Nikolai 2 (Her Russian Protector #6) Read online

  "Here," he decided. "You'll wear my crown here."

  I gulped and nodded. It would be easy to hide by wearing my hair down—and to show off whenever I wanted by choosing to wear my hair up. The idea of Nikolai seeing his mark on me when we were alone thrilled me. "Yes."

  With a satisfied hum, Nikolai took my hand and tugged me toward the chair in the center of the room. The red leather was worn in spots but it seemed sturdy and comfortable. I was taken aback when he sat first and leaned back. When he patted his lap, my lips parted to protest, but he squelched the words with one heated look.

  Ignoring Tomi's amused stare, I straddled Nikolai's lap as daintily as possible. The flowing skirts of my evening gown came in handy. They were loose enough and so full that I didn’t have to worry about the fabric bunching along my thighs or hips.

  "Look at me." Nikolai commanded my gaze. "This is going to hurt. Not as bad as the other pain I've caused you." He shot a pointed look at my stomach. "But it won't be pleasant."

  I interlaced our fingers and gave his hand a squeeze. "I'm not afraid."

  "No," he agreed and kissed me lovingly. "You never are."

  Behind us, Tomi readied the necessary supplies. I leaned against my husband, accepting his strength and finding comfort in his soothing warmth, as Tomi prepared my skin and applied the stencil. Nikolai's powerful arms kept me from flinching when the first bite of the needles registered. I stared into his handsome face, enthralled by his pale eyes, and found myself wondering, not for the first time, how he managed to look at me with such love and kindness one moment and offered others that cold, icy glare the next.

  The pain of the needles stabbing into my skin blossomed from one small spot to the entire back of my neck. After some time, the heated burn morphed into a strange numbness that I didn’t mind so much. My fingers began to tremble, and Nikolai simply held my hands tighter. The all-black design didn't take as long as I had expected, and before I knew it, Tomi was wiping away the blood and ink and handing us a pair of mirrors.

  With my skin throbbing and feeling a bit lightheaded, I used the mirror I had been given to catch sight of the reflection from the one Nikolai held behind my head. The delicate and darkly beautiful mark on my skin seemed as if it had always been meant to fit right there. Maybe it had. Maybe Nikolai was right. Fate had thrown us together eleven years earlier, and now here we were, married and in love, the king and queen of Houston's underworld.

  "Do you like it?"

  I caught the slightest hint of uncertainty in my husband's voice. Smiling at him, I nodded. "I love it."

  He leaned forward and kissed me then, the scorching heat of his lips against mine promising a night I wouldn't soon forget. Tomi bandaged my neck, and Nikolai carefully shifted me off his lap. He steered me toward a chair in the corner and slipped his jacket around my shoulders.

  "Drink this," he said, taking a can of my favorite soda from Tomi and pressing it into my hands. "The sugar rush will help."

  "Thank you." I sipped at the ice cold drink and glanced up at him when he started to remove his cummerbund and shirt.

  As if reading my mind, he nodded. "It's my turn."

  Consciously ignoring the painful pulse along my nape, I watched as he took his place in the chair and bared the back of his neck for Tomi. He was tall enough that he rested his chin on the top of the headrest while the ink master tattooed a matching but more masculine crown on his skin. I wondered how many other pieces the artist had done for my husband. The more elaborate art, the iconography on his forearms, the onion domed churches topped with steeples and crosses that took up his entire back, those were definitely Tomi's work. There was also the pair of interlocking Orthodox wedding crowns and our names that Nikolai had hired the man to ink over his heart on Valentine's Day.

  Some of the tattoos, the faded ones with blue and green tints, had been done during his stints in some of Russia's worst prisons, back when Nikolai was younger and restless and prone to risky decisions. They were simpler pieces—numbers and letters, shields and crosses, spiders and daggers—that held secret meanings. Each tattoo told part of Nikolai's history with Maksim Prokhorov's criminal family.

  With his father's crime family, I silently added. That was a secret we hadn't told anyone. Only Yuri, our priest, the parish deacon and my father knew the truth about Nikolai's father's identity. We intended to keep it that way. There was nothing but danger that would come from letting that fact become more widely known. It was best for everyone to think that Nikolai was simply Maksim's chosen man in Houston.

