I remain silent, letting the words settle between us like thick smoke.
Finally, I give in, but just enough. “The shipments… they’re coming in from the docks. Not all of them, but some. My men are hiding out in the old warehouse district in Moscow.”
Nick doesn’t move at first. He’s taking his time, savoring the moment like a predator toying with its prey. I see the glint of satisfaction in his eyes, but I also see the flicker of doubt.
He knows this isn’t the full truth. He knows I’m holding back. But for now, it’s enough. And I know he won’t kill me. Not yet. He needs me to finish this game. He needs me alive for his plans to work.
He steps around me, slow, deliberate. “You think you’re holding out for her, don’t you?” he muses. “That your silence is protecting her?” He clicks his tongue, feigning disappointment. “You don’t get it, Aslanov. She’s already breaking. Without you. Because of you.”
My hands flex against the chains, fingers curling into fists. I don’t react, but my body betrays me—the tension in my shoulders, the slight clench of my jaw.
“She’s a ghost of the woman you left behind,” he continues, his voice low, taunting. “It’s almost sad, really. The way she moves through life now. Hollow. Empty. Like she’s waiting for something that’ll never come back. Waiting for someone who is declared dead.” He chuckles, shaking his head.
A sharp, burning sensation coils in my chest, but I force my breathing to stay steady. This is what he wants: to crawl under my skin, to make me weak.
Nick watches me, eyes gleaming with something dark, something satisfied. “She doesn’t eat much either. Lost weight. Doesn’t talk to anyone. She just drifts, like a ghost. She’s already mourning you.” He tilts his head. “She thinks you’re dead, just like the rest of the world.”
I keep my expression cold, unreadable, but the weight of his words settle in my stomach like lead.
“Tell me, Aslanov,” Nick sighs, stepping back. “Is this what you wanted for her? To waste away for a man who doesn’t even exist anymore?” His smirk deepens.
Something inside me snaps.
The chains bite into my wrists as I lurch forward, but the restraints hold me back, the metal cutting into my skin. Mybreath comes fast and harsh through my nose, and for the first time, Nick’s smirk turns into something closer to delight.
“There he is,” he murmurs. “There’s the feared man I’ve been waiting for.”
He crouches in front of me now, elbows resting on his knees, eyes alight with amusement. “You want to keep her from harm?” he whispers. “Then start talking. The more you give me, the safer she’ll be. Or… you can stay silent. And we’ll see how long it takes before I bring her a visit.”
Chapter 8
He Waits in the Hell I Dream
Isabella
The darkness folds around me like velvet, thick and choking. The air itself feels alive, dense with heat and ash, clinging to my skin like smoke from a fire that never went out. The silence is wrong. Too complete. Too deliberate. My body feels heavy, limbs sluggish, but I move anyway, compelled by something ancient, something raw humming in the marrow of my bones.
Stone grates beneath my feet. Wet. Cold. Slick with something that smells of rot and iron. I’m barefoot, wearing only a thin white nightgown that clings to my skin like a second layer of nerves. It’s already damp, clinging to the curve of my hips, translucent with sweat, or is it blood? I can’t tell.
The corridor stretches out ahead, impossibly long, its walls made of something that pulses faintly under the firelight, like flesh. Veins throb beneath a thin membrane of stone and muscle, as if the place itself is breathing, watching. At the far end, flames flicker against obsidian columns, throwing shadows that stretch into the shape of beasts. Wolves, dragons, men. They snarl in silence. They move when I blink.
He’s here.
Or whatever is here resembles him.
He stands between two jagged black pillars, shirtless,barefoot, as if this place bends for him. The fire behind him casts him in shades of scarlet and gold, illuminating every scar carved into his body like scripture. His tattoos slither over his skin, ink that looks like it was etched in blood rather than ink.
He is more than a man here. He is sovereign. Made of ruin and beauty. The devil in his kingdom.
His eyes find me as though he already knew I’d come. As though I was summoned, not dreaming. His gaze drags across me, unhurried, consuming, and I feel my breath hitch without a single touch.
“This isn’t real,” I whisper, though my voice doesn’t sound like mine. It sounds distant, cracked, scorched by the heat of this place.
“No,” he replies, his voice low and dangerous, smoke and honey wrapped in steel.
He begins to walk toward me, each step slow and deliberate, his bare feet leaving no mark on the scorched stone. The shadows recoil from him. Or maybe they follow.
“I told you before,” he murmurs, each word a knife. “Your grief found me. You opened the door, solnyshko. And now I’m here.”
