Nikolai: Mine to Protect (Russian Mob Chronicles #4)

I stop watching Justine’s brisk exit from the makeshift office I set up in her parents’ home when Roman says, “She’s right, Nikolai. There hasn’t been a single incident in four days. Perhaps Dimitri’s intel was off.”

Usually, I’d agree with him—men in this industry could never be accused of being slow off the mark—but with my gut advising me to remain cautious, I must. Just because no incidents have been recorded, doesn’t mean there won’t be.

“Dinner with my brother is not imperative enough to put Justine’s safety at risk.”

“Yes, it is,” Roman disagrees. “It will show her she’s not a pawn in the game you’re playing. She’s your queen, Nikolai, so start treating her like it.”

“She is my queen!” My fist thumps my chest as wildly as my heart whacks my ribcage. “I’d give my life for her, so how can I be accused of treating her as anything less than my other half?”

Although I’m asking a question, I pray for Roman not to answer me. My mood is fragile, so any reply he gives will only make matters worse.

Justine and I have interacted the past four days, but the intensity hasn’t been close to the level as when we were in Vegas. She is my drug of choice, so being denied her attention for even a minute is the equivalent of a death sentence to me. I’m struggling, my temper as volatile as the unsolid ground I’m walking on.

Justine is distant because she’s hormonal and pissed I refuse to ask another man’s permission for her hand in marriage. I’m not standing my ground because I’m stubborn. It is because I’d rather die than admit she belongs to anyone but me.

I understand she wants to be asked to become my wife instead of being told, but why can’t that occur without begging another man for permission?

I am the king. I answer to no one—except her.

My molars grind to stubs when Roman mutters, “You’re treating her as if she’ll break at any moment.”

“And how do you suggest I change that, Roman? Should I sit back and watch her get hurt just so I can say, ‘I told you so.’” Not waiting for him to reply, I stand to my feet and head to the door. “How about you do the job I pay you to do instead of counseling my relationship?”

Roman’s reply is barely a grumble, but I still hear it. “You won’t have a relationship if you don’t pull your head out of your ass.”

If I were worried about my status in Justine’s life, I would retaliate to his sneer with violence. Fortunately for him, I have no doubt about my influence in her life. Justine is carrying my child, and her finger will soon bear my ring. Away from people who don’t understand how we operate, our relationship is solid.

Maddox knows the rules. It is the reason he hasn’t snitched a syllable to anyone since his release but me. Landon and Sebastian, though. . .they’re thorns in my ass. Their numerous comments about my job being a choice is frustrating the fuck out of me.

My position can’t be filled by any man. I was born for my role and killed to get where I am. I even butchered the man who raised me for it, so to have its importance brushed off as if it is worthless doesn’t just annoy me, it pisses me the fuck off.

If they were any other men, their foolhardy remarks would have been snuffed out by the loss of their vicious tongues. Mercifully for them, just like Roman, I consider them family.

Family is not flesh and blood. It is people who honor and respect you—factors these men will learn the hard way if they don’t come around fast to the idea that I’m a permanent figure in Justine’s life.

They gained my respect for the admiration they have for their sister, but they’ll lose it just as quickly if they continue their attempts to drive a wedge between us.

If I had it my way, Justine and I would have returned to Vegas four days ago. Alas, my queen is as stubborn as she is beautiful. She’s confident I misunderstood her brothers’ sneers, that they not only respect me, they respect my line of work.

I think she is full of shit.

Her brothers don’t want me marrying her any more than they want me fucking her. Why do you think I’m so hesitant to seek her father’s permission for us to wed? If his thoughts match his sons’, he’ll never give it to me. And since he’s sheltered under the same umbrella as Justine, he can’t be punished for disobeying my direct order.

It’s a lose-lose situation.

If I retaliate, I’m asking Justine to give up the people who guarded and loved her before me. If I let their comments slide, I’m seen as weak by my men and others in our industry.

I don’t want either of those things to occur, but I’m at a loss on how to stop it.

Cursing the humid afternoon air, I dig my cigarette pack from the pocket of my jeans. The unlit cancer stick sits between my lips until I break through the back door of the patio. I’m dying for a hit of nicotine, but since Justine’s mom asked for my men and me to smoke outside, I have to wait. My men rarely follow the rules, but since Karan’s request was more a suggestion than a demand, they’ve happily obliged.

