The storm outside had quieted, but inside Nicolas, it hadn't.
Scarlett had fallen asleep curled against him, her tear-streaked cheek pressed over the place where his heart beat far too fast. For a long time, he just sat there in silence, watching the faint flicker of lightning play against the lab's glass walls. His hands had dried — the blood turned almost black now — but even clean water wouldn't wash away the memory. Nothing ever did.
He shifted slightly, afraid to wake her, and his breath caught when her hand moved over his chest as if to make sure he was still there. Her skin was warm, fragile. Her trust was unbearable.
He thought she would run when she saw his hands. Thought she'd tremble with the same disgust he felt toward himself. It would have been easier if she did. Because then he could've told himself distance was mercy. But instead, she stayed. Cried. Fought him. Clung to him as if she could pull him back from the dark with sheer will.
And she had.
He never expected that from anyone — least of all her.
He lowered his gaze to her sleeping face. Those red lashes, the faint bruise along her collarbone left by the man who'd tried to threaten her for the blueprints. Rage ripped through him all over again. The memory of his conversation with Aras about the mafia gang replayed in his mind .
And the new problem with the Mengs. Specifically, Moretti Meng — the man who thrived on corruption, money, and power. The kind of man who married alliances the way others married people. And Scarlett…
Alisa Meng.
That name hadn't left Nicolas's mind. She wasn't just someone he'd met by accident — she was the daughter of one of the dirtiest power brokers in the underground network. She'd tried to bury that truth from him, and he understood why. Her father's reach was long, his methods ruthless. If the Mengs learned she was with Nicolas Volkov, they'd use her — or destroy her — to get to him.
He clenched his jaw. For now, he would have to pretend. Distance was the only refuge she could have.
Her lips moved in her sleep, whispering something he couldn't catch. The sound pierced him. He brushed a blood-stained knuckle along her cheek, a soft, almost reverent motion.
"You shouldn't have stayed," he murmured. "You should've run far away from me."
But he knew she wouldn't.
Scarlett stirred then, opening her eyes slowly. They were still damp, still shining with that unwavering loyalty that both terrified and healed him. "Did you sleep?" she whispered.
He shook his head.
"You're thinking again," she said, her voice hoarse but gentle. "About pushing me away."
He didn't answer, but his silence said everything. She reached out — small fingers tracing over the veins of his bloody hand — and whispered, "You can hide from your enemies, Nicolas. But you can't hide from me."
That broke something inside him. He couldn't hold back anymore; the storm in him demanded release.
He pulled her close, so close that their breaths collided. Her hands trembled against his chest, and before she could speak again, he kissed her — a sharp, fierce collision that tasted of salt and tears and something deeper than either of them understood. She didn't hesitate; she met him with the same fire, her fingers sliding up to the back of his neck, grounding him when everything else was falling apart.
His blood still stained her skin when he brushed her jaw, tracing down to where that intruder had dared touch her. His lips followed — not to claim, but to erase; to overwrite fear with promise. Scarlett shivered, her hands gripping his shirt, but she didn't pull away. She tilted her head, eyes fluttering shut, breath breaking softly as he kissed the side of her neck, his movements deep with anger and something close to devotion.
When he finally stopped, his breath ragged, he rested his forehead against hers.
"For now," he said, voice low and breaking, "I'll act like I don't know you. Not because I want to. But because I have to. The world you come from — the Mengs, your father — they'll use you against me."
Scarlett shook her head, tears threatening again. "I don't care who they are. I care about you."
He closed his eyes, fighting the ache. "You will. One day. When you see what following me costs."
She cupped his face in both her trembling hands. "Then let it cost. I'm not leaving."
Nicolas couldn't speak. He could only look at her — stubborn, wild, heartbroken — and realize that no threat in the world scared him as much as the idea of losing her.
Outside, thunder rolled once more. Inside, under flickering light, Nicolas kissed her again — slower this time, softer. A promise he couldn't voice.
He didn't know how long he could protect her from his world. But as long as she stayed, he would try. Even if it meant pretending she was a stranger by day, only to remember every heartbeat of her by night.
The storm raged on, and Nicolas Volkov finally understood — love wasn't what saved you. It was what made you willing to burn for someone else.