Boris gripped Rose by the wrist with the kind of force that left no room for protest. The sharp sting of his fingers digging into her skin made her wince, but she didn't utter a sound. Her wide eyes darted to Nikolai, who sat relaxed in one of the private VIP booths of Inferno—his club, his kingdom, his carefully crafted world of power and darkness. The heavy bass from the club's music vibrated through the walls, but all Rose could hear was the rushing sound of blood in her ears.
She expected him to stop this. To say something. Anything. But he just sat there. His cold blue eyes followed her, unreadable and detached. When Boris tugged on her arm and began leading her away, Nikolai didn't flinch. He just sipped from his crystal glass as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.
That hurt more than anything. More than the bruising grip. More than the fear.
She felt used. Thrown away. Disgust churned in her stomach. So whe he had said that her only education was sucking a man's dick she now knew what he had really meant. She wasn't a person in his eyes. She was currency. A pawn to be given, taken, used.
Her heart pounded so hard it hurt. A weight settled on her chest, each breath harder than the last. Tears gathered in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Not here. Not now.
It wasn't her first time. That was what she told herself, over and over. So it shouldn't matter. But it did.
It did because, deep down, a part of her had started to believe that Nikolai might be different. That even if he was cold, cruel, and possessive, he wouldn't sell her.
But here she was.
Dragged through the private corridor of Inferno, past steel doors guarded by men in black suits. Past the flickering red and purple lights that illuminated the darker corners of the club. Up a narrow staircase where the club's pulse felt more distant, like it belonged to a world she was no longer part of.
Boris pushed open a door and shoved her inside.
The room wasn't a bedroom, not really. It was a sleek private lounge—plush leather couch, a fully stocked bar, low lighting casting shadows along the walls. One of the private rooms used for… business.
He let go of her wrist. She immediately took a step back, wrapping her arms around herself as if that could shield her.
"Would you like a drink, or do you prefer doing things sober?" Boris asked casually, like they were discussing the weather.
She didn't answer. Her arms tightened around her body. Her armor.
"Let me go," she said, her voice trembling but clear.
Boris tilted his head. "Oh?" He stepped forward, raising his hand like he was about to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. She recoiled.
"But Nikolai said I could have you. Only his word matters. Yours? Useless." He chuckled, the sound low and oily, like it slithered over her skin. His hand dragged down her arm. She flinched. He grinned wider.
"Take off your dress," he ordered. "I'm not the romantic kind, so let's skip the pleasantries."
She didn't move.
Her jaw clenched. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. Her nails dug into her arms. She wouldn't give him that satisfaction. She would stand her ground.
Boris sighed, almost amused. "So you're the stubborn kind. I like those."
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a gun. He didn't aim it at her head—he pressed it against her chest. Slowly. Deliberately. Letting it glide down between her breasts.
Her entire body trembled.
"So, what's it going to be?" he murmured. "Take it off willingly? Or do I have to make you?"
The sarcasm, the fire—everything that made Rose Rose—slipped away.
All that remained was the girl from the orphanage.
The one who cried at night, alone in the dark.
She wasn't tough in that moment. She was terrified. Betrayed. Alone.
Boris stepped behind her. She didn't move. Her breath caught as his fingers found the zipper of her dress. The rasp of it being undone echoed louder than the music downstairs.
He slowly dragged it down. His fingers brushed against her spine. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Then—
BANG!
The gunshot rang out like a whipcrack.
And then—a heavy thud.
Rose spun around.
Boris lay crumpled on the floor, a pool of blood spreading beneath his skull. A clean bullet hole punctured the back of his head.
Her breath hitched.
In the doorway, framed like a shadow from hell, stood Nikolai.
His arm was still raised, gun smoking in his grip.
He stepped inside, holstering the weapon behind his back. Two of his men appeared behind him, walking past to deal with the mess like it was just another Tuesday night.
"Clean this up," he ordered, voice cold and detached.
Then he walked over to her.
Rose hadn't moved. Couldn't move.
He zipped up her dress without a word. The quiet hum of the zipper felt deafening.
Then her hand flew up, aiming for his face.
But he caught it mid-air.
"Careful, malishka," he murmured.
She yanked her hand back. Her face burned with fury and shame. "You twisted bastard. You let him take me just so you could show up and 'save' me?"
Tears streamed down her cheeks. This time, she didn't stop them.
Nikolai looked down at her, his jaw tight. "Yes, I did. Because I own you. I can throw you into hell or keep you from it. Your body, your voice, your soul—it all belongs to me. So act accordingly."
She stared at him, stunned. Then—
She spit in his face.
He didn't even flinch.
"You don't get to tell me that you own me, Nikolai. You don't. Nobody owns me. Just because Salvatore signed some goddamn contract doesn't mean you can do whatever you want."
He wiped his face with a handkerchief, folding it neatly before throwing it on the floor.
"What are you going to do about it?" he asked. "Run? To where? You have no home. No family. Unless you want to sell yourself on the street."
"You think I'm that cheap?" she spat.
He leaned in, his eyes glinting. "Everyone breaks eventually."
"You talking from experience?" she said, voice bitter. "Did you sell yourself? How was it? Did anyone pay for the great Nikolai Ivanov? I doubt it."
His expression twisted.
Before she could register it, his hand shot out and wrapped around her throat.
He squeezed.
Not hard enough to knock her out—but enough.
"Watch your mouth," he growled.
Her fingers clawed at his wrist. "S-struck a nerve? I bet your mama is really proud," she choked out.
His grip tightened for a beat, then loosened.
"Yeah," he said flatly. "She must be."
He let her go.
She collapsed to the floor, coughing and gasping. Her hands cradled her throat.
He stood over her. Tall. Impenetrable.
"Find your own way back to the penthouse. Or don't."
And with that, he turned and walked away.
She sat there on the cold tile floor, the lights of Inferno pulsing beyond the room's door.
She didn't cry.
She didn't scream.
She just sat, numb.
Her hand hovered over her throat. The echo of his fingers still there.
Had she struck a nerve? Had her words peeled back the curtain on whatever darkness Nikolai hid?
Who was he before he became this man?
What was he hiding behind those dead blue eyes?
And why, did a part of her wanted to understand him?