Chapter 21 Blackout

Chapter 21 Blackout
~Nikolai~

I knew something was wrong the moment I heard the screams. But I can’t afford to make my already panicking wife panic even more. So I step out of the room to investigate the sound.

By the time I reach the hallway, the noise is gone, like it never existed. My eyes narrow slightly in suspicion.

I walk toward the reception, and there she is. The receptionist. All smiles. Like nothing happened.

“What was that?” I ask, raising a brow.

She tilts her head, feigning confusion, but I’ve dealt with far too many liars to fall for such an act.

“What do you mean?” she asks coyly, her gaze darting behind me, searching for Liora. When she sees I’m alone, her smile sharpens. She steps from behind the desk.

“Is everything fine?” she purrs.

By now, she’s too close. I can smell her perfume.

“The screams,” I reply curtly.

She pouts.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her hand lands on my chest. “Maybe you imagined it.”

I let her touch linger just long enough for her to think I’d allow it, then stepped back. Her balance falters.

“Not the smart move,” I say lightly.

Her smile flickers, but she tries again, her tone turning sharp with mockery. “What? Don’t act all righteous here. You want me to believe you’ve never fucked another woman since you got married to your wife?”

I stare at her, silent. Finally, I tilt my head slightly. “Careful,” I say quietly. “I’m not a man who appreciates being touched without permission.”

Her lips part in a slow smile. 
“Stop playing so hard to get,” she giggles, tilting her head in what she probably thinks is seductive. “It actually makes me want you even more.”

Of course it does. People like her always crave what they can’t have.
I study her for a moment, my gaze drifting to the delicate line of her throat. So fragile. It would take nothing... nothing, to wrap my hand around it and squeeze until that giggle dies in her mouth.
I can almost picture it. The widening of her eyes, the way her body would fall slack, the silence after.
How tempting.

Instead, I exhale softly, forcing the darkness back down where it belongs. 

“My wife doesn’t seem to like the noise,” I say, my tone cool. “Keep it down.”

I start to leave, already done with this little game, but she’s not smart enough to let me walk away.

“Wait—”

Her fingers wrap around my hand. Before she can blink, I twist her wrist sharply. She lets out a small cry, stumbling forward. Her body trembles as pain floods her face.

“What did I say,” I ask, my voice low, “about touching me without permission?”

Her breathing grows shallow. Her skin pales. She’s trying to keep her composure, but the panic in her eyes betrays her.

I let her suffer for a few more seconds, just enough to make sure she’ll remember the lesson before I release her wrist. She staggers back, clutching her arm. I turn again, not bothering to look at her.

That should’ve been the end of it.

But then, something pricks the side of my neck. A sharp, foreign sting.

I pause, fingers instinctively reaching up. There’s something wet there.

It takes less than a second for me to realize what happened. She injected me.

My vision starts to blur, the edges of the room melting together. The ground feels unstable beneath my feet.

I hear her voice, smug. “You should’ve been nicer to me.”

I try to smirk, but it feels heavy. “You just made the worst mistake of your life,” I manage to whisper, though my tongue feels thick, and my body sluggish.

She’s smiling, triumphant, stupidly proud of herself. The last thing I see is her smirk.
Before everything goes black.



The next time I open my eyes I'm in a small, cramped room. Sunlight sneaks in through a high, narrow window. I'm strapped to a chair. For a split second, something like amusement flickers through me. The audacity. The stupidity. They think ropes and a musty attic will hold me. They have no idea. If only they knew the trouble they'd bought for themselves

I try to shift, to work my fingers free, but the straps are tight and stubborn. Whoever did this knew what they were doing. Then, I think of Liora. The thought arrives suddenly. That someone might have touched her is an unforgivable crime in my book. If anyone lays a hand on my wife, it won't end with threats. It won't end with pain. It will end in death.

I test the straps again. Still no luck. My head throbs, but I push through it. My eyes fall to my wrist. There, the black-gold band I never take off. It looks like an ordinary accessory, but it’s not. Inside it is a tiny AI interface named Penny, connected to a micro-communicator hidden in my left ear. The earpiece is so small that you’d have to look closely to notice it. I had it custom-made years ago, something every man like me should have. The wristband acts as the control, while the earpiece handles the transmission. 

I shift slightly. 

