Chapter 2: Into the Wolf's Den

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.”

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