The music throbbed like a living heartbeat, pulsing through the walls of the club. The air smelled of smoke, expensive liquor, and secrets that could ruin lives.

Alisha Alyz Rafael adjusted the tray in her hands, trying not to trip as she weaved between tables. It was her third shift this week, and her feet already ached. This job was supposed to be temporary—just a way to cover tuition and rent until graduation. She told herself she could handle drunk customers, rowdy music, and flashing lights. But tonight, something felt… different.

“VIP room, #205.” Her manager shoved a slip into her hand and gave her a warning look. “Be quick. Be polite. And for God’s sake, don’t stare too long.”

Alisha frowned. Don’t stare too long? That was an odd warning. She glanced at the order—imported vodka, neat. Whoever was inside clearly had expensive tastes.

Pushing open the sleek black door of Room 205, she stepped inside.

The atmosphere shifted instantly. The pounding bass of the club outside dulled to a distant hum. Inside, it was hushed, cloaked in the low glow of amber lights. And seated on the leather couch, commanding the room with nothing more than his presence, was him.

Mikhail Volkov.

Even if she didn’t know his name yet, Alisha knew instinctively this was no ordinary man. His black suit fit like it had been tailored by sin itself, every line sharp, every movement deliberate. One strong hand rested on a glass of untouched vodka, veins standing out against tanned skin. The other toyed idly with a cigarette he hadn’t lit. His dark eyes—stormy, cold, and calculating—lifted to hers as though peeling back her very soul.

Alisha froze.

He tilted his head slightly, like a predator appraising unfamiliar prey. Then, with a voice as deep and smooth as velvet laced with danger, he spoke—in Russian.

«Ты опоздала.» (You’re late.)

Alisha blinked, gripping the tray tighter. She didn’t understand the words, but the tone—the authority, the weight—was undeniable.

Her lips parted, but for a moment, no sound came out. Then, gathering her courage, she managed, “I… I have your order, sir.”

Mikhail’s lips curved into the faintest shadow of a smile, one that promised both danger and intrigue.

And in that moment, Alisha realized two things–

She had just stepped into a world far darker than she ever imagined and there was no way back.

Alisha carefully set the crystal glass on the table, her fingers trembling only slightly. She told herself it was the bass from outside making her hands unsteady, but she knew better.

The man didn’t look at the drink. He looked at her.

His gaze was too sharp, too unwavering. Men in the club had looked at her before—too many times, too often—but this was different. There was no drunken leering, no casual interest. His eyes were calculating, dissecting, as though she were a puzzle he intended to solve piece by piece.

“Your name.”

His English was flawless, but the heavy Russian accent curled around the word, wrapping it in something foreign and magnetic.

Alisha swallowed. “Alyz,” she lied smoothly, giving only her middle name, as she always did at work. A small shield to keep her real identity safe from the people who treated her like nothing more than part of the décor.

His lips twitched at the corners, but the smile never reached his eyes. “Alyz,” he repeated, testing it, tasting it. “Pretty. But a lie.”

Her throat went dry. What—

He leaned back against the couch, his hand finally curling around the vodka. The veins on his wrist flexed as he lifted it, his silver watch catching the low light. He sipped once, then set the glass down again with deliberate calm.

“I do not like lies,” Mikhail Volkov said. His voice was not raised, but it carried a gravity that made the air heavier, thicker.

Alisha’s pulse spiked. “It’s just… it’s safer,” she admitted before she could stop herself.

One dark brow lifted. “Safer? From whom?”

She hesitated. She had no idea why she was being so honest with this stranger. Maybe it was his eyes, maybe it was the unshakable control in his voice—or maybe it was the way her instincts screamed that he wasn’t just another customer.

“From men like you.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she realized what she’d just said. Oh God, Alyz, shut up. Do you have a death wish?

And then—unexpectedly—he chuckled. A deep, dark sound that rolled through the room like distant thunder.

“You are brave,” he said, his Russian accent thickening. “Or very foolish.”

“Maybe both,” she whispered, unable to tear her gaze away from him.

Mikhail leaned forward now, his elbows resting on his knees, bringing him closer. The dangerous aura that clung to him seemed to wrap tighter around her like invisible chains.

“You work here,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “Why?”

“To pay for college,” she replied quickly, her voice firmer than she felt. “Last semester. Just trying to make it through.”

