Nikolai Quinn
1596 Words
[Nikolai]
"Are you my meal for the night?" I asked, watching her pupils contract like a startled rabbit's.
She didn't answer. Of course, she didn't. They never do, not when they're caught somewhere they shouldn't be. But this one didn't look like a stalker. That defiant little glare said enough. As for a thief or spy, I couldn't tell. At least not yet.
Interesting.
Her skin was flushed. Not just from embarrassment—heat, maybe. Or arousal. She wasn't pretty in the delicate way I'd been used to. Her features were more mature. Ocean blue eyes and dark hair tied behind her nape—similar to that stickler of a butler—Harlan.
At one good glance, I could tell that she was older. Late twenties at least. And curvier than I liked. Breasts that strained against the ridiculously cheap-looking fabric with her n*****s threatening to tear through. Her seductive outfit alone spoke volumes about her mission in this bedroom.
I didn't mind. That just made the game easier and of course, I loved to tease.
My eyes roamed without apology. Wide hips, a narrow waist—barefoot. She wasn't short either—another flaw. She was over five feet and eight inches. Taller than your average woman.
"You're not quite what I expected," I murmured, slowly circling around her, watching her straighten her posture like some woman put on display. It wasn't the first time a maid had tried to get into bed and it definitely won't be the last. But they were often much younger and they usually didn’t get the wrong room. "You're older. Bustier." I finished the sentence.
My gaze slid down her back. She was much more endowed than the type of women I was used to.
Hmm... so this was my mate? An interesting pick from the goddess.
She didn't answer again. Brave, or just stubborn.
My fingers teasingly hovered along her arm. I wanted to see if she'd react. She didn't.
That amused me. Why was she acting so stiff when she'd obviously come to seduce me? Or was this some new tactic of playing hard to get?
I leaned lower, letting my breath disturb the tiny hairs at her nape. Her scent could only be described as creamy—it was intoxicating. "You felt it, didn't you?" I could hear the effort it took for her to stay still. The way her breath faltered.
Yet, she tried not to react.
"The bond." I said it like a joke, "I know you felt it too."
I moved in front of her again, slowly, forcing her to look at me. Her eyes were defiant, like she was still gauging whether to fight or beg. Her lips were tight. No scent of fear, not exactly—but disapproval, yes. Delicious little disapproval.
"You don't look thrilled," I added. "Was I supposed to be more handsome? Your age, maybe?"
That struck a nerve. Her gaze dropped for a second before it snapped back up.
I smiled.
There it was.
"I don't care for fate," I went on. "It's a lazy concept. Bonds? Mates? They're just chemical reactions with sentimental PR. But..." I took a step closer, tipping my head. "You do smell good. So good that my instincts are telling me to run my tongue all over your skin."
She didn't move. So I reached out and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger.
"Too good to be skulking around and pin-picking locks like a petty criminal." I smiled. "I mean—what if you caught me naked?"
She drew in a breath and her lips finally parted. "I lost a pendant," she muttered. "Came to look for it."
Liar.
She was a terrible liar.
So I reached out—slowly, letting the pad of my thumb brush the base of her throat. Her skin was soft and her pulse throbbed beneath the touch.
"Here?" I murmured, dipping lower, pausing just above her cleavage. "Is this where it used to hang?"
She didn't answer, but glared.
The corner of my mouth lifted—just barely. "Strange. I don't see any chain marks. No redness. No imprint. You must not have worn it very often." Then I retracted. "What's your name?" I asked, finally.
She looked at me like she wanted to lie. I could see it—the hesitant twitching at the corner of her eye, the silent scramble for an alias she could sell.
But she didn't.
"...Isolde."
Ah. There it was.
Isolde. Fitting and beautiful.
I turned away, half-smirking, ready to make a comment about her name sounding like it belonged in a murder ballad—when I caught the movement.
She was quick. But I was quicker.
I moved on instinct.
Her arm slashed toward me, and I caught it—palm clamping around her wrist with a firm grip. Her big blue eyes locked on mine, mere inches away.
