Elara sat on the edge of Nikolai's bed, the weight of everything pressing down on her like a thousand invisible stones. Her eyes drifted to the old, worn leather-bound diary she had pulled from his shelf moments ago. She hadn't meant to snoop—she really hadn't. But there it was, half-hidden behind a row of classic Russian literature, its spine cracked, the edges frayed from years of being handled. It looked so unlike anything else in the room, so personal.
And now, with the door closed and the house quiet, the temptation had become too strong.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she flipped open the front cover. His handwriting was surprisingly neat. Bold strokes, confident loops. It looked like the handwriting of someone who had learned control the hard way. She turned the first page and began to read.
"It is June 14th. I turned 16 today. I don't know if it's the best or worst day of my life. But comparing it to the last three years, I would say it's the best. I got out of prison today. My dad and grandfather picked me up. I had been arrested for murder. I couldn't be saved because I had killed someone from the Solokov bratva and they were still more powerful than my family's Volkov bratva. So I couldn't be saved. And the Solokovs wanted to make an example out of me. My dad hugged me and said he was sorry. My mom cried when I got home and she didn't talk to my dad because she felt that if I hadn't been bred by the bratva, I would have turned out well."
Elara's breath caught in her throat. Her eyes skimmed over the lines again and again, unable to believe what she was reading. Nikolai had been to prison? At fifteen? For murder?
She turned the page.
"June 15th. Today my mother asked me what I had been through in prison. I didn't tell her. I lied and said it was okay, just a little hard to get used to. I couldn't tell her what I had been through in there. She would hate my dad more, and she would cry a lot too. I have been through a lot in there. Moscow juvenile prison is unforgiving. If you think being outside is hard, then you are wrong. We only showered twice a week, sometimes we had to fight for the soap. I had to learn to fight for soap. Just soap, something I never worried about at home. And I would lose most of the time. But after I learned how to fight properly, I always got the soap. Sometimes we would even fight for the food, so yeah, I know what starving means.
My inmates used to take my food from me because I was a Volkov. So I didn't deserve any privileges. I hated my last name when I was in there. Because it made me a target. But there was a nurse who would always clean my wounds. Who would bring me books sometimes. I thought she was nice, until one day..."
Elara's eyes slowed as she read the next line. Her heart stopped beating for a second.
"...until one day she cleaned my wound after I got into a fight with this jacked guy who looked like he took steroids every minute. I got hurt badly. When she was cleaning my wound she told me I was cute. I thought she was being nice until she placed her hand on my dick."
Elara dropped the page and covered her mouth. Tears welled in her eyes, threatening to fall. Her mind screamed at her to stop reading, to close the book, to give him his privacy. But her hands wouldn't obey. Slowly, she turned the page.
"I was only 15. She took my first time. Forcefully. She told me I was big enough for her and I had good looks too, and that I should thank her for what she did to me. I thought it might stop until she brought me to a room where a friend of hers waited. I was forced into a threesome that day. I hated my looks. I still do. Maybe if I was not a Volkov, I wouldn't have had to go through so much. Maybe if my dick was just average-sized, they wouldn't have... But at least I am out. My dad doesn't know about this either, but I'm sure he will find out one day."
Elara was crying now. Her fingers trembled as she brushed at her tears, but they kept falling. For the boy who had been robbed of his childhood. For the trauma that haunted him, hidden behind the walls he built with anger, power, and control. She couldn't imagine what it was like—to be violated like that, to be silenced by shame, and to still walk the world as though nothing had broken inside.
She turned another page.
"I'm 17 now. It's been a year since I got out. We're moving. All of us. The entire Volkov family is leaving Russia and relocating to the United States. The official reason is to expand the Bratva overseas—to build the empire, create alliances, clean money in legitimate businesses. But the truth is, the Solokovs are done. Their leader is dead. Father killed him himself. Cold, clean, final. No one speaks of it openly, but it was personal. They made an example of me and now we've returned the favor. I guess this is what power looks like when it's reclaimed. Still, part of me wonders if I'll ever be free of what happened in there. The nightmares haven't stopped. The quiet makes it worse."
Elara rested the diary on her lap and let the tears roll freely down her cheeks. She had never imagined. Never guessed. To look at Nikolai now—the commanding presence, the cold glare, the brutal efficiency—one would never think that he'd once been a broken boy, clawing for dignity in a place designed to crush it.
She closed the book slowly, reverently, as if it were something sacred.
He didn't talk about his past. She understood why now. It wasn't just painful. It was trauma carved into his very bones. The kind that leaves scars no one sees, but everyone feels.
Elara looked around the room—the heavy bed, the thick curtains, the deep shadows—and it struck her how much of this darkness came not from design, but from memory. From a need to create a fortress around himself.
She curled up on the bed, the diary still in her hands, and stared at the wall as a thousand thoughts tangled in her head.
She didn't know what to do with this new knowledge.
