As Nikolai stepped out of the restaurant, the late afternoon air hit him like a baptism of chill, washing away the remnants of performance. The smooth mask of charm, the easy smirks and casual arrogance—all of it fell away in increments, stripped down to something colder, sharper. The Nikolai who smiled at Lucien over a table of rice cakes didn't exist anymore.
His posture shifted, the lazy slouch replaced by a clean, precise straightness. Shoulders rolled back. Hands slipped into the pockets of his hoodie. The air around him changed—dense, magnetic, dangerous. Pedestrians passing by felt it without understanding why; their eyes flicked toward him, then away again, instinct screaming caution.
By the time he reached the car, his driver was already holding the door open. Nikolai slid in wordlessly, the leather sighing under his weight. The door shut with a soft, final click, sealing him inside a world of tinted glass and low, humming silence.
Only then did he reach up, fingers curling under the edge of his mask. He peeled it away, slow, deliberate—the faint suction of fabric parting from skin. The reflection staring back from the darkened window wasn't pretty. The bruises had bloomed darker now, purples and sickly blues spreading like spilled ink across a perfect canvas. His jaw tightened.
He touched the edge of one bruise with a fingertip, felt the dull ache pulse beneath his skin. Cold still lingered there, ghost of the ice pack he'd pressed against it earlier. A reminder. A punishment. A habit.
The wig came next. He pulled it off with a rough motion, shaking his head once, hard—like a dog shaking off rain. The false blond strands gave way to the dark beneath, disheveled, the real color bleeding through in messy locks that fell over his eyes and across his forehead. He dragged a hand through it, exhaling softly.
For a brief moment, his reflection didn't look like a man at all—more like a shadow wearing a human shape.
His gaze flicked to the window again, but his mind was already elsewhere—back to that table, to the sharp sound of Lucien's voice, to the way his eyes had burned across the distance between them.
That fury. That raw, unguarded emotion. It lingered in Nikolai's thoughts like the aftertaste of good whiskey—bittersweet, warm, hard to forget.
And for the first time that evening, Nikolai's lips twitched—not into a smirk, but something smaller. Quieter. The kind of smile you'd miss if you blinked.
"Princess," he murmured under his breath, voice soft, almost fond.
The driver glanced briefly in the rearview mirror but didn't ask. He knew better.
Nikolai leaned back against the seat, eyes half-lidded, the city lights blurring as the car pulled away. The persona slipped fully back into place—composed, calculating, untouchable.
But beneath it all, his thoughts stayed fixed on one thing.
That fire.
That temper.
That beautiful, furious mess of a man.
Soon, Nikolai's eyes drifted shut as the city slid by outside the tinted window. The faint hum of the engine filled the silence, steady, rhythmic—almost enough to drown out the memory trying to claw its way up from the dark. Almost.
His hand came to rest on his thigh, fingers absently tracing a line over the fabric of his sweatpants, where the bruise beneath was still faintly tender. The ache pulsed like an echo, and before he could stop it, his mind slipped back—
—to the quiet, polished cruelty of the Soelus estate.
The scent of sandalwood and disinfectant.
The sound of a clock ticking too loudly.
And his grandfather's voice—calm, sharp, venom-laced.
He'd been in his office since morning, reviewing his notes on the casino incident—the kidnapping that had nearly cost Lucien and the others their lives. It wasn't supposed to have gone that way, but then, things rarely did when humans and debts mixed. Nikolai had just closed the file when his phone buzzed with Lucien's name flashing across the screen. Their call had been brief, strained, a knife's edge of sarcasm and avoidance but it had lifted his spirit. Somehow while trying to get under Lucien's skin, it was as if he had gotten infected with the need of him. The thought of meeting him, seeing his face, basking in that scent again, had him grinning and getting up as if he just didn't care anymore.
But then moment later he had hung up, the door had opened.
Grandfather didn't knock. He never did.
"You didn't show," the old man said. No greeting, no pretense of civility. Just that quiet, expectant tone that demanded obedience.
Nikolai hadn't even looked up from his desk. "I had business."