  My thoughts turned to the massive cross in the center of his chest and the stars just under his shoulder blades. He had two matching stars on his knees. They were tattoos that very few men in the life earned. I didn't know whether he had gotten them before or after he had earned his position as the pakhan, the boss, of Houston. It wasn't a question I dared ask or one he would likely answer. There were lines I didn’t cross in our marriage and that was one of them.

  I didn't like it, but that was the bargain I had made when I had agreed to marry him. We weren't like our friends. He wasn't going to tell me everything, and I had to find a way to be okay with that. I hadn't yet discovered how I was supposed to do that, but I prayed that someday I would figure it out. I hated not knowing what was happening. I hated the nights when I stared at the ceiling waiting for him to come home, all the while knowing that I couldn't ask him where he had been or what he had been doing.

  I worried that someday all that secrecy was going to tear us apart. Marriages were supposed to be built on truth, but our foundation had some serious holes in it. One good gust of wind—and the walls of our house might crumble in on us.

  "Solnyshka?" Nikolai's concerned voice interrupted my thoughts. He didn't even seem to feel the needles buzzing along his skin as Tomi worked the vibrating tattoo gun back and forth. Brow furrowed, he gazed at me with worry. "Do I need to call in Artyom?"

  I shook my head and offered a sweet smile. "I'm fine. It's been a long day."

  He didn't seem totally convinced but let it go. Feeling steadier, I gripped the can of soda and stood. I pulled his tuxedo jacket tighter around my shoulders and enjoyed the familiar, comforting scent of him that curled around me. While the crown tattoo took shape on Nikolai's skin, I perused the framed art decorating Tomi's walls. His tattoo style leaned more toward the traditional end of the spectrum, but the ink and pencil drawings with vivid swaths of color that he had proudly hung on his walls convinced me he had been classically trained in the fine arts.

  Lost in my silent critique of his art, I didn't even realize he had finished Nikolai's tattoo until Tomi appeared next to me. He issued a little huff of laughter. "They aren't as good as yours, but I like them."

  I glanced at him with surprise. "I think they're better than mine. Much better," I added softly and with a touch of envy in my voice. Gesturing to the street scene that had held my interest, I said, "Your style reminds me of Goncharova."

  His light blue eyes widened noticeably. He glanced at his drawing and then back at my face. "You're serious."

  "Of course." I tilted my head as I studied the scene again. "It's the way you've drawn the motorcycle that makes me think of her work."

  "Would you like to take it?" Tomi gestured to the drawing.

  As an artist, I understood what it meant for him to offer the framed canvas to me. "Yes, thank you. I'd love to hang it in my studio."

  A smile brightened his face. He reached for the drawing and carefully took it down from the wall. With a surprisingly bashful tone of voice, the hard-looking man handed the framed piece to me and offered three words in Russian, "For the queen."

  "Thank you." I hugged the drawing to my chest.

  Shrugging into his shirt behind Tomi, Nikolai watched us with a pleased expression. When he joined us, he slipped his hand under the jacket draped around my shoulders and retrieved a thick envelope from the cleverly concealed pocket there. He exchanged the envelope and a handshake with Tomi and walke
d me out of the room.

  I didn't miss Arty's curious glance as he tried to locate the new ink we both sported. My lips twitched with amusement when he gestured for Danny to take the lead. I glanced back at the captain as we walked down the hall and caught his surprised gape at the bandage covering the back of my neck. I had to bite back a laugh when he winked at me and made an approving thumbs-up gesture with the hand that still had all its fingers.

  Outside, the rain had finally stopped. I slid into the passenger seat, and Nikolai reached down to gather up the hem of my skirt, clearing it from the door. He leaned in and captured my mouth with a playful kiss. I grasped his shirt, holding him hostage, and boldly flicked my tongue against his. He growled, the sound low and rumbling in his chest, and gently pried my hand from his shirt. His forehead touched mine. "Soon."

