Nikolai lay staring at the ceiling. The silence in his penthouse was thick, heavy like a blanket suffocating him. He used to find solace in this stillness, in the absence of voices, of chaos. But now, even silence didn't feel like peace. Not anymore. Not since she arrived. Not since Rose turned his carefully constructed solitude into noise.
He blinked slowly, his gaze fixated on the ceiling above, expression flat, emotionless. He had always craved control, and Rose was the opposite of everything that made sense to him. Loud, stubborn, emotional. A chaotic swirl of color in his black-and-white world. He could feel the thread of his patience fraying, tearing with each moment she breathed in his space. And yet... she was still here.
He sighed deeply. He had brought her here.
The ache in his skull was a dull throb now, the stitches pressing against the healing skin of his scalp like a reminder that nothing in his world stayed untouched. He didn't reach for the painkillers on the nightstand. Pain was familiar, a companion he'd never shaken off. It lived in his bones, in his skin, in the spaces between his thoughts. Physical pain was manageable—it paled in comparison to what lingered in his chest.
His body was tired, but it was more than that. This exhaustion wasn't just in his limbs—it was in his eyes, his blood, his soul. His breath was shallow, like he couldn't quite breathe deep enough. For the first time in a long time, the darkness surrounding him didn't feel like comfort. It felt like weight.
Maybe tonight, he'd sleep longer than usual. Maybe.
His eyes flicked toward the glowing screen across from his bed. Rose. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, scrolling through her phone, completely unaware she was being watched. Her lips were moving, probably singing to herself again. The girl didn't know what quiet meant. He sighed again. A small part of him—it disgusted him to admit—had become used to her presence.
His eyes fluttered closed.
And sleep took him.
---
Nikolai opened his eyes, heart pounding violently against his ribcage. But something was wrong. The dull throb in his head? Gone. The weight of the blankets? Gone. The scent of vodka and leather that clung to his penthouse? Replaced.
The air smelled like jasmine.
He froze. No. No, no, no—
His eyes darted around. Red walls. Velvet drapes. Mirrors. The floor was glossy, and the lights were too dim. The perfume was thick—cloying, suffocating. It settled in his throat like poison.
He looked down.
Bruises covered his knees. His legs ached from kneeling on the marble floor for hours. He was barefoot, in a thin shirt too big for his small frame. He felt cold. Exposed. He was twelve.
The door creaked open.
He turned his head sharply. His stomach dropped.
She walked in.
His mother.
She was wearing a red silk robe, barely tied at the waist. Her hair was messily pinned, makeup smudged under her eyes. She looked like she always did in this place. Like a ghost trying to wear the skin of a woman.
"You haven't cleaned up yet, Niko," she said casually, as if she were commenting on the weather. Her tone was laced with indifference, the kind that pierced deeper than cruelty ever could.
He said nothing. Just stared.
She tilted her head. "Are you deaf? I'm talking to you."
Still, he stayed quiet.
Her sigh was sharp, impatient. She moved closer, her eyes scanning him like a product on display.
"Wash up and dress nicely. Someone wants you for the night. She's willing to pay a huge sum."
Nikolai's throat constricted.
"No," he said, voice small but steady.
Her brows shot up. "What did you say?"
"I said no," he repeated louder, stronger.
The slap came fast. Her palm cracked against his cheek, the force knocking him to the floor.
"You will do as I say, boy! You have no right to talk to me like that!"
The floor was cold. The sting on his cheek burned. But this time, he didn't cry. Something inside him snapped.
He stood.
Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn't step back. She didn't believe he could be dangerous. Not him. Not her child.
She was wrong.
He shoved her. She stumbled. Fell.
And then—
The wooden jewelry box.
He didn't think. His vision was red, his breath loud in his ears. He raised the box and brought it down. Once. Twice. Again.
She screamed. Then she gurgled.
Then she was silent.
His small hands trembled, soaked in blood. Her blood. It was on his shirt. In his hair. On his lips. The box slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a hollow clatter.
The door burst open.
One of the girls—he didn't remember her name—saw him. Her eyes widened in horror. Her scream echoed louder than his mother's ever had.
---
Nikolai jolted awake, his heart racing like he'd run a marathon. His skin was damp with sweat, his shirt clinging to his chest. His breath came in short, rapid gasps.
He was in his penthouse.
He looked down at his hands. No blood. No bruises. Just calloused, steady fingers.
He was not twelve. Not anymore.
He exhaled shakily, clenching his jaw. Nightmares. Always the same. Always dragging him back to that place, to that woman, to the child he used to be.
He ran a hand over his face, the trembling still there in his fingertips. No matter how many times he buried it, the past always clawed its way back. Screaming. Bleeding. Begging to be remembered.
He swung his legs off the bed and stood slowly. His limbs ached, but this was a pain he could handle.
He walked to the minibar, each step deliberate. He grabbed a bottle of vodka, unscrewed the cap, and drank straight from it. The liquid burned down his throat, a welcome fire.
He stared out the window, the city lights blinking below him. So far removed from the red room. From jasmine. From blood. And yet... not far enough.
He didn't regret killing her. He never would. That woman gave birth to him, but she had never been a mother. She had been a cage. A sentence. A nightmare in human skin.
No, he didn't regret it. He regretted surviving.
His gaze moved to the TV screen again. Rose.
She was asleep now, curled into herself like a child. Peaceful. Naive. So unaware of the devil watching her sleep.
He walked closer, until his face was inches from the screen. He raised his hand and pressed his palm against it, against her image.
"Don't you think it's about time you did what I brought you here for?" he whispered, voice low and bitter.
Of course he hadn't brought her here just to play loud music and test his patience. No. He had brought her here for a reason. She belonged to him now. And one way or another, she would understand that.
This place was colder than Salvatore's. More brutal. More unforgiving.
And it was only a matter of time before Rose realized she wasn't in a cage.
She was in a graveyard.
And Nikolai? He was the ghost that ruled it.