Page 47 of Crimson Sin
And that terrifies me. Because if he isn't only a monster, if beneath the violence and control there beats the heart of a man capable of love, then what does that make me, falling for him despite everything I know about his world?
One evening, I find him in the library, a crystal tumbler of vodka untouched at his side. He's reading, his attention focused onpages written in Cyrillic script I cannot decipher, but something in his posture suggests he's not really seeing the words.
I hesitate in the doorway, studying the picture he makes. Gone is the perfectly pressed suit, replaced by dark slacks and a white dress shirt with sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms marked with scars and ink. His dark hair is slightly mussed, as though he's been running his fingers through it, and for once, he looks less like an untouchable crime lord and more like a man grappling with thoughts too heavy to bear alone.
I enter the room and sit in the chair across from him, the leather creaking softly under my weight. “You can't keep everything locked away,” I tell him gently. “Not from me. Not forever.”
He studies me over the top of his book. For the briefest instant, I think he might finally let me in and crack open that fortress around his heart, showing me the man I've glimpsed in unguarded moments. His lips part slightly, as though words are fighting to escape, and I hold my breath waiting for whatever truth he might finally be ready to share.
But then he leans back, his expression settling into familiar lines of control. “Be careful what you ask for, Naomi. You might find an answer you cannot live with.”
His warning should push me away and remind me of all the reasons why falling for a man like him is dangerous and foolish. Instead, it pulls me closer, into a gravity I can no longer resist. Because behind the warning and the veiled threat, I hear a plea. He's not trying to scare me away to protect himself. He's trying to protect me, even from himself. And that, more than anything else, tells me that the man I'm falling in love with might actually be worth the risk.
16
NAOMI
The city feels almost surreal after so long inside Daniil's mansion. Lights glitter against the late afternoon sky, voices echo across sidewalks, and the air carries the scent of roasted chestnuts from a corner vendor. Life continues as if the world hasn't tilted on its axis for me.
I watch the familiar streets roll past. Each building, each intersection brings back memories of who I used to be. The coffee shop where I'd spend hours sketching. The art supply store where I'd browse for hours, dreaming of the day I could afford the expensive watercolors. The small gallery where Charlotte held her first client event.
Those memories feel like they belong to someone else now. A different Naomi. One who believed the world was safe and thought the biggest danger in her life was missing a deadline or running out of coffee money.
Daniil sits beside me, silent, exuding that unnerving calm that makes my skin prickle. Even when he’s still, there’s a lethal tension about him, like a blade sheathed but never at rest. His gaze never stops scanning the streets, cataloging every detail,every potential threat. His hands rest on his knees, fingers loose but ready. I've learned to read the subtle signs of his alertness, the way his breathing changes when he senses danger.
He's dressed impeccably as always, his dark suit tailored to perfection, but I can see the slight bulge where his weapon rests beneath his jacket. Everything about him screams power and danger, yet sitting this close to him, I feel safer than I have in weeks.
“Why bring me here?” I ask, breaking the silence that has lingered since we left his estate.
His head turns, his eyes locking on mine. The intensity in his gaze makes my breath stutter. “Because you needed air. And because you need to see what Galina and I built.”
The SUV comes to a smooth halt in front of a high-rise that pierces the sky like a polished dagger. Obsidian Vault International. The building is all clean lines and reflective glass, modern architecture at its most imposing. Sleek, pristine, and intimidating. To the world, it's a fortress for art and culture, a legitimate business that deals in the preservation and acquisition of historical artifacts. To me, it's Daniil's mask, the face he shows the world to hide what lies beneath.
The building rises at least forty stories, its glass facade reflecting the late afternoon sun in brilliant streaks of gold and amber. I can see people moving behind the windows on the lower floors, going about their daily business, completely unaware of the true nature of the man who owns this empire.
Lex emerges from the front passenger seat first. His eyes sweep every parked car, every pedestrian, and every possible hiding spot before he gives a barely perceptible nod.
Daniil's palm presses to my back, firm and warm through the fabric of my blouse. The touch sends an unwelcome shiver through me, proof of how my body responds to him despite everything I know about who he is and what he’s capable of. He guides me toward the entrance, his hand never leaving my back, a silent claim of protection that comforts and unnerves me.
The lobby takes my breath away. Marble floors polished to mirror brightness reflect the light from crystal chandeliers that hang like frozen fireworks from the vaulted ceiling. Curated sculptures are positioned throughout the space with museum-quality care. Each piece is spotlit, creating dramatic shadows that make the lobby feel more like a gallery than the entrance to a business building.
I let my eyes roam the walls, noting the careful placement of each artwork, the way the lighting enhances every curve and angle. My trained eye picks out pieces that must be worth millions. A bronze by Rodin occupies a place of honor near the elevator banks. What appears to be an original Picasso sketch hangs behind the reception desk. The receptionist herself could be a model, all sharp cheekbones and professional elegance.
Daniil watches me with a trace of amusement, as if he knows I'm torn between awe and suspicion. There's something almost boyish about his expression, a crack in his usually impassive mask that reveals how much my reaction means to him.
“Impressive,” I murmur, still taking in the grandeur around me.
“Galina designed most of it,” he replies.
The elevator that carries us to the upper floors is a work of art itself, all polished brass and mirrored walls. The ride feels eternal, each floor marked by a soft chime. The tension ispalpable, but I don't know if it's the situation or the way Daniil's presence fills every available inch of space.
When the doors finally slide open, the office stretches wide before us. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of the city below. Glass walls divide the space into sections while maintaining an open, airy feeling. Black stone desks are positioned throughout, each one clean and modern. Artifacts gleam beneath carefully placed spotlights, each piece displayed with reverence usually reserved for museum collections.
Daniil strides ahead, moving through the space with the confidence that comes from owning everything he surveys. Employees nod respectfully as he passes, their deference absolute. He doesn't acknowledge them directly, but I can see the way his presence affects everyone in the room. Conversations quiet, postures straighten, and attention focuses.
I drift toward a glass case that holds what appears to be a centuries-old icon. The painting is exquisite, the gold leaf still gleaming despite its age. The Virgin Mary's face is serene, her eyes seeming to follow me as I move. The craftsmanship is breathtaking, each detail rendered with the devotion of a true believer.
“It's beautiful,” I breathe, genuinely moved by the artistry.