Something flickered in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or interest. He studied her for another long moment before saying, “You are not made for places like this.”

“Neither are you,” she shot back before she could think better of it.

This time, his smile was real—sharp, wolfish, dangerous. “Touché, detka.”

Her chest tightened at the unfamiliar Russian word, but from his tone, she didn’t need a dictionary to understand it wasn’t an insult.

He stood suddenly, and she had to tilt her head back to look at him. He was tall, imposing, a shadow wrapped in silk and steel. He slipped a hand into his pocket and moved closer, close enough that she caught the faint scent of expensive cologne mingled with smoke.

“Go home, Alyz,” he murmured, his voice low, almost intimate. “This is no place for roses. They get crushed.”

And before she could respond, he brushed past her, leaving his untouched drink behind. The door clicked shut, and just like that, he was gone.

But the storm he left inside her chest? That lingered.

Alisha stood frozen in the quiet of the VIP room long after the door closed. The echo of his voice lingered in her ears, low and deliberate, like a spell she couldn’t shake off.

This is no place for roses. They get crushed.

Her hand went to the tray she was still holding, gripping it so tightly her knuckles turned white. She didn’t even realize she was holding her breath until a sharp knock on the door startled her back to reality.

“Rafael!” It was her manager’s voice. Irritated. “Are you dead in there? Move!”

She jolted, hurriedly gathering the untouched drink before slipping out of the room. Her cheeks burned, but it wasn’t from embarrassment—it was from the way her pulse hadn’t calmed since the man’s gaze had landed on her.

As she returned behind the bar, her co-worker Lisa sidled up, smirking. “What took you so long in 205? Let me guess, another creep tried to tip you in more than just cash?”

Alisha shook her head, setting the glass down. “No. Nothing like that.”

Lisa leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Then you met him.”

Alisha blinked. “Him?”

Lisa’s grin faded. She lowered her voice even more. “Mikhail Volkov. Russian. Filthy rich. Owns half the shipping companies in Europe. Or so they say.”

The name made Alisha’s stomach twist. Volkov. Even the sound of it carried weight.

Lisa glanced around before adding, “Word is, he’s more than just a billionaire. He runs things—dangerous things. Mafia things.”

Alisha froze, replaying every moment in that room. The way he’d seen straight through her. The way he’d spoken like a man used to command, not conversation. The casual threat wrapped in velvet words.

Her pulse stuttered. A mafia boss. And I just told him he was the kind of man I needed to protect myself from.

“Be careful around him,” Lisa warned, shivering. “Guys like that… one wrong look and you disappear.”

Alisha forced a small nod, though her thoughts were a whirlwind. Disappear. The word echoed.

She tried to throw herself back into work, taking orders, smiling when needed, but her mind kept drifting back to that room. To those eyes. To the faint curl of his lips when she’d dared talk back.

The night stretched on. Past midnight, the club grew rowdier, drunker, and the shadows in the corners darker. By the time Alisha clocked out, exhaustion weighed heavy in her limbs. She tugged on her coat, slinging her bag over her shoulder, and stepped out into the biting cold of the city night.

The air outside was damp, heavy with the promise of rain. Neon signs flickered, taxis honked, and somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed.

She hugged her coat tighter and quickened her steps toward the bus stop.

A sound behind her made her pause. A shuffle. Heavy footsteps.

Her pulse jumped. She glanced back—three men leaned against the wall near the alley, their eyes fixed on her. Their grins told her they weren’t just loitering.

She turned sharply and walked faster.

The footsteps followed.

“Hey, sweetheart,” one of them called. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be walking alone at night.”

Alisha’s throat went dry. She glanced desperately down the street, but the bus stop was still too far. The men began to follow, spreading out, circling like wolves.

Her heart pounded. She reached into her bag for her phone, but before she could pull it out—

A sleek black car pulled up to the curb, its engine purring like a predator. The back door opened.

And there he was.

Mikhail Volkov.

Seated like a king in the shadows of the leather interior, his dark eyes locked onto hers as if this was no accident.

“Get in,” he commanded, his voice cutting clean through the night.

Alisha froze, torn between danger and… danger. The men behind her laughed, closing in.

“What, running to your boyfriend already?” one of them sneered.

Mikhail’s gaze shifted past her, to them. The air turned colder. He spoke a single phrase in Russian, too low for her to catch—but whatever it was, it made the men falter. Their laughter died on their lips. One took a step back. Then another.

