Twisted Chances

21. Nia (edited)

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Yesterday, Niko called me at one in the morning, all mysterious and commanding, telling me to pack whatever I'd need. "We're going somewhere for a week," he said.

A week. One week. And he wouldn't tell me where. My curiosity has been off the charts since. I could barely sleep last night, tossing and turning, imagining endless possibilities of what this surprise could be. My heart hasn't stopped racing since he told me.

Now, five minutes ago, I saw him outside my window, the familiar silhouette that makes my heart stutter. My dad reluctantly helped me with my luggage, shooting Niko the kind of disapproving glare only he could pull off. Mom, of course, kissed me goodbye and waved me off, her warmth contrasting my father's silent threat-filled scowl.

Niko took the luggage without a word, opening the car door for me. Sitting beside him, feeling the warmth of his hand brushing mine, made me feel like this wasn't just another trip—it was special. We drove to the airfield, and then... wow. A private plane.

We settled in side by side, me by the window, our fingers entwined. I could hear the nervous thrum of his heartbeat. His hand was slightly clammy in mine, betraying his calm façade. How cute. How impossibly cute.

To reassure him, I planted a soft, fleeting kiss on his knuckles, squeezed our hands together, and caught the subtle smile tugging at his lips. Even the air hostess, coming by with coffee, noticed the chemistry radiating between us.

We both asked for strong coffee—me, to wake from a night of anticipation; him, probably to bolster courage. I can't stop staring at him. My Niko, my puffin, my beautiful mess of a boyfriend.

The memory of yesterday's chaos—the punches, the blood, the way he didn't flinch once I defended him—flashed in my mind. How could anyone lay a hand on this man? I reached up, pulled his face gently toward mine, and kissed his nose where the bruises had settled. Surprised, he let me, and I pressed soft kisses along the marks.

Our coffees arrived, steamy and strong, but I was already too absorbed in the feel of him beside me to notice the warmth. My eyes drifted to my bag and pulled out my Bridgerton book—The Viscount Who Loved Me—my ultimate indulgence. This was the fifth time I was reading it, and yet, I was as lost in it as ever.

Engrossed, I barely noticed Niko's gaze lingering on my pages until he suddenly asked, "Wait... Anthony? Is he the male protagonist?"

I jumped in surprise. "Whoa! Niko! You scared me!"

"I—uh—since when have you been reading this?" I asked, trying to calm my racing heart.

"Since the page you started blushing," he smirked. That smirk—the one that always teases and taunts—made heat crawl up my spine.

"You don't get to have that ugly smirk right now. I get it," I joked, slapping his hand away.

"Wait, I'm ugly?" he gasped, mock-hurt.

"But I thought you liked this ugly smirk", he leaned towards me and whispered in my ear.

That gave me shivers.

Smooth. Too smooth. But two can play. I shot back, "And I thought you liked hearing yourself called ugly by me." Wait... what? Did I really just say that? My brain short-circuited.

Wtf. Was this!

This was bad, like really bad. Oh god! Why did I even say that?! Tf—

His lips curved into that infuriating, victorious smile. "I swear, if you laugh—"

Before I could react, he pulled me into his lap. My lips met his in a soft, lingering kiss, and my heart melted.

"I think you shouldn't flirt anymore. Let me take over that task," he teased, laughing softly.

I groaned, trying to hide my blush. "Stop laughing! I know that was bad! I regret it deeply!"

Finally, he calmed, pulling me into a deep, soul-stopping kiss this time. Slow, sweet, teasing, but full of promise.

"Don't worry," he murmured against my lips, "I'm not going to store this memory forever." Then he chuckled again.

Oh, come on!

Before I could protest, he nibbled my ear. The sensation was sudden and foreign, sending a soft moan slipping past my lips. His eyes lit up like a dog discovering a new favorite toy. Again. Another nibble. Another moan.

His hands slid under my shirt, exploring, feeling, memorizing me. And just when the heat threatened to consume me, his lips returned, slow and sensual, sending tingles down to the place that mattered most.

My mind stopped working. My body responded on instinct. Every nerve in me was alive, attuned to him.

Then, cruelly, his phone rang. A notification ruined the moment.

I peeked at it, curious, and saw the sender... Dad.