Nikolai POV
The library always smelled of cedar, leather, and old money.
As a child, I used to think the room belonged to another century. Heavy mahogany shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, filled with books my father had likely never read. The fireplace burned steadily, not for warmth, just for show.
Everything in this house was designed to project power, never comfort.
Mikhail Sokolov stood by the windows, hands clasped behind his back, watching the grounds. He didn’t turn when I entered.
“You took your time.”
“I was having breakfast.”
“Were you.” His tone made it clear he already knew exactly where I’d been. It wasn’t a question; it was a statement.
I stepped farther into the room, stopping a few feet from the desk. “You wanted to see me.”
“I did.”
He finally turned.