Within seconds, they scattered into the night like rats.

Alisha stood trembling, clutching her bag.

Mikhail’s hand rested casually on the door frame, his watch glinting beneath the streetlight, veins stark against the strength of his wrist. His voice softened, though the command never left it.

“Last time, detka. Get in.”

Her breath caught. Every instinct screamed not to trust him. He was danger incarnate. A man whispered about in clubs and feared in back alleys.

And yet… something deeper told her the greater danger would be to walk away.

Slowly, Alisha stepped forward. And into his world.

The car door shut with a soft, final click that seemed louder than the pounding in Alisha’s chest. The leather interior smelled of expensive cologne and smoke, with the faintest hint of gunmetal beneath.

Mikhail sat across from her in the dim light, his large frame relaxed but his presence suffocating. He didn’t need weapons to be dangerous—he was the weapon.

For a moment, the silence was unbearable. Alisha clutched her bag to her lap, trying not to fidget under his gaze.

He spoke first. Low. Calm. Too calm.

«Zachem ty odna na ulitse v etom gorode?» (Why are you alone on the street in this city?)

She blinked. “I—I don’t understand Russian.”

One corner of his mouth twitched, as though amused. “Then listen carefully in English, detka. A girl like you walking at night alone?” He leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee, veins flexing. “That is how roses get crushed.”

The same words again. The warning.

Alisha tried to steady her voice. “And what about you? You’re the one crushing them?”

His eyes darkened, something sharp flashing there. “No. I am the wolf. I hunt the ones who dare touch what is mine.”

Her breath caught. What is mine.

“You don’t even know me,” she whispered.

His gaze swept over her, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing her face. Then he said softly:

«Ya znayu vse, chto mne nuzhno.» (I know everything I need to.)

Her pulse jumped. “You… you don’t scare me.”

The smile that spread across his lips was anything but comforting. “You should, little rose.”

The car lurched forward, the tinted windows turning the world outside into a blur. For the first few minutes, he said nothing more, letting the silence stretch until it felt unbearable.

Finally, Alisha spoke. “Why did you help me?”

Mikhail’s fingers tapped against his glass, slow and rhythmic. “Because I do not like men who touch what does not belong to them.”

Her brows furrowed. “And you think I belong to you?”

He turned his head, eyes locking onto hers with terrifying certainty. “Nyet.” (No.) Then, softer: “Not yet.”

Her stomach flipped, heat rushing to her cheeks despite herself. She turned away, staring at the blur of neon lights.

The car stopped suddenly. She glanced back at him, alarmed.

“We are here,” he said simply.

The door opened, and one of his men—a tall figure in black with sharp eyes—waited outside. The world seemed quieter here, away from the chaos of the city.

Alisha’s throat tightened. “Where is ‘here’?”

Mikhail didn’t answer. He stepped out, and when she didn’t follow, he leaned down, his shadow filling the doorway. His hand extended, veins prominent beneath the skin, palm open.

«Poydem, roza.» (Come, rose.)

Every instinct screamed at her not to take it. But her hand moved anyway, sliding into his. His grip was firm, steady, possessive.

The elevator was silent but for the soft hum of machinery and the steady rhythm of Alisha’s heartbeat. Her hand still tingled from where Mikhail’s had gripped it, veins and strength pressing against her skin.

They hadn’t spoken a word since leaving the car. His men flanked them, silent shadows in black suits, their expressions carved from stone. She couldn’t decide if their presence made her feel safer or more trapped.

The elevator chimed softly. The doors slid open, revealing a penthouse that looked less like a home and more like the lair of a man who ruled empires.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the far wall, the city skyline glittering like diamonds scattered on velvet. The furniture was modern, sleek, minimal—but every piece screamed money and power. A bar lined with crystal decanters gleamed under soft light.

And yet, for all its beauty, the air carried a weight. This wasn’t a place of comfort. This was a fortress.

Mikhail gestured for her to enter first. “Poshli.” (Go.)

Alisha hesitated before stepping inside, the click of her heels sounding too loud against the polished floor. She turned, expecting him to follow immediately—but instead he lingered at the doorway, giving quiet instructions to his men in Russian.

«Nikto ne vhodit. Nikto ne vykhodit.» (No one enters. No one leaves.)

Her stomach twisted at the words.

