Chapter 3: The Price of Freedom

The dinner was an elaborate affair, served in the private dining room adjacent to his suite. The table was draped in black linen, illuminated by flickering candlelight. Nikolai had poured two glasses of a rare vintage wine, his mood celebratory, almost euphoric. He believed he had finally won.

"To us," Nikolai raised his glass, staring at her across the table. Elena wore a silk emerald dress he had chosen for her, a color that made her dark eyes pop. "To the beginning of the Volkov-Moreau dynasty."

Elena smiled, a thin, dangerous line. "To endings," she countered softly, raising her glass and taking a sip.

As the night wore on, Nikolai grew more relaxed, the alcohol and his own arrogance thinning his usual hyper-awareness. He moved his chair closer to hers, his hand resting heavy on her thigh. The warmth of his palm felt like a brand through the silk of her dress.

"Come to bed, Elena," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. He stood up, pulling her up with him. He didn't wait for her response; he dragged her toward the master bedroom, his movements urgent, heavy with the expectation of absolute surrender.

He threw her onto the plush mattress, looming over her immediately. His hands were rough as he pinned her down, his lips crushing against hers in a brutal, possessive kiss that tasted of wine and dominance. Elena felt the sheer weight of him, the terrifying reality of his physical superiority. He began to tear at the straps of her dress, his breathing ragged.

Now, her mind screamed. It has to be now.

Elena had spent the last three weeks observing everything. She knew the silver dessert knife she had slipped into the folds of her dress during dinner was small, but in the hands of a Moreau, it was lethal.

As Nikolai leaned down to bite at her neck, his focus entirely consumed by his lust, Elena freed her right arm from his grip. With all the strength she possessed, fueled by weeks of accumulated rage and terror, she drove the silver blade upward.

She didn't aim for his heart—his ribcage would have blocked the small blade. Instead, she drove it deep into the soft tissue beneath his jaw, angling upward into his mouth.

Nikolai gasped, a horrific, gurgling sound. His eyes widened in absolute shock as blood erupted from his mouth, spraying across her face and green dress. The sheer shock of the injury paralyzed him for a crucial second.

Elena didn't waste it. She wriggled out from under his massive frame, kicking him hard in the chest to push him off her. Nikolai collapsed onto his side on the bed, clutching his throat, his body convulsing as he tried to stem the arterial spray. Even in his agony, his gray eyes locked onto hers, filled not with anger, but with a terrifying, bloody awe. He was dying, and he still looked at her like she was a masterpiece.

Elena didn't look back. She ran to the adjacent bathroom, grabbing the heavy security master keycard she had stolen from his desk days prior during a brief moment he had left her unattended. She stripped off the blood-soaked emerald dress, slipping into a pair of his dark sweatpants and a black hoodie she found in his closet.

She slipped out of the balcony door, using the keycard to bypass the electronic locks. The rain was pouring, a torrential downpour that masked her movements. She scrambled down the trellis of the estate, her hands bleeding from the thorns, but she felt no pain. She reached the garage, found his sleek, unmarked SUV, used the master fob, and tore through the security gates before the guards even realized their king was drowning in his own blood upstairs.

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