But she knew this: she would never look at Nikolai Volkov the same way again.
Elara sighed shakily, her chest tight with everything she now knew.
She sat there, still on the edge of Nikolai's bed, the diary resting under the pillow where she'd shoved it in a frantic rush. Her fingers trembled as they wiped away the fresh stream of tears on her cheeks. She'd barely made it in time—just moments before the doorknob clicked and the heavy wooden door creaked open. Her body stiffened.
Nikolai stepped into the room, unbuttoning the top of his shirt with one hand while holding a glass of water in the other. He froze mid-step the moment he saw her—slouched shoulders, red-rimmed eyes, the tense way she held her arms across her chest like she was keeping herself from falling apart.
"Elara?" he said cautiously, closing the door behind him with his foot. "Have you been crying?"
His voice wasn't laced with accusation. It was worry. Genuine, thick concern poured out of his tone like warm oil. He set the glass down on the bedside table and crouched in front of her without waiting for an answer, his hands reaching up to gently brush her cheeks.
"Do you hate it that much here?" he asked, trying to search her face. "Did something happen?"
Elara opened her mouth but no words came out. The lump in her throat refused to budge. For a few seconds, she tried to hold it together—to blink fast enough to chase away the tears, to will her heartbeat to slow down. But when she looked at him—truly looked at him, kneeling in front of her, brows furrowed, his own chest rising with tight breaths—the dam broke.
A sob tore from her chest as she lunged forward and buried her face into his shoulder. Her arms wrapped tightly around him, clinging to the soft fabric of his shirt as if it were the only thing anchoring her to the moment. She cried. Really cried. Not the silent tears of frustration she had shed before—but a flood of emotion she couldn't hold back.
Nikolai's arms instantly enveloped her, strong and warm, his hand instinctively cradling the back of her head as she shook against him.
"Elara…" he whispered, stunned by her sudden breakdown. "Hey…what's wrong? Talk to me. Tell me what's wrong."
Her face remained pressed against his chest, her voice muffled but trembling.
"I… It's just hormones," she said, her words thin and watery, soaked in grief and guilt. "I think it's just the pregnancy."
She couldn't tell him the truth. That she had found the diary. That she had read the most vulnerable, painful pieces of his youth. That she now knew the truth about the Medusa tattoo etched on the skin just beneath his rib—the one he never explained, the one that made him tense when she'd asked.
She remembered what Maya once told her, off-handedly during a late-night gossip session: "Medusa tattoos? Some survivors get them. You know—rape victims. It's like taking power back. Turning pain into stone."
And Nikolai had one.
Now she knew why.
A teenage boy, betrayed by his own name. Used. Hurt. Marked by a past no child should have had to carry.
And yet he did.
She couldn't tell him she knew. Not yet. It would be too cruel, too violating. It was his story to share—not hers to steal from the pages of a hidden, worn-out diary. She had invaded his past, his pain, and now all she could do was hold it inside her chest and cry for the boy he used to be.
"Jesus Christ," Nikolai muttered softly, rubbing her back in slow, careful circles. "You scared me. I thought something serious happened. You don't have to pretend to be strong all the time, you know."
She sniffled and pulled back slightly, enough to look up at him. Her lashes were damp, cheeks blotchy, and her nose was pink—but she didn't care. Not in that moment.
"Well, maybe it's because I hate it here," she said, half-lying. Her lips twisted into something that could almost be called a weak smirk. "Maybe I just needed to let it out."
His fingers brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, his eyes watching her closely.
"I get it. It's a lot. And this family doesn't make it easy."
She gave a soft exhale, still recovering from the emotional storm. Then she reached for his hand and squeezed it, surprising even herself.
"Can you… show me around later?" she asked gently. "I know I said I hate it here, and I kinda still do, but I want to see the rest. Maybe it'll help."
Nikolai looked stunned for a second, but then he smiled—a small, tentative curve of his lips that softened the harshness usually carved into his features.
"Yeah," he said. "I can do that."
They sat in silence for a moment. His thumb traced light circles over her knuckles. Her breathing slowly evened out. And for the first time since they arrived, the weight pressing on her chest felt just a little bit lighter—not because things were better, but because he was sitting there, holding her hand like it meant something.
"I think you should rest," he said after a beat, standing up and guiding her gently toward the pillows. "I'll be downstairs for a while. If you need anything… call for me."
She nodded silently and lay back, watching him as he pulled the covers over her. He turned toward the door, casting one last glance over his shoulder before he left. When the door clicked shut, she reached beneath the pillow and slowly pulled the diary back out.
She didn't open it again. Not yet. But she held it to her chest and closed her eyes.
She now understood him—at least a little more than she did yesterday. And no matter how much he tried to hide it behind his power, his violence, or his sharp tongue… Nikolai Volkov had scars.
Deep ones.
And she had seen them.
She just hoped one day, he would let her tell him that she didn't look at him with pity.
Only with strength.
And maybe, eventually… love.