Finally, he closed the door and walked toward her, his stride unhurried but commanding. He moved like a man who had nothing to fear—because he didn’t.

“You look like a rabbit in a wolf’s den,” he said smoothly, removing his jacket and draping it over the back of a chair. His white shirt stretched across broad shoulders, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms dusted with ink and muscle. Veins coiled down to his hands, strong and deliberate.

Alisha crossed her arms defensively. “Maybe that’s because I am in a wolf’s den.”

That earned her another one of those sharp, dangerous smiles. “And yet… you walked in.”

Her throat went dry. “I didn’t have much of a choice.”

“There is always a choice, detka.” He poured himself a drink, his movements deliberate, precise. “Only good choices and bad ones. Wise and foolish.”

“And what choice was this?” she asked, her voice sharper than intended.

He lifted the glass, swirling the amber liquid before taking a sip. “That is what I intend to find out.”

Alisha shifted, hugging her bag closer. “What do you want from me?”

Mikhail’s gaze locked onto hers, steady, unblinking.

«Pravdu.» (The truth.)

Her heart skipped.

“You lied to me,” he continued, his tone calm, almost casual. “Your name. Your eyes betrayed you.”

Alisha froze.

He stepped closer, the air between them charged, his presence overwhelming. “Tell me, Alyz… or should I say, Alisha Rafael?”

Her lips parted. “How—how do you know my name?”

A dark chuckle slipped from his throat. “Do you really think I let strangers walk into my presence without knowing who they are?”

She trembled. Not from fear exactly, but from the intensity that radiated from him, swallowing her whole.

“You know my name,” she whispered. “So what now? Are you going to…?”

“Destroy you?” His smile curved, sharp as a blade. “No, little rose. I do not destroy beauty. I protect it.”

Her breath caught, but before she could respond, he leaned in close—so close she could feel the heat of him, smell the faint trace of smoke and steel on his skin.

“But,” he murmured, his voice a velvet warning, “if you betray me, even once…” He brushed his knuckles along her jawline, his touch surprisingly gentle for the threat it carried. “…I will make sure you never bloom again.”

The room spun around her, her body torn between fear and a dangerous pull she couldn’t understand.

Alisha forced herself to take a step back, putting distance between his touch and her racing pulse.

“You talk about betrayal as if I’ve already done something to you,” she said, trying to sound braver than she felt.

Mikhail tilted his head, studying her with those predator’s eyes. “Everyone betrays eventually. The question is when.”

“That’s… cynical.”

“That is survival.” He downed the rest of his drink and set the glass aside, his hand falling casually to the edge of the counter—though there was nothing casual about the way his fingers brushed the metal of a knife lying there. A deliberate reminder.

Alisha swallowed hard. “And what am I supposed to be? A guest? A prisoner?”

His lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile. “That depends on how you behave, detka.”

Her pulse hammered in her ears. The city glittered outside the windows, a world she suddenly felt very far away from.

For a few moments, silence stretched between them, broken only by the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint ticking of an ornate clock on the wall.

Then Mikhail spoke again, softer this time. “Tell me something true.”

Alisha blinked. “What?”

“Anything,” he said simply. “Something only yours.”

She hesitated. “Why?”

“Because truth is currency,” he said. “And I do not do business with ghosts.”

Her heart twisted. Of all the things he could have asked for—her number, her fear, her body—he wanted truth.

Finally, she said quietly, “My mother used to tell me… roses only bloom when they’re not afraid of the storm.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Amusement. Respect. Maybe even recognition.

“You are clever,” he said. “Dangerously so.”

“Dangerous?” she whispered.

His smile widened, but it was edged with steel. “Because clever girls always try to run.”

The weight of his words pressed down on her chest. She opened her mouth to respond—but before she could, the sound of glass shattering exploded across the room.

One of the massive windows cracked with a sharp ping, spiderwebbing across the surface.

Gunfire.

Mikhail moved before she could even scream. In one smooth motion, he grabbed her arm, yanked her against his chest, and pulled her to the ground behind the marble counter. His men burst into the room a second later, guns drawn, barking in Russian:

«Snayper! Okno!» (Sniper! Window!)

Alisha’s heart slammed against her ribs as she crouched in the shadow of Mikhail’s body. He was already pulling a pistol from beneath the counter, his movements practiced, precise.

“Stay down,” he ordered, his tone calm, sharp, and absolute.