  I practically vibrated in my seat as we made the drive back to our home. The dull ache along the back of my neck spurred thoughts of my friends and their reactions. Bianca would be aghast by the placement of the tattoo. She wouldn't come right out and call it tacky, but she would give me that look. Lena would probably frown and mutter something about gang tats. Erin would be her usual sweet-as-pie self and would probably gush over the romantic gesture. Benny would simply smile and call it beautiful.

  The longer I thought about it, the less I wanted to share my new secret. Deciding to keep it discreetly covered by my wearing my hair down, I stared out the window and wondered what other surprises this night would bring.

  We reached the house without any problems and parked in the converted carriage house in the rear of the property. Nikolai waved at Arty and Danny, sending the pair off for the evening, before escorting me across our backyard. He paused every now and then to inspect the newly blooming plants in the garden and flower beds he tended with such care.

  Holding my hand, he led me through the side entrance and into the mudroom. He pressed a tender kiss to my temple. "I'll meet you upstairs."

  Nodding, I rose on tiptoes and pecked his cheek. "Don't be long."

  "I won't."

  Trailing my fingers down his arm, I reluctantly parted from his side and made my way upstairs while my husband went through his usual nightly routine of making sure the house was secured. I paused at one of the upstairs windows overlooking the front yard and noticed two men talking on the sidewalk. One I immediately recognized as Kostya, but the other was unfamiliar. I assumed he was some new recruit, a young street soldier happy to stand guard on our home for the chance at gaining Nikolai's favor.

  Some of the magic and excitement of our night faded as the reality of our life together hit me. Suddenly the tattoo no longer felt so romantic. It felt more like a public symbol of ownership and a sigil of protection. I could practically hear the thoughts of the underworld denizens who might see the mark still burning and throbbing on the back of my neck. Don't touch that one. She belongs to Nikolai.

  "Vee?" He appeared behind me on the stairs. When I glanced back at him, his brow knitted and his mouth quirked to the side with worry. "Do you regret it?"

  My stomach clenched. "What?"

  "The tattoo," he said, coming to join me and taking the jacket from my shoulders. He dropped it onto one of the nearby slipper chairs before sliding his hands around my waist and embracing me from behind.

  I relaxed when I understood what he meant. "No."

  He nuzzled into the side of my neck and breathed in deeply. "I should have talked to you about it first. It was wrong of me to spring it on you like that. You're not one of my men champing at the bit to be branded as one of my soldiers. I should have given you time to consider it."

  I laughed at that. "You do remember your proposal to me, right?"

  He growled against my throat. "Not my best or most romantic moment," he conceded.

  "No, but it definitely set the tone for us." I reached back and caressed his jaw. "We seem to make our best decisions relying on gut instinct."

  His wide palm rested against my abdomen. He splayed his fingers against the front of my evening gown and playfully nipped at the fleshy spot where my neck curved into my shoulder. I let loose a mewling sigh and pressed back against his hard, powerful body. "Kolya…"

  He tugged on the zipper running along my left side and pushed the empire-waist gown off my body. It pooled around my feet in a billow of purple chiffon. With one hand, he unsnapped my strapless bra. The other was busy drawing ticklish circles on my bare stomach. Standing in only a seamless nude-colored thong and high-heeled sandals, I felt acutely undressed. My nervous gaze flitted to the window. "Nikolai, they'll see us."

  The possibility of one of his men getting a peek at me momentarily cooled his ardor. He hoisted me up in his arms, kicked aside the outrageously expensive dress and carried me to our master suite at the end of the hall. Placing me down on the bed with surprising reverence, he tapped the tip of my nose. "Stay."

  Leaning back on my hands, I watched him slowly strip. My greedy gaze roamed his naked and heavily tattooed body. He had the natural physique of a swimmer. Where I had to run every morning to keep fit, he needed only a few mornings a week at Ivan's gym to look that damned good.

  My gaze drifted along the myriad scars, some of them puckered and pink and others thin and white, marring his skin. The reminders of the pain and violence he had known in his life always saddened me. He had escaped the horrors of a sickeningly abusive orphanage and survived as a homeless child on the streets of Moscow with Ivan at his side. Later, the two men had brutally conquered those same streets before coming to Houston to make inroads for the Prokhorov family.

