Loving The Bratva Boss

Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8 — Nikolai's POV

Dinner ends the way I expected:
with Isabella picking at her plate, pretending she isn't terrified, pretending she isn't curious, pretending she isn't affected.

She's terrible at pretending.

The moment Irina clears the table, I stand and gesture toward the hallway.

"Walk with me."

She hesitates—just a second—but it's enough to tell me what I already know: she's afraid of what comes next. Good. She should be. This house is filled with monsters disguised as men, and I'm the one they answer to.

She follows.

The estate is quiet now, the staff retired to their quarters, lights dimmed to amber. The sound of our footsteps echoes against marble, rhythmic and hollow. She keeps a few feet of distance between us, glancing nervously at portraits on the walls, at tall windows that reflect her own unease back at her like glass ghosts.

At the end of the corridor, I open the door to my private sitting room.

Warm lighting. A fire burning low. Heavy shelves lined with leather-bound volumes. A landscape painting above the mantle. Everything in this room is curated—controlled—like every piece of my life.

"Sit."

She does, sinking into the edge of the velvet sofa as if ready to bolt.

I lean against the desk across from her, arms folded.

"Earlier," I begin, "you asked why I killed a man."

Her shoulders tense. "I said I wouldn't bring it up again."

"And I didn't ask if you would. I asked if you understand why I was angry."

She meets my eyes—finally—and I see the question form even before she speaks.

"Because I questioned your morality?" she says quietly.

"No," I answer, stepping closer. "Because you questioned my authority."

I stop only a foot away from her. She leans back slightly but doesn't look away.

Good.
I need her to see this part of me.

"To survive in my world," I say, voice low, "you don't hesitate. You don't apologize. You don't second-guess decisions that keep you alive. Betrayal has a cost, Isabella. You witnessed me collect it."

She swallows hard. "I wasn't trying to challenge you."

"Yes," I murmur, "you were. And you should know what lines not to cross."

I watch the fear flicker across her face—but there's something else, too.
Something like defiance.

She doesn't speak. Fine. Silence can be revealing.

I take another step forward until I'm close enough to tilt her chin gently upward. She stiffens but doesn't pull away.

Testing her.
Measuring her.
Seeing how far she bends before she breaks.

"You are under my protection now," I tell her. "Which means your behavior reflects on me. I need to know—when I give you an order—will you obey it?"

Her breath shakes. "I... don't disobey to be difficult."

"Then why?" I press.

"Because I'm not used to being owned."

A spark. Sharp. Honest.

I let go of her chin, considering that answer.

Before I can respond—
before I can push her further—