Chapter 3: Bloods and Shadows

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.

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