Alisha gripped her knees, trembling. “What’s happening—?”

“Someone just declared war.”

The crack of another bullet tore through the air, embedding itself in the wall behind them. Mikhail didn’t flinch. He leaned just enough to glimpse the skyline, then ducked back. His jaw tightened.

«Nayti ego.» (Find him.) he growled at his men. They nodded, disappearing into the stairwell with silent efficiency.

Alisha stared at him, fear knotting in her stomach. “You’re being shot at—and you’re calm?”

Mikhail glanced at her, eyes steady, almost amused despite the chaos. “Panic does not stop bullets, detka. But control does.”

The room smelled of shattered glass and gunpowder.

Alisha pressed her back against the counter, every muscle rigid. Her breath came fast and shallow, but beside her, Mikhail was steady—too steady.

The contrast terrified her.

Another shot cracked through the night. The window splintered further, shards raining down like ice.

Mikhail’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist, pulling her flush against his chest. His voice was low, a whisper that cut clean through the chaos.

«Oni khotyat, chtoby ya boyalsya.» (They want me afraid.)

His lips brushed her ear, his tone chillingly calm. “But fear… is not in my nature.”

Her heart thundered. She wanted to scream, to bolt, but his grip on her arm was firm—grounding. Protective. Possessive.

His men stormed back into the room, shouting updates in Russian.

«My nashli ego! Na kryshakh naprotiv!» (We found him! On the rooftops opposite!)

Mikhail’s eyes sharpened. “Alive,” he ordered coldly. “I want him alive.”

One of the men nodded and disappeared again, while the others spread out, scanning angles, covering windows.

Alisha swallowed hard. “Alive? Why? He just tried to kill you!”

Mikhail finally looked at her, and the faintest smile touched his lips—dark, dangerous. “Because death is too easy. I prefer answers first.”

The way he said it made her shiver.

Another bullet tore through the glass, but this time Mikhail moved like liquid shadow—swift, precise. He pulled Alisha down again, covering her with his body. The sudden weight of him, the warmth of his chest pressed against her back, sent her pulse spiraling for reasons that had nothing to do with fear.

“You see now, detka?” he murmured, his lips close enough to graze her hair. “This is my world. Guns. Shadows. Enemies in every corner.”

“And you want me in it?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

He chuckled, low and dangerous. «Ty uzhe v moyem mire.» (You’re already in my world.)

Before she could respond, a sharp knock thundered at the penthouse door. His men tensed instantly, raising their weapons.

Mikhail’s hand flexed against her waist before he stood, fluid and commanding, striding to the door with a predator’s calm.

“Who dares knock while I am being hunted?” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

When the door opened, one of his men shoved a figure inside—a man dressed in black, hands bound, blood running down his temple. The sniper.

Mikhail’s jaw tightened as he approached, slow, deliberate. He crouched in front of the captive, tilting his head like a wolf examining prey.

“Who sent you?” His voice was low, deadly.

The man spat blood onto the marble floor. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Mikhail smiled faintly. “I admire courage. But I admire pain more.”

He snapped his fingers. One of his men dragged the captive to a chair, forcing him down.

Alisha stood frozen, horror and fascination twisting inside her. She should look away. She should run.

But she couldn’t move.

Mikhail’s hand closed over the captive’s jaw, forcing his head back. His veins stood out stark against his skin, the strength in his grip undeniable.

«Ty vybral ne tot den, chtoby umeretʼ.» (You chose the wrong day to die.)

And with that, he began his interrogation.

The bound man’s breathing was ragged, his eyes darting between Mikhail and the soldiers who flanked him. But when his gaze flicked to Alisha, confusion crossed his face.

Mikhail noticed instantly. His head tilted, voice low, edged with steel. “You know her?”

Alisha’s heart stopped.

The man hesitated. Too long.

Mikhail’s hand shot out, veins bulging as he gripped the man’s throat. His calm never wavered, but his strength was terrifying. “Answer.”

The captive choked out, “N-no…”

Mikhail’s dark eyes narrowed. «Lozh’.» (Lie.)

With one fluid motion, he drew a knife from his belt and pressed it lightly—too lightly—against the man’s cheek. The blade caught the light, gleaming like liquid silver.

“You aimed at me,” Mikhail said softly, almost conversationally. “But your eyes betray you. You looked at her.”