"Ohh, I understand now." I grinned, twisting her wrist just enough to make her wince. "You're an assassin?"
She didn't answer, because her knee was already flying up—aimed straight for my royal jewels.
Clever girl—but wasn't aiming for the crotch a little too cliche?
I blocked her knee, bracing with my thigh—gritting my teeth to a force that never hit its mark.
But she'd never meant for that hit to land. It was a damn feint.
Too late, I felt the stab at my ribs. My breath seized and I looked down to find her fingers retracting. A capped syringe dropped to the floor from her second hand.
The smile dropped from my face.
"What..." I staggered a step back. "What did you… do?"
My legs began to fold.
Oh, f**k.
Paralysis.
I knew it instantly. My muscles were becoming unbelievably stiff and sluggish despite the willingness of my mind to keep moving.
My pupils dilated and I stumbled backwards, watching my unstable hands freeze up before they could reach the door handle, the world tilted and I hit the floor. Stiff as a board.
Isolde stepped over me, looking down with condescending eyes. She rolled her neck, then exhaled. It was an exasperatingly uninterested gesture.
"It won't kill you," she said coldly. "Unfortunately."
I could hear her rummaging around. Was she also some sort of thief?
Then she grabbed a not-so-decorative metal rod that had been innocently resting against the wall and lifted it above her head.
My eyes widened and a single thought crossed my mind.
's**t-‘
Then the rod came down on me and everything went blank.
***
'Ughhhh....' I groaned mentally when the darkness had finally lifted, I was naked and slumped like a corpse in the bathtub. And she was right across the room... setting up a crime scene?
You've got to be kidding me.
I tried to twitch a finger, but there was no movement, not even a tremor. Just dead weight and rising dread.
She had drugged me, stripped me, and arranged me like a display in a murder museum. And now she was wrapping a dry towel around an exposed electrical cord.
A f*****g accident? Electrocution in a bathtub?
Was she serious?
This lunatic was about to fry me like a f*****g fish filet. She bent toward the outlet, testing voltage, her fingers dexterous and practised. Definitely not her first rodeo.
And yet—there was something different about the way she moved now. Rushed. No longer calm and composed. Like she wanted to get this over with before her conscience kicked in or before someone showed up.
Whatever it was, I wasn't going to wait to find out.
'Move,' I told myself. 'Come on, Nikolai. You're not dying naked in a tub because some nutjob in stripper silk got your name wrong.'
My lips twitched.
Then my jaw.
The paralysis was wearing off too slowly, so I clung to it with what little clarity I had left—and forced the words out of my mouth.
"Ni...ko...lai."
It came out ragged. Pathetic. But she heard it.
She turned, brows scrunched. I repeated the words once again, hoping she would catch my drift. "Nikolai?"
Yes, goddammit!
I blinked—twice, hard. My fingers twitched against the porcelain tub.
Isolde froze, the wires dangling in her hand like a live snake. Her pupils shrank again.
"Wait..." she whispered. "Are you saying you're Nikolai, not Nicolo?"
The change in her expression was immediate.
Terror.
She took a step back like I'd just grown horns. "No. No, no—f**k. Fuck."
Her hand went to her lips.
"Oh my god," she breathed. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't—"
You didn't what, Isolde?
She dropped the wires so close I flinched and then spun around, nearly slipping on the tiles.
"I—I have to get out of here." She whispered to herself.
That part, she managed with terrifying efficiency. In a moment, she had fled out of the bathroom and out of sight, the door slamming behind her.
And me—Nikolai Quinn, twenty-three, heir and apex predator of the Quinn lineage, sat paralysed in a bathtub with a cord hanging near my balls and the realisation that someone had tried to kill me because of a name error.
I laid my head back, jaw clenched.
Isolde.
She was going to pay for this. This... humiliation.
But then again, with her around, maybe this annoying holiday would be a lot more exciting.
I gradually descended into an excited but slurry laughter.
'What an unbelievably interesting woman!'
- Writer