I freeze with a lit match an inch from my cigarette when a heavy set of double standards smack into me. Something as simple as not wanting cigarette smoke absorbed into replaceable fabrics can be upheld without asking, but I expect Justine to become my wife without so much of a discussion.

I’m a fucking asshole.

I told Justine she’d want for nothing when she took her throne, yet I’m holding her greatest wish hostage because I can’t wrap my head around the idea of other people having an influence in her life.

I’ll never kneel at the feet of my enemy, but I can bow for my queen.

I’m drawn from dangerous thoughts when shouted words capture my attention. One voice I immediately recognize, although I prefer hearing it risen in ecstasy than in the anger it’s holding now. Justine’s fury is undeniable in her low tone.

After stubbing out my cigarette with my boot, I round the corner the voices are coming from. Justine’s voice grows with every step I take, which in turn quickens my pace. I’d sprint if I hadn’t recognize the uneasy tone of the man she is tussling with. It can only be one of three people: Landon, Sebastian, or Maddox.

My questions are answered when Justine sneers, “I swear to god, Sebastian, if you say one more bad word about him, you’ll not only have Nikolai purged from your life. . .” The way her tone dips during the last half of her comment reveals she’s repeating something Sebastian said earlier. “. . .you’ll also lose me. Is that what you want, Saint?”

Her use of Sebastian’s nickname reveals her anger will be quickly set aside if he gets with the program. It also proves without a doubt that she loves her brothers, but her love for me is even greater than that.

That alone should have me stepping away from their exchange, not toward it, but I never back down when challenged. Justine is more than capable of handling herself when it comes to her brothers, but I’ll never be too cautious when it comes to her.

Justine’s flaming-with-anger face enters my peripheral vision at the exact moment Sebastian grips her arm. His firm hold sends my anger to a point it hasn’t reached since I was sixteen.

“You can’t be serious, can you? He’s the same as the monsters who did that to you.”

I picture my knife skating across his jugular when his eyes drop to Justine’s scars. He glares at them as if they are imperfections, as if she is maimed with hate instead of the badges of courage I see every time I look at her.

My hand stops seeking my knife when Justine retaliates, “Nikolai is nothing like them.” As the woman I forever see in her eyes awakens, a rod hardens her back. “And my scars are a part of who I am. I’m sorry if they make you uncomfortable, but I’ll never be ashamed of them.”

Remorse floods Sebastian’s eyes so fast, not an ounce of hostility can be seen, but it does nothing to harness Justine’s campaign. The fire inside of her is roaring, resurrecting my queen from the shallow hole she’s been hiding in the past four days.

“Just like I’ll never side with a team that doesn’t have Nikolai at the helm. I love him, Sebastian. More than you could ever comprehend.”

When she chokes on her words, my first thoughts are to go to her. I nearly do, but Sebastian’s quick snag and yank routine keep my feet planted on the ground. His whispered apologies save him from being tortured as painfully as Justine’s pledge scarred my heart.

I’d never ask her to pick me over her family, but her reply proves I never had any reason to fear her decision. For years, anything I loved, Vladimir took, but even he can’t take this away from me. Love doesn’t die when you do. It’s only at risk of being extinguished when the fear of being unloved suffocates it.

I won’t let that happen to Justine and me.

Whether innate or taught through years of misguidance, hate weaves through your veins so hard and fast, you’ll barely recognize yourself in a matter of months. Over the past year, Justine has proven love has the same toxic effect.

She has softened me, as Dimitri said, but not in a bad, villainous way. She has me seeing both sides of the coin, the good and the bad. I want to be a better man for her, which in turn will make me a better leader to my crew.

I’ll never stop being the man I was born to be. Justine understands it is a part of who I am. She accepts all of me—annoyingly frustrating points and all—just as I do her.

Certain I’m making the right decision, I pivot on my heels and return to my station at the end of the porch. I trust that Justine has a firm hold on the ropes. My queen never does anything with half a heart. Even when she is up against a fiercer foe than any man she’s ever met, she doesn’t back down without a fight.

The way she removed my knife from Vladimir’s chest proves this without a doubt.