“Penny,” I say quietly, “call Marcus.”

A soft chime answers. The device recognizes my voice instantly.

“Dialing Marcus,” it says in a calm, feminine tone.

Seconds later, I hear a faint beep in my left ear, the signal from the tiny transmitter. Then comes Marcus’s voice.

“Sir? You used this line. What’s going on?”

“Track my location immediately,” I instruct, keeping my tone calm. “Bring two men. Fully armed. Move quietly. No unnecessary noise."

There’s no hesitation on his end. “Copy that, sir. I’m on it.”

The line goes dead. I stare at my wrist for a moment. Then I let out a slow, heavy sigh and lean back in the chair, the wood creaking.

It’s not myself I’m worried about. I’ve been in worse situations and walked out without a scratch. What has my nerves tightening now is her. Liora.

For the first time in a long while, I feel something that almost borders on restlessness. It’s not fear... I don’t do fear. But the idea that she might be in danger, that someone could have hurt her while I was here, makes my jaw tighten. My pulse beats hard in my neck. If anything’s happened to her… I’ll burn this entire place down, brick by brick.

Just then, he door creaks open.

I lift my head just in time to see the receptionist step inside. She’s changed. Gone is the neat uniform from before. Now she’s wearing a tight, short dress that looks like it was chosen to provoke. Her hair’s down, lips glistening. She smiles when she sees I’m awake, a small, self-satisfied curve of her mouth.

“Well,” she says, swinging her hips as she walks closer, “you’re up. I was afraid I gave you too much.”

I don’t bother playing along. “Where’s my wife?”

That wipes the smirk off her face for half a second. She tilts her head, pretending to think. “She’s fine."

I narrow my eyes. I’ve interrogated enough liars to know the difference between truth and performance, and this woman? She’s performing.

“Why do you care so much about her anyway?” she asks suddenly, a teasing edge creeping into her tone. “Oh, wait… I get it now. “You’re in love, aren’t you?”

She laughs.

“Love,” I say, tasting the word like it’s something foreign. “That’s one way to describe it.”

I hold her gaze while she takes another step forward, as if testing how far she can push. 

“You don’t seem like the romantic type,” she murmurs, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “So what is she to you, then?”

I don’t answer. I just watch her. My jaw tightens. I’m not sure how long before Marcus arrives. If there’s a delay, twenty minutes.
Twenty might not sound like much, but when your wife could be in danger, it does.

“I asked you a question,” she presses, her voice a little louder now, a hint of irritation slipping through tone. “You really love her that much? Enough to risk your life?”

Still nothing. I let the silence sit between us. It makes her uncomfortable. I can tell she’s not used to being ignored.
She shifts, tapping her heel against the floor. 

Finally, I look up at her. “You talk too much.”

Her mouth opens slightly, offended. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” My tone stays calm. “You talk too much for someone who’s about to regret every decision she’s made in the last twenty-four hours.”

Her brows draw together. We stare at each other, neither blinking, until a smirk ghosts across my lips.

“Tight rope, yes,” I say, keeping my voice low, “but a very weak chair."

Her confusion lasts all of half a second before I move. I push up with every ounce of strength, the old wood groaning as I slam the chair down against the floor. The wood splinters. My teeth catch the rough edge, and with a tug I tear the leather where it loops to the frame. The last knot loosens and the bind slides away.

Her confident mask cracks the moment the chair gives. Fear carves new lines into her face.

I take predatory steps forward and she stumbles back, until her spine slaps the wall. The perfume she wore becomes cloying at close range. Her eyes are wide and bright, a small, ugly apology already forming there.

My hand rises before I think about mercy. It finds the soft column of her neck and clamps down. Her throat presses as I watch her fight for air. The scramble in her hands is clumsy and useless. She tries to find purchase on my sleeve, but all she finds is the cold, brutal force of my grip.

Then, I let go and snap a hard punch to her temple.

She drops. One instant she’s there, the next she’s gone, limp on the floor. A small line of blood appears at her mouth and soaks the cheap carpet.

I kneel, close enough to see her eyelids flutter. She can stay where she is and think about what she’s done whenever she regains consciousness. That's if she does before I come back for her. Because I will certainly come back for her later, I will make sure the lesson settles into her bones.
That she messed with the wrong person.

Right now, my job is one person. Liora.