Page 32 of Dark Promise

I wait, saying nothing, inexplicably driven to know the answer, to understand a little about this beautiful, dangerous man.

“Maxim and I were close once,” he says at length, staring into the fire. “Like brothers. But…he made a choice when my uncle died. A different choice than I made.”

He picks up the vodka and takes another shot, the movement smooth, deliberate. The way his throat works as he swallows is absurdly captivating, and I hate myself for noticing.

“Your turn,” he says. “Who’s your favorite brother?”

I groan. “That’s impossible.”

“Truth, Sabina. Or drink.”

I scowl but reach for the wine glass. Before I can lift it, Nikolai takes it from my hand, his fingers brushing mine in a way that feels too intimate for such a brief contact. He sets it aside and pours vodka into his glass, sliding it toward me.

I shake my head. “Replacing my drink of choice with yours isn’t in the rules.”

“You made those rules. These are my rules,” he says, his voice low and commanding, the words wrapping around me like silk and steel.

A flush creeps up my neck at his words, hot and unwelcome.Rules.The way he says it—firm, unyielding, full of quiet authority—sends a thrill through me that I can’t suppress. My breath hitches, and I shift in my seat, trying to mask the reaction, but it’s too late. He catches the movement, and a dark smile curves his lips, like he knows exactly what effect he’s having on me.

Damn him. Damn his voice, his presence, and his maddening ability to strip away my defenses with just a look.

“You’re insufferable,” I mutter.

“Drink or talk,” he counters, his tone daring me to push back.

“Fine.” I huff. “If I had to choose…Dante. He’s the one I’d go to with a problem that didn’t require bullets or fists.”

“Sensitive,” he says, his tone teasing but not unkind.

“No,” I say. “Just…aware. He feels things deeply.”

The words hang between us, heavy with unspoken weight. Nikolai’s gaze sharpens and for a moment, I think he’s about to say something. Something important.

Before he can, I rush to fill the silence. “And Cassio,” I say quickly. “He’s funny. Well, most of the time.”

“So you don’t like Leo or Damian.” His eyes spark with amusement.

“I didn’t say that!” I glare at him.

“Easy.” He holds up his hands, palm out. “I know. I’m just messing with you. Remember, this is your game.”

“My game,” I echo. “That’s right. And my turn.”

“Go ahead.”

“Enough about me.” I narrow my eyes, my voice steady but with a razor’s edge. “How many people have you killed?”

The question comes out sharper than I intend, but I don’t regret it. The way Nikolai moves, the way he talks, the ease with which he wields control—violence clings to him like a shadow. I need to know the depths of what I’m dealing with. Or maybe, I just need to remind myself that this man isn’t a savior. He’s a killer, a danger, no matter how his presence makes my pulse race. Or is thatwhyhe makes my pulse race?

Nikolai tips his head, his smirk fading into something colder, harder. “You’ll have to be more specific. Professionally? Personally? Or both?”

“All of it,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. The firelight flickers between us, but it doesn’t warm the chill his words send through me.

He considers me for a moment, his pale eyes unflinching, before lifting his glass. “Probably about the same number your brothers have killed.”

“We aren’t talking about my brothers,” I say.

“Too many to count.” He downs the vodka in one smooth motion. For a second, something darker flickers across his face, a shadow that feels too human to belong to a man like him. “But I remember the first. I was eighteen years old. He deserved it.”

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