Chapter 8: Make sure I die

~ Scarlett ~

Morning in Nikolai’s estate arrived with the quiet, suffocating precision of a gilded prison.

I sat at the small bistro table near the French doors of my bedroom, a silver tray of fresh pastries and black coffee untouched before me.

Out in the courtyard, three armed guards paced the stone perimeter, their heavy boots crunching rhythmically against the gravel.

My wrist still throbbed faintly from where the biometric sensor had been strapped the night before.

I only need to fool you.

The words I had spat directly into Nikolai’s mouth during the interrogation drill still burned on my tongue. Why did I even say that?

What if he caught on my escape plan? Ugh! I’m losing it here. Fine, I just need to play along for some time.

If Nikolai thought he was conditioning a captive into his personal weapon.

He had no idea that every indignity, every drill, and every flex of his control was just fuel for my escape. Three weeks until the Supreme Council Gala. Three weeks to learn his world so completely that I could slip through his fingers, reach a phone, and get to Julian.

A crisp knock shattered the silence, and Madame Vane stepped inside, her charcoal suit unwrinkled, her pale blue eyes cold and expectant.

"Breakfast is over, Scarlett," she said calmly. "Your real education begins in the conservatory."

I didn’t utter a word and followed behind her.

The glass conservatory was suffocatingly warm, heavy with the scent of jasmine, Earl Grey, and steam.

She began the class with theoretical teachings, demonstrations and etiquette training on stance and tactics in a dinner setting.

It was very similar to the usual high society heiress training but this was more ridged and far more dangerous, especially when the maids brought in porcelain pots.

I didn’t realize how much time was spent until I noticed the gloom outside the window.

Rain lashed against the glass panes overhead, but my focus was pinned entirely on the three porcelain teapots sitting on the mahogany table before me.

Nikolai sat at the far end of the room, his jacket off, his black dress shirt unbuttoned at the throat, swirling a glass of dark amber whiskey as he watched me with those unblinking, obsidian eyes.

Was it really necessary for him to watch me like a hawk?

“In syndicate diplomacy, dinner is rarely just dinner," Madame Vane said, her sharp voice echoing against the high glass walls.

"A bullet creates a war. A poison creates an unfortunate heart failure. Before you sit at a table with cartel bosses, you must know what you are consuming before it touches your tongue."

She gestured to the three steaming pots.

"One is pure Jasmine dragon pearls. The second holds a tasteless, odorless chemical derivative. The third contains a concentrated paralysis agent. Identify the safe pot, Scarlett. Pour a cup, and drink it."

She throw me straight into practicals!

My stomach coiled into a tight knot. I stepped up to the table, my fingers trembling slightly as I recalled everything Madame Vane had spent hours drilling into my head—watching the density of the vapor, sniffing the aroma, checking the color.

Pot three’s steam rose smoothly, a light, fragrant floral scent wafting upward. It looked completely pure. It smelled entirely innocent.

This is it, I thought, relief washing over me.

I took the handle, poured the clear, golden liquid into a china cup, and lifted it toward my lips.

Thwack!

A ruthless hand struck my wrist with terrifying speed. The china cup flew from my fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor in a spray of liquid and porcelain.

I gasped, stumbling back, my hand flying to my chest as Nikolai stepped into my space. His face was a mask of cold, dark fury.

"Look at the floor, Scarlett," he commanded, his deep voice slicing through the room like a blade.

My eyes dropped to the shattered mess at our feet. Where the golden tea had pooled on the dark wood, the liquid was sizzling, eating away at the floor's polished finish with a faint, horrifying hiss.

Tiny white bubbles frothed violently against the splinters of porcelain.

Cold terror flooded my veins, my throat constricting as the reality hit me.

"A second later, and you would have been coughing up blood on this table while your lungs collapsed," Nikolai rasped, his dark eyes burning down into mine.

"I—I checked it," I stammered, my voice cracking as I stared at the sizzling chemical on the floor. My heart hammered wildly against my ribs.

"Madame Vane said to check the odor and the color! It had no scent! It wasn't cloudy! How was I supposed to know?"

"Because some poisons are designed by geniuses, not amateurs," Nikolai said flatly.

He stepped toward the table, picking up a clear crystal glass filled with a transparent, odorless liquid. He held it up between us, his long, calloused fingers wrapping around the glass.

"You don't just sniff like a dog and drink like a fool," he said, his voice dropping into a low, commanding register. He slowly swirled the glass in a tight, lazy circle. "You play with your drink. You toy with it. Look closely."

I leaned in despite myself, my eyes locked on the liquid. As he swirled it, tiny, almost invisible micro-bubbles clung to the glass wall for a fraction of a second before vanishing—a subtle, unnatural tension in the fluid that pure water or tea would never have.