"Business?" The cane struck the floor once, the sound splitting through the room. "Your business was to meet the woman I arranged for you. The daughter of the Heinze line—an omega of good stock and standing. You insulted them."
"They run half their empire on drug trafficking," Nikolai replied evenly, finally meeting his gaze. "And you wanted me to sit across from their princess and pretend I didn't know that?"
His grandfather's eyes had gone cold. "You forget yourself."
"No," Nikolai said, standing. "I remember exactly who I am. You're the one who keeps trying to rewrite it."
The silence that followed was suffocating. His grandfather had always hated that tone—the quiet defiance, the restraint that denied him the satisfaction of a raised voice or broken composure.
Then came the inevitable.
The cane again, but not against the floor this time.
A sharp crack against his ribs. The sting bloomed across his skin, heat and pain threading together.
Another.
And another.
Nikolai didn't flinch. Didn't move. Didn't give the old man the reaction he wanted.
"Ungrateful," the patriarch hissed. "You shame this family. You shame your bloodline. You dare refuse a union that would fortify us? Do you even know how worthless you are with this name I gave you? If my daughter didn't foolishly ruin herself, I would have fed you to dogs!"
"I said I'd serve this family," Nikolai murmured, voice low, steady. "As your heir. Your weapon. Your lap dog—your words. But my love life is mine. I don't want to be trapped by something I hate. I can't bear how much her pheromones stink."
"You Ungrateful swine. Who gave you the right over your life?" The man had now hit him with his punch, studded with platinum gold rings. The pain shot through Nikolai's jaw and he felt his mouth fill with blood.
His grandfather might be old but a werewolf , even old was stronger than five human males in their prime.
"With all due respect Grandfather, But I don't need anyone's permission for that." His voice was still calm, polite and yet it grated on Alexander's ears. His sterling grey eyes narrowed coldly as if seeing a worm.
The cane came down once more before it stopped.
Heavy breathing.
The old man's hand trembling with anger, or maybe age.
When it was over, Nikolai had straightened his coat, smoothed his hair, and bowed slightly. "If our reputation breaks because I refused to marry a cartel princess, perhaps it was never strong to begin with."
He'd walked out before his grandfather could answer, the faint trail of blood at the corner of his lip the only sign anything had happened.
Now, in the present, in the silence of the car, his lips twisted slightly.
The bruise on his jaw wasn't just from a scuffle or some business gone wrong—it was a family mark, stamped there by blood and tradition.
He leaned his head back, eyes half-open, voice a whisper only the car could hear.
"Maybe I should've gone to the damn meeting."
But there was no regret in his tone. Just exhaustion—and the faintest ghost of bitter amusement.
The car turned a corner, city lights streaking past like thin blades of gold. And as his mind began to drift again, Lucien's voice echoed faintly in the back of his thoughts—angry, raw, alive.
For a man surrounded by wolves, that fury had been the first real warmth he'd felt in years.
_______________________________________
Lucien dragged himself off the couch. Staying hungry wasn't going to solve anything, he told himself, but the moment he shuffled into the kitchen, the universe decided to remind him how clumsy he could be.
By the time he'd managed a single egg, two slices of toast, and some juice, the countertop looked like a war zone. Shell fragments scattered, crumbs everywhere, and a slick of orange liquid pooling across the counter. He hissed when the edge of the pan bit into his palm—skin splitting, a blister already rising.
"Perfect," he muttered, staring at the mess. His stomach turned at the sight of it.
That's when his phone buzzed. Mikael.
Lucien wiped his hands on a dish towel and answered. "Yeah?"
"Where are you?" The familiar rumble of his friend's voice came through, edged with concern.
"At home. Trying to… eat. And failing."
"What happened?"
He told him. Everything. The restaurant. The contract. The debt that wasn't his but was now shackled to his name. He even told him about Nikolai's smirk—and the humiliation of storming out like a fool.
"Send me the contract," Mikael said when he'd finished. "I'll get a lawyer friend to look through it. Maybe there's a loophole."
Lucien hesitated, then murmured, "Thank you."
He snapped pictures of the papers on his desk and sent them, each image landing in the chat with the weight of another nail in his coffin.