Chapter 20 It takes Sasha three days of bed rest to recover enough to even walk again. The idiot nearly got himself killed confronting one of Semion's men like he was bulletproof. He did exactly what I warned him not to do. He rushed into a fight he wasn't prepared for and nearly died, never once thinking about how the Bratva would survive without him. He certainly didn't spare me a thought. Every time I close my eyes, I see him on my doorstep bloodied and badly beaten. I was genuinely terrified he'd bleed out right there, and there'd be nothing I could do. If it weren't for Nicole, he probably wouldn't be here now. She didn't panic or freeze the way most people would. She simply grabbed the supplies and worked a fucking miracle. He's still sore. He's still doubling over in pain when he thinks I'm not watching him. But he's alive. I'm still angry with him. He did the exact thing I told him not to do, which would result in an official reprimand if he weren't my brother. Anyone else in the Bratva doing that shit would face the full extent of my wrath. He's lucky I love him, but his loyalty to the organization is no excuse for his recklessness. Yet, despite everything else vying for my attention, Nicole is all I can think about. In the three days since Sasha's injury, she's been different around me. It isn't obvious to anyone but me, but she now hesitates just ever so slightly when I step into a room. She avoids lingering too long when we pass each other in the hall. She hasn't let a single one of our conversations veer into any topics that aren't about my mother's health. At first I thought she simply regretted sleeping with me again. And maybe that was part of it, but this didn't start until after I asked her to help Sasha. She was direct with me then, practically begging me to tell her who I really am and what I do. She's pulling away because I'm holding back. To thank her for her help, I book a quiet Italian spot on the Upper East Side. It's small, intimate, and secluded. Some may even call it romantic, but I expect nothing from this. I'm not trying to convince her to sleep with me again. This is just a gesture to show my appreciation. And the flowers I buy are also just a gesture. Definitely not a way to sweeten my chances with her. When I get home, I find her in the sitting room reading one of the books from our library. She looks up when I walk in, something soft shifting in her face the moment she sees the bouquet. I hold them out to her. "Are these for me?" she asks, surprised. I nod and offer them to her. "They aren't much, but I thought they could help convey my thanks. For helping Sasha the other night. And, of course, for all you've done for Mom." She takes them carefully, her fingers brushing mine. "You didn't have to do this." She blushes. "I wanted to," I say, watching her bury her nose in the petals. "And I was wondering if you might like to have dinner with me." Her eyes flick up to mine, equal parts suspicion and something darker. It's hard for me to gauge her mood lately. Our whole dynamic is off. "Dinner here?" she asks carefully. "Actually, I made a reservation, if that's okay with you. Six p.m.?" "I'll have to ask my boss if I can leave early," she jokes. "He's a real tyrant." "I'm sure I can help with that," I tease back. "Well, as long as you're helping, I think the chances are good. So, yes, I'll go to dinner with you." She slips away to find a vase, and relief pours through me. I wasn't sure how she'd respond, but it's good to feel that easy levity between us again. We meet in the foyer at six sharp, and she lets me help her into the car without protest. The ride to the restaurant is quiet but comfortable. We talk about my mother's latest obsession, the afternoon soap opera she devours every day. "I swear, she's going to be the one writing scripts soon," Nicole says, laughing softly. "She'd do a better job than whoever is behind the current storyline," I mutter. Nicole just smiles, and I catch her observing me from the corner of my eye. I only hope that whatever she sees puts her at ease. When we arrive, the maître d' escorts us to a corner table in the back, secluded from the other patrons. A single candle flickers between us, casting a cozy glow. The bottle of wine I requested ahead of time is already uncorked and breathing. The owner himself comes over to check on us. Nicole shrugs off her coat, and the candlelight glints off her necklace. She looks stunning, and it takes everything in me not to lean across the table and kiss her right then. When the waiter returns to pour the wine, I gesture to her glass, but she shakes her head. "I'm not much of a drinker," she says. I should have realized that, of course. She'd skipped wine at the mansion, too. I file away the detail for later. Dinner passes in a blur of easy conversation and warm glances that linger too long. Nicole is radiant, the dim light making her glow, her eyes bright and animated as she tells me stories of crazy nights in the ER. When the plates are cleared and the waiter discreetly drops the bill, I reach for my wallet as Nicole speaks. "Thank you for this," she says softly. "It was really nice to get out of the house for a few hours." I lift my gaze to hers. "You're welcome," I tell her earnestly. "You've been a godsend to our family. It was the least I could do." Her smile falters just slightly. "You don't owe me anything, Sergei. You pay me pretty damn well; I'm just doing my job." I study her, reading every micro-expression. I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table, and hold her gaze. "That's where you're wrong," I tell her seriously. "I owe you a hell of a lot, Nicole. For taking care of my mother. For saving Sasha. For sticking around, even when I know I haven't been the most forthcoming." She shrugs, modest and effortless, like she doesn't see the impact she's had on my life in such a short time. "I'm just doing my job," she repeats. "And your mom's doing really well, by the way. She's walking better, her memory's sharper. I think she's almost back to herself." Her words send a small jolt of panic through me. Mom's close to the end of her recovery, which means Nicole won't be needed for much longer. I refuse to let that thought sink in. At least not yet. Not when she's sitting across from me, her dress hugging her curves, her mouth stained a soft red from dessert, and her smile doing serious damage to my self-control. "You've done more for my family than you know," I tell her honestly. "I'm glad you agreed to take the job." She gives a small nod, and for a second we simply sit, silence stretching comfortably between us. I wish I could stay in this moment, where everything is comfortable and easy. There's nothing between us except genuine affection. When we step outside into the crisp night air, I place a hand gently on her lower back, guiding her to the car. She leans into the touch like it's the most natural thing in the world. And I realize our physical intimacy already feels natural. The drive home is quiet, both of us full from dinner. Being in her presence is intoxicating, though. I'm not ready to give it up. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. I park in front of the house, the engine humming for a moment before I kill it. The porch light flicks on automatically, but neither of us makes a move to get out. Nicole sits quietly beside me, hands folded in her lap, head tipped toward the passenger window as she gazes across the garden. To the spot where we almost kissed before Sasha interrupted us. "You've been quiet," she murmurs, turning to face me. "So have you." "I think I'm just trying not to ruin the moment." I shift in my seat, angling toward her. "This is a moment?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious I might be the one to ruin it. She nods once. "It definitely feels like one," she whispers, the air between us suddenly reverent. "You look beautiful tonight," I tell her, unsure what else to say. Her gaze dips to my mouth and lingers. I lick my lips in anticipation, and that's all the invitation she needs. She leans across the console, her hands gripping the lapels of my jacket, and presses her lips to mine. It's not soft or tentative; it's fueled by the same fire that's burned between us since that very first text. She's addictive, and I'm insatiable. I groan into her mouth and pull her onto my lap in one fluid motion. Her legs straddle me, her knees on either side of my thighs, and I feel every curve of her body as she settles against me. Her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging, and I capture her lower lip between my teeth before deepening the kiss. It's hot and wet and urgent. She grinds against me now, her body doing all the begging her mouth hasn't dared voice. "Fuck," I breathe against her jaw, trailing kisses down to her neck. "If you aren't careful, I won't want to stop." "Who says we have to?" She grins wickedly. That's all the encouragement I need. In a romance-themed observation show, several participants undergo a series of interactions and conflicts filled with love, misunderstandings, and power struggles. In the end, one couple rises to over...