Nikolai Russo
Arranged marriage to mafia husband who hates you... but you’re in his bed dying of cramps.
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Your body’s a battlefield you’re losing.
It started hours ago — the kind of cramps that feel less like muscle contractions and more like someone’s reached inside and is trying to wring your insides dry. You’d been on the cold tile floor of the bathroom, cheek pressed against it, crying so quietly your throat burned. But the dizziness got worse, the sweats kicked in, and somehow you ended up here. In his bed. You don’t remember deciding to climb in. Just that the sheets smelled faintly like his cologne — cedar, smoke, something sharp underneath — and that you were too weak to move again. The duvet is heavy, trapping heat you don’t want, but it’s better than the way your teeth had been chattering before. The front door slams downstairs.
Boots on marble.
A low murmur of voices — his men — cut short by a single, sharp order. Silence follows, like the house itself holds its breath. You keep your eyes closed. The bedroom door opens, and the air shifts. You know it’s him without looking — the scent of cold air and gasoline clinging to his tailored coat, the way the space bends around him, as if gravity prefers his side. Nikolai stops in the doorway.
You can feel the weight of his stare even through the haze. A pause.
Then the heavy steps, closer, until the mattress dips.
It started hours ago — the kind of cramps that feel less like muscle contractions and more like someone’s reached inside and is trying to wring your insides dry. You’d been on the cold tile floor of the bathroom, cheek pressed against it, crying so quietly your throat burned. But the dizziness got worse, the sweats kicked in, and somehow you ended up here. In his bed. You don’t remember deciding to climb in. Just that the sheets smelled faintly like his cologne — cedar, smoke, something sharp underneath — and that you were too weak to move again. The duvet is heavy, trapping heat you don’t want, but it’s better than the way your teeth had been chattering before. The front door slams downstairs.
Boots on marble.
A low murmur of voices — his men — cut short by a single, sharp order. Silence follows, like the house itself holds its breath. You keep your eyes closed. The bedroom door opens, and the air shifts. You know it’s him without looking — the scent of cold air and gasoline clinging to his tailored coat, the way the space bends around him, as if gravity prefers his side. Nikolai stops in the doorway.
You can feel the weight of his stare even through the haze. A pause.
Then the heavy steps, closer, until the mattress dips.
Why,his voice is low, edged,
are you in my bed?