"Two seconds of patience," Nikolai murmured, his dark gaze shifting from the glass to my face.

"Just a idle, elegant swirl of your hand while you entertain a guest. That is the difference between staying alive and choking on your own tongue. Do you understand me?"

I swallowed hard, the lesson burning into my mind. "I understand."

"Good," Nikolai said, setting the glass down with a soft clink. "Clean your hands. The wolves don't just use poison, Scarlett. They use lead."

What did that even mean?

I didn’t need to guess for long.

Ten minutes later, I stood in the estate's private subterranean shooting range. The air was cold, smelling heavily of gunpowder, oil, and ozone. Ear protection rested around my neck, and on the steel table before me lay a black, heavy semi-automatic pistol.

"Pick it up," Nikolai ordered from behind me.

My hand hovered over the cold steel. I had never held a gun in my life. Raised in high-society drawing rooms, firearms were things guards carried, not heiresses.

I wrapped my fingers around the grip, my hand shaking under its surprising weight.

I raised the weapon, aimed at the paper silhouette target hanging fifteen yards down the lane, and squeezed the trigger.

BANG!

The recoil slammed violently into my wrist, throwing my arm upward. The deafening crack echoed through the range. I blinked through the smoke, looking at the paper target.

I had missed completely. The bullet had buried itself harmlessly into the reinforced rubber wall two feet to the left of the paper figure.

Before I could lower the weapon, a heavy, warm presence closed in behind me.

Nikolai stepped right up against my back, his broad chest pressing against my shoulder blades, trapping me in his heat.

My entire body stiffened.

His large, calloused hand wrapped over mine on the grip of the pistol, while his other hand came around my waist, his long fingers anchoring my hip to steady my stance.

The suffocating physical proximity sent an instant spike of heat straight through my veins.

"You're holding it like a tea cup, little siren," Nikolai growled softly into my ear, his hot breath brushing against my temple. His chest expanded against my back as he breathed.

"Tighten your wrist. Lock your elbow. Stop fighting the weapon and let it become an extension of your arm."

He shifted my posture, his hand on my waist pulling me firmly back against his hard frame, aligning my shoulders with his chest. His fingers pressed firmly into my right wrist, forcing my grip to lock into place.

My pulse spiked, and it wasn’t from fear of the gun, but from the overwhelming, possessive weight of his body wrapped around mine.

"Sight line straight through the notch," Nikolai instructed, his low baritone vibrating against my back. "Breathe out... and squeeze. Don't jerk it."

I exhaled, feeling his chest drop behind me. Together, our fingers squeezed the trigger.

BANG!

The kickback was absorbed by Nikolai’s solid grip behind mine. Down the lane, a jagged hole opened in the lower right abdomen of the paper target. Still nowhere near the head or chest, but a hit.

"Again," Nikolai murmured against my neck, refusing to let go of my waist.

BANG! BANG!

Two more shots echoed through the vault, ripping into the paper figure. But as the smoke cleared, Nikolai didn't step back. He didn't release my waist.

Instead, his large hand slid slowly up from my hip, his calloused palm tracing the curve of my ribs until his thumb rested right beneath my breast, feeling the wild, erratic thudding of my heart.

"Your pulse is spiking, Scarlett," he rasped, his voice dropping an octave, thick and heavy against my ear. His lips brushed the shell of my ear, sending a shudder straight down my thighs. "And there's no biometric monitor in this room to save you."

I froze, the heavy steel gun still held in our joined hands, my back pinned flush against his solid, muscular chest. I could feel the ridge of his belt, the heat of his body burning straight through the fabric of my dress.

"Is it the gun making your heart race?" Nikolai murmured, his hand tightening over my ribs, pulling me so close there wasn't a whisper of air between us. "Or is it me?"

My breath hitched in my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut for a split second, forcing my pride to claw its way back to the surface. I slowly turned my head, my lips inches from his jaw, staring up into his dark, dangerous eyes.

"It's the restraint it takes," I whispered, my voice thick with heat and icy defiance, "not to turn this barrel two inches to the left and put a bullet through your ribs."

A dark, intoxicating growl vibrated deep in Nikolai's chest. His hand slid from my ribs up to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling into my hair, tilting my head back until I was completely at his mercy.

He leaned down, his mouth hovering a fraction of a millimeter over mine, his heavy breath fanning across my lips.

"Then you'd better practice your aim, little siren," he rasped, his eyes burning into mine with terrifying possession. "Because if you shoot me... you’d better make sure I die."

He held me trapped in his suffocating heat for three agonizing seconds before slowly releasing his grip, stepping back, and leaving me gasping for air in the quiet smoke of the range.