Page 38 of Dark Promise

“Where did you get the milk?” I ask.

“The cupboard. It’s shelf stable,” he says. “Wasn’t sure how you like your coffee so I went with milk and sugar.”

“Good guess,” I say.

“Same way I like mine,” he says, letting the words hang between us, as if liking our coffee the same way is somehow prophetic.

“You’re reaching,” I say as I take another sip.

He laughs. His eyes soften as he looks at me, and that makes my heart stutter. I pick up a cracker and some cheese, nibbling on it as a distraction, but the silence between us isn’t awkward—it’s charged, weighted with everything we haven’t said.

When we’re finished eating, I head into the bathroom while he takes the tray back to the kitchen. When I’m done, I crawl back into bed and settle back against the pillows. I enjoy the view as Nikolai saunters back into the bedroom, all those gorgeous muscles and beautiful tattoos on display.

He settles on the edge of the bed and reaches out to tuck my hair behind my ear.

“Let’s finish our game,” I say, the words spilling out before I can second-guess them.

His brow arches, a faint flicker of amusement dancing across his features. “Truth or drink? It’s a bit early, isn’t it?”

“No,” I say firmly, shaking my head. “Just truth. No more drinks. No more evasions.”

His expression shifts, the amusement giving way to wariness. He studies me for a long moment, then nods.

“All right,” he says, his voice softer now. “But you go first. Tell me a truth, Sabina. Trust me with something no one else knows.”

Trust. Such a short and simple word. Such a heavy and terrifying concept.

But I feel like we might have something, something real, if only I can reach out and grab hold of it. How did I go from hating Nikolai Ivanov to thinking about…

About what? Dating him?

I don’t even know what I’m thinking.

But I do know that I want something from him, some part of him that he’s offered to no one else. And I can only ask for that if I’m willing to give him a secret part of myself.

I hesitate, my fingers curling into the blanket. The weight of his gaze feels heavier than it should—not oppressive, but steady. Like he’s holding the space open for me, daring me to trust him. And for reasons I don’t fully understand, I do.

“There was a night,” I begin, my voice trembling despite my efforts to steady it. The words feel heavy, like they’re dragging me down even as I force them out. “In college. I was walking back to my dorm from a party. It was late. Too late. And… there was this man.”

Nikolai’s body goes still, every muscle tightening. The energy in the room shifts, his sharp focus locking onto me, unrelenting but patient. His silence feels like an invitation—not to rush, not to hide, but to finally let the truth out.

“He followed me,” I continue, my fingers clutching the blanket as though it could anchor me. “I tried to lose him, but he was faster. He grabbed me. Dragged me behind a Dumpster.”My voice cracks, and I can’t stop the shudder that runs through me. “I screamed. I fought. But no one came. And he had a knife.”

I stop, my throat closing up, the memory clawing at me like a living thing. I hear the pop of a log in the wood stove. My breath is shallow, my chest tight.

The mattress shifts as Nikolai moves closer, his presence grounding me in the here and now. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t touch me. He just waits, steady and solid, the quiet strength of him like a shield I can lean on.

“He didn’t get to do what he wanted to do,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “I had a gun in my bag. Papa always made me carry one. I never thought I’d need it. But I did. I pulled it out.” I look at him then, my eyes searching his face for something—understanding, judgment, I don’t even know. “I don’t remember much from that point, Nikolai. I just wanted him to stop. We struggled. And the gun… it went off. I remember the shot, so loud. And I remember blood. So much blood.”

The tears come then, unbidden and unstoppable. They blur my vision, spill down my cheeks, hot and bitter, as the weight of the memory crushes me.

“He was going to—he was going to do something terrible to me.” My voice breaks, the words jagged and raw. “And I killed him before he could.”

My hands tremble as I cover my face, unable to look at him anymore. “I called Papa. He sent his people. He made it go away. No police. No questions. Just… gone.” A bitter laugh escapes me, sharp and broken. “He told me I did what I had to do. That I shouldn’t feel guilty.”

“But you do.” Nikolai’s voice is low, rough, and full of something I can’t quite name. Rage, maybe. But not at me. Never at me.

I nod, unable to speak. The guilt, the fear, the confusion—it all wells up inside me, threatening to drown me.

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