Alisha’s stomach twisted. “Mikhail—” she began, but he silenced her with a single raised finger.

He turned back to the sniper, his voice dropping to a whisper so cold it made Alisha’s skin prickle. “If you even thought of her while you pulled that trigger, I will carve the memory from your skull.”

The man trembled, sweat beading on his brow. “It wasn’t my choice… I was ordered—”

“By who?” Mikhail’s voice snapped like a whip.

The captive shook his head. “If I tell you, I’m dead anyway.”

Mikhail chuckled, low and humorless. “Dead… is mercy. I can keep you alive for days, wishing for death.”

The man’s eyes widened with real fear now. Alisha’s breath caught—this wasn’t a bluff. Mikhail meant every word.

“Mikhail, stop,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “You’ll kill him.”

He turned to her slowly, the blade still pressed against the captive’s skin. “You think this man deserves to live? After he tried to end me? After he pointed his weapon at you?”

Her chest tightened. She didn’t have an answer.

He leaned close to the captive, his voice a low growl. «Kto poslal tebya?» (Who sent you?)

Finally, the man broke. “Volkov—! It was Volkov’s rivals. The Orlov bratva!”

Mikhail’s eyes flashed, satisfaction flickering in the storm of his gaze. “Of course. The Orlovs.”

He straightened, sheathing the blade with slow precision. “Take him to the cellar,” he ordered his men. “Keep him breathing. I want names, schedules, everything.”

The soldiers hauled the captive away, leaving behind only silence and the faint metallic tang of blood in the air.

Alisha realized she was shaking. She hadn’t moved since it began.

Mikhail turned back to her, his expression unreadable.

“You look at me differently now,” he said.

Her throat felt dry. “Because you’re… terrifying.”

He stepped closer, and though instinct told her to retreat, her body betrayed her, frozen in place.

“Good,” he murmured. “Fear keeps you alive.”

Her eyes searched his, desperate. “And what about you? Do you fear anything?”

A pause. His jaw flexed. Then, with a dark smile: «Tol’ko poteryat’ to, chto mozhno nazvat’ moim.» (Only losing what I can call mine.)

Her breath caught in her chest.

He reached out then, fingers brushing her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. His touch was gentle, but his presence was overwhelming—like standing on the edge of a cliff, the wind threatening to pull her over.

“You stepped into my world tonight, detka,” he said softly. “And now… you cannot leave it.”

Alisha’s pulse still hadn’t slowed. The images burned into her mind: the glint of Mikhail’s blade, the sound of the captive breaking, the cold certainty in his voice.

This man was not a fantasy. Not some billionaire playboy the tabloids wrote about. He was something darker. Something that could devour her whole.

“I should go,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “This isn’t my world. I don’t belong here.”

Mikhail’s eyes held hers, steady, unyielding. “You think the streets outside are safer?”

“I—” She faltered. Images of the men who had followed her earlier, the shadow in the alley, the crack of the sniper’s rifle—they all flooded back.

Mikhail took a step closer. Then another. Until the space between them vanished.

“You walk out of here alone,” he murmured, his accent curling around each word, “and you will not survive the week. The Orlovs know your face now. They will use you against me.”

Her chest tightened. “Why me? I don’t even know you.”

He leaned down, his lips close enough that she felt the ghost of his breath. “Because you walked into my world, detka. And once you cross that line, there is no going back.”

Alisha’s heart raced so loud she was sure he could hear it.

“I’ll… I’ll just disappear,” she said desperately. “I can leave the city, I can—”

“No.” The word cracked through the air like a whip. His hand came up, gripping her chin, forcing her to meet his storm-dark eyes. “Running will not save you. It will only make you prey.”

Her breath caught.

“Stay,” he said softly, the gentleness of his tone at odds with the steel in his gaze. “Just for tonight. My walls will guard you. My men will bleed before harm touches you.”

Her body betrayed her, leaning into the warmth of his hand, even as her mind screamed danger, danger, danger.

Slowly, almost against her will, she whispered, “And tomorrow?”

Mikhail’s smile was slow, sharp, devastating. «Zavtra, ty vse yeshche budesh’ moyey rozoj.» (Tomorrow, you will still be my rose.)

The words sealed her fate.

Alisha stayed.

And as the penthouse door locked behind her, she realized she had just stepped fully into the storm—one she wasn’t sure she wanted to escape.