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No words. No warning.

Just one clean, brutal strike, his iron fist slamming into Stillwell’s jaw with a crack that echoed throughout the warehouse. Stillwell crumpled to the side, half held up by Sergei, blood pouring from his mouth.

“That’s for touching children,” he said, voice cold and clipped. “And for daring to lay hands on the future wife of a Morozov.”

Stillwell moaned, a wet gurgle of pain.

Sergei shoved him back upright, forcing him to stand.

Aleksei stepped in next, crouching slightly, just enough to meet Stillwell’s eyes.

His voice was quiet, but razor-sharp. “You ever wonder what happens to sexual predators in prison, Stillwell? Especially the kind that likes their girls too young to protect themselves, and too scared to say no?”

Stillwell didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. He already knew. He wasn’t walking away from this unscathed.

In all likelihood, he wasn’t walking away from this at all.

The sound of tires crunching on gravel outside pulled our attention to the front of the warehouse. Moments later, two dark cars appeared at the loading bay: government plates, no lights, no markings. They didn’t need them. They weren’t here to make a scene. They were here to collect trash and make it disappear.

Three men stepped out, plainclothes officers, broad-shouldered, with the kind of faces you forget unless you’re the one they’ve come for. One of them gave a short nod to Sergei, and another flicked his gaze to me, taking in the state of my dress, my tangled hair, and the rope-burned skin on my wrists. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t offer apologies. He just turned toward Stillwell like he already knew how this was going to end.

Nikolai hadn’t said a word since I’d handed back the phone. His eyes were on me the entire time. He didn’t speak to the officers, didn’t motion toward Stillwell. He just waited. Not because he was uncertain, but because he wanted me to be the one to end it.

I nodded once, not trusting my voice to hold steady in that moment and everyone understood.

That was all it took. Sergei shoved Stillwell forward, letting him fall into the waiting arms of the officers. Without ceremony, they turned him around, cuffed him, and began walking him out while reciting his Miranda rights.

Stillwell didn’t say a word. No last gasp of defiance, no apology. He just walked stiff-legged toward the car like a man who finally understood he was finished. No trial would save him now. No rich donors. No alibis. He was a liability, and the people he’d once protected were going to let him be buried if it meant saving themselves.

I watched him disappear through the warehouse doors, the sound of them closing behind him anticlimactic. It felt strange, watching it end this way, not with a bang, not with a bullet or a knife, but with the legal system hard at work.

Just like that, he was gone.

My chest loosened for the first time in hours. The ache in my shoulders throbbed less when I let them drop. I felt filthy, exhausted, but I also felt something close to peace. Whatever came next—headlines, press conferences, political fallout—wouldn’t be as dangerous as what we’d just survived.

Stillwell was out of the game, for good.

CHAPTER 40

Sloane

The second it was just us, Nikolai stepped forward and pulled me into his arms like he thought I might vanish if he waited another moment. He didn’t say anything at first.

He just held me.

His hands were warm and gentle, one sliding up to cradle the back of my head, the other wrapping fully around my waist. His chest was solid against mine, his heartbeat steady and strong beneath the soft fabric of his shirt. I let myself lean into him. His mouth brushed my temple. I felt him exhale.

Then he leaned back, just enough to look at me, his eyes scanning every inch of my face like he was memorizing me all over again.

“You’re not hurt?” he asked, his voice low, barely more than a growl of restrained panic.

I shook my head. “No. Just… tired and sore.”

His gaze dropped to my wrists. They were raw from the rope—angry red marks circled the skin and bruises were forming. He took my hands in his, turning them gently, carefully, like I was something fragile, like I might break if he moved too fast.

A muscle in his jaw flexed.

Then he dropped to one knee.