Page 39 of Dark Promise

“I’ve never told anyone else,” I whisper finally. “Until now.”

The silence stretches between us, thick with the weight of my confession. I can feel his gaze on me, heavy and unwavering. Slowly, carefully, he reaches out, his hand brushing mine, his touch warm and steady.

“You survived,” he says, his voice a quiet force. “You did what you had to do.”

His words don’t absolve me. They don’t erase the memory. But they do something else—something I didn’t expect. They make me feel seen. Understood. Maybe even forgiven.

“You didn’t deserve what happened to you, Sabina,” he continues, his eyes burning into mine. “But you fought back. You saved yourself. And you don’t owe anyone an apology for that.”

A fresh wave of tears spills over, and this time, I don’t fight them. I let them come, let them carry away some of the pain I’ve been holding onto for so long.

Nikolai shifts closer, his hand moving to my cheek, wiping away a tear with the pad of his thumb. His touch is gentle, his expression fierce.

“I don’t want to kill anyone ever again,” I whisper, my voice breaking under the weight of the admission. “I don’t want to be that person. I will wound someone to defend myself. But I will not kill. Never again.”

Nikolai’s jaw tightens, his grip on my hand firm but gentle, grounding me. His pale blue eyes meet mine, fierce with conviction, but there’s something softer beneath the surface—a tenderness he doesn’t show to anyone else.

“I understand,” he says, his voice low and steady, like an anchor in a storm. “And I’ll make sure you never have to. Not if I can help it.”

He pauses, his gaze burning into mine as if willing me to believe him. “You’ve carried that weight alone for too long. It’s not yours to carry anymore. Not while I’m here.”

The promise in his words is unshakable, a vow carved into stone. He lifts my hand to his lips, brushing a kiss over my knuckles, a gesture that’s as protective as it is reverent.

“I’ll be the one to end it, Sabina. If someone comes for you, they’ll answer to me.”

The conviction in his voice makes something in my chest crack open. He’s not just saying it to placate me. He means it. And I realize then that when Nikolai says I’m his, it’s not about possession—it’s aboutprotection, about cherishing me.

“Your turn,” I whisper, not at all certain he’ll open himself to me the way I did to him.

“My turn,” he agrees, and his voice is rough now, like the words are dragging themselves out of him. “You want truth, Sabina? Here it is.”

I sit up straighter, my heart thudding as I wait for him to continue.

“My father has always been a monster,” he begins, his tone flat, hollow. “Not just to his enemies, but to everyone. When I was eleven, my father gave me a puppy. I named her Bee. She was a beautiful, tiny thing that loved me without question. For three days, I thought… maybe my father could love me too.” His voice falters, just for a second, and I feel the ache of that hopeful boy.

A chill runs down my spine as his voice hardens. “On the fourth day, he stabbed her. Right in front of me. Left me to clean up the body. The blood. I went for him, punching, kicking, clawing. I wanted to kill him. I wanted him dead. He laughed. Said that love makes a man weak. That was the lesson he wanted me to learn. He wanted me to love that puppy and then lose her.” His fists clench on his thighs, the tension rippling through his body.

My hand flies to my mouth, a soft sob escaping before I can stop it. The image is too vivid, too cruel.

“But Mikhail Ivanov wasn’t done with his lessons,” he says, his gaze fixed on some far-off point. “Three months later, my mother tried to escape, to take me with her. He caught us. And he killed her too. Shot her. And left me to deal with her body.”

His words land like a punch, the casual brutality of them tearing at me.

“Nikolai,” I whisper, my voice breaking under the weight of his words.

“The only love I ever had was from my uncle, Vlasta,” he continues, his voice softening. “He tried to protect me, tried to keep Mikhail in check. But even he couldn’t stop him.”

His jaw tightens, his expression hardening as memories consume him.

I feel sick. Nikolai had been a child. Achild.

“All I could do,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper, “was survive him. Day by day. He told me I’d be nothing without him, that I’d be weak and broken without his lessons. That I’d end up like my mother, a fool who thought love could protect her.”

“Why didn’t your uncle just kill him when he murdered your mother?” I ask, my voice trembling despite the steadiness I’m trying to project. I can’t fathom how someone as ruthless as Nikolai’s father wasn’t dealt with the moment he crossed the line.

Nikolai leans back slightly, his eyes meeting mine. There’s a deep, simmering pain there, layered with something that almost looks like regret.

“Vlasta was… careful,” he begins, his voice low and deliberate. “He was the head of the syndicate, but leadership isn’t absolute. You can’t just kill a man like my father and expect no one to question it.”

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