  Sitting up all the way, I lingered on the fresh scars from the December attack that had nearly killed him. The stab wounds he had sustained hadn't healed correctly, not after he had slipped out of the hospital in the middle of the night with my cousin Eric, a Houston detective, as his accomplice. Instead of resting and recuperating, Nikolai had gone to great lengths to save me that night and in the weeks that followed.

  He brushed his hand over the black eight-pointed star sitting just beneath his left collarbone. "Do you know what these mean? What I did to earn these?"

  My gaze flicked to his somber eyes before settling on the frightening star he touched. They were the tattoos only a man who had reached the highest and most secretive echelon of the Russian mafia earned. Voice soft, I nodded and whispered, "Yes."

  He stalked toward the bed with that predatory grace I found so thrilling. Standing so close I could feel the heat waves radiating from his skin, he asked, "What else do these stars on my chest and my knees mean?"

  Focused on his pale eyes, I didn't miss the dangerous flash in his icy irises. "That you will kneel before no man."

  "Da." Then, deliberately and with glacial slowness, he slid to the floor and knelt in front of me. I held my breath as he peppered light yet stunningly erotic kisses along my thighs. He lifted his head and pinned me in place with a scorching look that made my heart swell and my stomach wobble violently. "Only you, Vivian. You are the only one in the entire world who can bring me to my knees."

  His bold confession struck me as both an incredible compliment and a reverent warning. I wielded an immense power over him, the sort of power other men dreamed of having, and I had to be careful in the way that I used it.

  With a silent but meaningful look, he dropped his head and resumed the sensual trail of kisses along my thighs. Overwhelmed by arousal and love for this beautifully complicated man, I fell back to the bed and closed my eyes. My hand traveled down my own belly and didn't stop until I felt his thick sandy-colored hair beneath my fingertips.

  A pleasured sigh escaped my lips when he parted my legs and began to torment me with that wicked, wicked tongue of his. "Nikolai…"

  Chapter One

  June

  "Vivi, turn your webcam. I can't see the full piece." The staccato accent of Niels Mikkelsen's voice echoed in the sunroom Nikolai had converted to a home studio for me. "The easel with your new work is blocking my view."
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br />   "Hang on." I wiped the palette knife I had been using on the nearest rag, cleaning away the ridge of cerulean blue oil paint clinging to the metal, and dropped it on my worktable. I moved a few steps to the left and turned the stack of art books supporting my laptop and webcam so Niels could see the painting I had finished earlier that week. Sliding to the side, I asked, "Can you see it now?"

  "Yes!" Excitement filled his deep, masculine voice. "My goodness, you've really grown since the last show." Rustling sounds filtered across the speakers as he moved aside the papers and files on his desk and leaned in for a better look. "But you're also returning to your roots, I see. Mixed media?"

  "Layers," I said. "It's about the layers."

  "Yes," he hummed his agreement. "You're maturing. I can see that you have found something very interesting to say."

  The compliment from the Danish billionaire and world-renowned collector of modern art brought a smile to my face. Although he had enjoyed my show earlier in the year, Niels hadn't wasted the chance to deconstruct my paintings and encourage me with criticism that he delivered with an academic air. "I'm glad you like it."

  "I do." He slid back into his seat, the leather creaking and the springs of the chair groaning. "I suppose I don't have to look very far for your muse."

  "And who would that be?" I glanced at the screen to see him watching me rather intently. The handsome face filling my laptop screen could have easily been printed on the glossy front of a men's magazine or in a couture editorial. He had the strangest eyes, the hazel color an enthralling mix of whiskey brown with jade flecks, and sharp cheekbones. The intensity of his gaze made me glance away. If he had been an alpha wolf, I would have been a pack member who happily bared her neck in submission rather than risk being torn to pieces.

  "That Russian of yours, of course." Leaning back in his chair, he interlaced his fingers behind his head. "Where is Nikolai? Usually when we have our chats, he's hovering in the background." He clicked his teeth. "Such jealousy."