day and realize I love my captor."
His jaw tensed, but he didn't flinch. "Soon, Elara. Sooner than you think."
She shook her head. "You really are delusional."
"No," he said calmly. "I'm in love."
"That's not love," she shot back. "It's control wrapped in obsession and tied up with the bow of your trauma."
His silence was more dangerous than his words.
Elara glared at him, heart pounding, skin prickling. She didn't want to cry. Didn't want to break. But the reality was heavier than she was prepared to admit.
She walked to the counter, grabbed a napkin, and then turned sharply back toward the hallway.
"Asshole," she muttered under her breath.
He heard her.
Of course he did.
And he let it hang in the air like smoke from a lit match.
She made it three steps before her stomach growled.
Dammit.
She paused. Looked back at the plate.
Golden. Crisp. Still steaming. Drizzled with syrup. Her stomach clenched again. It was mocking her now.
She hesitated… and then slowly turned back.
Nikolai watched her like a hunter who didn't need to chase—because he already knew his prey would come crawling back to the trap eventually.
She yanked the plate toward herself, sat down heavily on the stool, and began cutting the waffle with far more aggression than necessary.
"I'm not eating this because of you," she mumbled through her first bite. "I'm eating this so I don't faint and give you the satisfaction."
He said nothing.
Just watched her with that same unreadable calm, sipping his coffee like the devil in disguise.
Elara stabbed another bite onto her fork.
You will not win, she promised silently, glaring at the plate.
But a small part of her stomach whispered otherwise.
Because the waffles?
They were fucking good.
The last bite of waffle had barely passed down Elara's throat when the sound of the front door opening interrupted the brittle silence. Her shoulders stiffened. She half-expected Nikolai to waltz back in with some new leash-in-disguise—another rule, another restriction—but instead, a different presence entered.
Sergei.
She recognized him instantly.
He was older, weathered, his grey-flecked beard trimmed but not polished. His eyes were sharp, alert, like they'd seen far too much to ever fully relax. He was the kind of man who looked like he could kill without blinking and still sleep through the night with a glass of scotch on his bedside table.
He was the same man who had helped lift Maya from her drunken slouch at the bar that night. Quiet, no-nonsense, and terrifying in a way that wasn't loud but deeply… final.
"Your grandfather wants you at the warehouse. This instant," Sergei said without preamble.
Nikolai groaned lightly and stood, dusting off invisible crumbs from his dark shirt. "Of course he does."
Then his gaze turned to Elara, who was pointedly glaring at the space in front of her plate as if she could burn a hole through the marble.
"Keep an eye on her while I'm gone," he said.
"Excuse me?" Elara scoffed, her tone sharp as a scalpel. "So I get a babysitter now?"
"Call it whatever you want," Nikolai said with an unbothered shrug. "Don't worry, Sergei has dealt with worse."
Elara rolled her eyes. "Behave," he said on his way out.
"'Behave,' asshole," she muttered as he disappeared down the hall. The door closed with a quiet thud that echoed through the suddenly too-quiet penthouse.
Now she was left with Sergei.
The man didn't move. He stood like a marble statue, arms folded across his chest, eyes trained ahead—not on her, but at the room as a whole, like he was scanning for hidden threats. Or maybe just thinking about lunch. It was hard to tell.
She sighed loudly. "So… are you going to follow me to the bathroom too? Watch me pee? Make sure I don't crawl out through the toilet pipes like some cartoon rat?"
No response.
"Don't you have anything better to do? I don't know… maybe a woman to screw? Or a kid to take to the park or teach how to throw a ball?"
His lips twitched. Barely. But it was the most movement she'd gotten out of him yet.
"Ah! He does talk," she said, sitting up straighter, suddenly entertained. "I was starting to think you were one of those guys in love with their boss and pretend they're mute, only speaking when Master Nikolai graces them with a command."
"I talk when it's worth it," Sergei said, tone dry as desert sand. His accent was heavier than Nikolai's, more rooted in the motherland. "You're just good at making noise."
She grinned. "And you're good at pretending you don't enjoy the drama."
"I've dealt with worse."
"Really? Like who?" she asked, tilting her head, genuinely curious now.
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he moved—slowly—and took the chair across from her at the kitchen island, resting his forearms on the counter.
"I've known Nikolai's parents since before he was born. Worked for the Bratva since I was sixteen. His father, Dimitri, was eighteen then. So… no, I'm not some trained dog. I'm a very old, very tired wolf who's seen too many full moons."
Elara blinked.
"Well, damn. You've handled baby Nikolai, teenage Nikolai, and adult Nikolai? You deserve a medal… or a lifetime supply of alcohol."
Sergei let out a slow exhale, like her sarcasm was both annoying and oddly familiar. "He's better now."
"Oh, that's terrifying," she said, smirking. "You mean this is the improved version?"
Sergei nodded. "Teenage Nikolai? That was hell on Earth. He only listened to his mother—maybe because she could knock puberty out of him with a wooden spoon. His father? They're too alike. Both are stubborn, volatile, and always sure they're right."
Elara laughed, leaning on her elbows. "God, I want to be his mom when I grow up."
"You'd need steel bones and nerves of titanium."
"Oh, I've got steel," she said. "Mostly in my middle finger."
Sergei chuckled—actually chuckled, a gravelly sound like rocks shifting in a landslide. It was the first genuine reaction she'd seen from him. "If you want advice on surviving Nikolai, ask Natalia. She's been doing it for more than thirty years. And she raised two mini-Dimitris. Nikolai and Viktor. Anya, their sister, she's the only sane one. Like her mother."
Elara's smile softened, just a little. "You know, for a scary dude, you're not that bad."
"I'll take that as a compliment. I think."
A beat passed. Then she stood abruptly. "Come on."
Sergei narrowed his eyes. "What now?"
"We're playing poker."
"…No."
"Yes," she said, already grabbing a deck of cards from the bookshelf in the corner. "You said you've seen worse. Well, prepare to be crushed."
He sighed in that world-weary way that only men who'd been shot at multiple times could. "You're going to cheat."
"Absolutely."
She shuffled the cards like she was born in a casino, fingers quick, practiced, sharp. Sergei watched her with mild amusement. They sat at the dining table, the early afternoon sun casting golden stripes across the floor.
They played.
She smirked and raised her bets with reckless abandon. He raised an eyebrow and called her bluff half the time.
"You don't even know how to play," he said after she went all-in with a pair of twos.
"Yet I'm winning."
"You're not."
"I am in spirit."
The game continued for an hour. Somehow, the cold penthouse didn't feel as heavy anymore. The air didn't feel like it was choking her. She still hated Nikolai. She still wanted to escape.
But for now?
For now, she had an old Bratva soldier reluctantly humoring her with a game of poker and letting her laugh—freely—for the first time in days.
And that?
That was something.