16. Kat

Chapter 16

Kat

A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.

That’s the mantra I cling to as I toss and turn, staring at the ceiling, willing sleep to come.

Shocker: It doesn’t.

I’ve tried it all—counting sheep (they ran away), meditating (all it did was remind me how annoyed I am), and a bath (lukewarm water isn’t as soothing as people claim). But no amount of effort or pretending I’m calm can erase his smug voice.

“ This is how it’s going to be now. You work for me. You follow my rules. My orders. No more games. You do what I say, when I say it, without question. ”

It’s the eternal mystery of the universe: why do bad things happen to good people?

I sit up with a frustrated groan, shoving the covers off.

Who needs him? Not me.

If he hates me, I hate him right back. He’s patronizing, infuriating, and, even worse, annoyingly hot—even when he berates me like a child.

I glance at the clock. Past midnight. Great. Tomorrow—well, technically, today—I’m going to have to face him again. Sleep-deprived and fuming.

Unless...

Whenever I get restless like this, there’s only one thing that can take the edge off.

A big, fat glass of wine.

Sure, I’d risk running into Nik, and I’d rather eat glass than have to deal with him in the middle of the night. But hey, no risk, no reward.

So I head to the kitchen, moving as quietly as possible. The penthouse is silent—eerily so—with nothing but the faint glow of moonlight spilling through the massive windows. For all its size and luxury, it feels cold and empty at night, like no one really lives here.

I find the bottle Nik opened at dinner without trouble and pour myself a very generous glass. The wine tastes as smooth and expensive as I remember.

Glass in hand, I tiptoe back toward my room. The last thing I need is for Nik to pop out of the darkness and think I’m planning a prison break.

I turn the corner, and that’s when I see him.

My breath catches, and I instinctively step back into the shadows.

He’s standing outside my door.

Why? Why does he have to be here ? Why can't he just leave me alone?

My mind immediately jumps to the worst-case scenario: he’s here to finish what he started in the kitchen. More insults. Or maybe another lecture on what a "menace" I am? Perhaps a fresh reminder of how much he hates me? Or worse—maybe he’s decided I’m not worth the trouble and is here to kill me.

I peek around the corner, expecting him to storm into my room like he owns the place—spoiler alert: he does— but he… doesn’t.

What he does instead is… unexpected.

My frown deepens as I watch him take a few steps toward my door, pause, and then shake his head, muttering under his breath.

Then he does it again.

And again.

Each time, he raises his fist like he’s going to knock but stops short, his hand hovering near the door before dropping back to his side.

He runs a hand through his hair, his movements sharp and . There’s something extremely… fascinating about it, and I can't look away.

What the hell is he doing?

His paces back and forth, his jaw tight, his shoulders visibly tense. In his other hand, he’s holding a box, clutching it to his side like a dirty secret.

He stops in front of my door again, squares his shoulders, and raises his fist. Then he clears his throat and rolls his neck. I hold my breath, sure this time he’ll knock.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he mutters something under his breath—a curse, maybe—and steps back again, his shoulders slumping.

I blink, clutching my wine glass so tight I'm surprised it doesn't even crack.

This isn’t the all-powerful, fearsome god who lashed out at me in the kitchen.

This guy looks… human.

Unsure, even. No. Not unsure. Torn .

The realization creeps up on me slowly, sneaking in as I watch him curse softly, pace back down the hallway, and finally chuck the box onto the floor a couple of doors down. His footsteps echo as he storms away, his whole body radiating frustration.

I stare after him long after he's disappeared, my chest tight, my heart hammering like I’ve just sprinted a mile. Then my eyes drop to the box he left behind.

I approach it carefully, as if it might bite me, and crouch to open the lid.

I don’t know what I expected to find inside. It’s not like he’s the devil, and it’s definitely not like this harmless plastic box is Pandora’s, packed with all the evils of the world.

But for some reason, it still surprises me when I find a t-shirt inside—impossibly soft, well-worn, and unmistakably his.

Oh, and a clean pair of flannel boxers.

And toiletries—shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and more. The familiar scent gives it away—his stuff.

I sit back on my heels, my breath catching.

What… what on earth is this?

In the short but eventful time we’ve known each other, I’ve learned Nik is many things. Amazing in bed, for starters. A smooth-talking bastard. Infuriatingly bossy. Terrifyingly powerful. And, oh yeah, the proud owner of a nasty, mercurial temper.

But this? I don’t know what to make of this.

Against all odds, could Nik be… sweet?

I want to stay angry. I should stay angry, hold onto the fire, the sharp edge of my fury. But the box—it’s too thoughtful, too... nice.

And ridiculously late, it hits me.

He wasn’t here to yell at me. Or punish me.

He was here to apologize.

He just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

The glass of wine trembles in my hand as the realization sinks in.

Nikolai Stefanovich feels… bad.

Worse than that—Nikolai Stefanovich… likes me. Not just begrudgingly attracted, not just caught up in lust. Oh, no. He likes me .

Somehow, against all reason or logic, the man who had me kidnapped in broad daylight was just pacing outside my door in the dead of night, trying—and failing—to work up the nerve to… make things right. With me .

With unsteady hands, I close the lid, pressing my palm against the top of the box like it might help me make sense of this.

I take a deep, deep breath. Maybe I do need some berating after all. Because, against my better judgment, as I clutch the box to my chest, I feel something I have absolutely no business feeling—something infuriatingly like butterflies in my stomach.