Chapter 4: The Wolf's Rose

The city skyline shimmered under the first light of dawn.

Alisha blinked awake, the softness of silk sheets beneath her alien and disorienting. For a moment, she forgot where she was. The room was too vast, too elegant—white walls, black marble floors, a glass wall overlooking Moscow’s cold horizon.

Then memory returned.

Mikhail Volkov.

The sniper.

His hand on her chin, his words in Russian—Tomorrow, you will still be my rose.

She sat up quickly, clutching the sheets to her chest. She was still in her dress from last night, though someone had left a folded robe at the foot of the bed.

The door creaked.

She froze.

Mikhail stepped inside, immaculate as ever in a crisp black shirt and tailored trousers, his presence filling the space like a storm entering a quiet valley. He carried two cups of coffee, steam curling in the morning light.

“You’re awake,” he said simply, his voice low, roughened by early morning.

Alisha’s pulse spiked. “I… I didn’t mean to fall asleep here.”

One corner of his mouth curved faintly. “Would you prefer I left you on the street?”

Heat rushed to her cheeks. “No. But I didn’t agree to—”

“To stay?” He set one cup on the nightstand, his veiny hand lingering there a moment too long. “Yet here you are.”

Her throat went dry.

He extended the other cup toward her. She hesitated, then accepted it, the brush of his fingers against hers sparking something electric.

“Drink,” he said softly. “It will calm your nerves.”

She took a small sip, the bitter warmth grounding her. Silence stretched between them, heavy, charged.

Finally, she found her voice. “Why me?”

Mikhail tilted his head, studying her as though weighing whether she deserved the answer. “Because you are not afraid to look at me.”

Her heart stumbled. “That’s not true. I am afraid of you.”

His smile was sharp, dangerous. “Good. Fear and desire—they make honest women.”

Her breath caught, and she hated the way his words made heat curl low in her stomach.

Before she could reply, a sharp knock rattled the door. One of his men entered quickly, speaking in rapid Russian.

«Orlovy dvigayutsya. Oni uzhe v gorode.» (The Orlovs are moving. They’re already in the city.)

Mikhail’s jaw clenched, the storm returning instantly to his eyes. “How many?”

«Dva avtomobilya. Vooruzheny.» (Two cars. Armed.)

He nodded once, then dismissed the soldier with a flick of his hand.

Alisha’s chest tightened. “What does that mean?”

Mikhail turned back to her, his expression unreadable. “It means you chose the wrong night to walk into my life, detka. And now…” His gaze swept over her, sharp, possessive. “…the wolves will come for you, too.”

Her coffee cup trembled in her hands. “So what happens now?”

Mikhail stepped closer, his shadow falling over her.

“Now,” he said softly, “you stay where I can see you.”

Mikhail’s words still echoed in Alisha’s mind: “Now you stay where I can see you.”

She wanted to argue. To tell him she wasn’t some possession to be locked away in a gilded cage. But before she could, another soldier burst through the doorway, breathless.

«Oni uzhe tut!» (They’re already here!)

Mikhail moved instantly, like a predator scenting blood. “How many?”

«Shest’ chelovek. V khollakh.» (Six men. In the lobby.)

Alisha’s stomach dropped. “Six men? In this building?”

Mikhail turned to her, his voice a command, sharp and absolute. “Stay here.”

“No—wait, what’s happening?”

He ignored her question, already sliding a pistol from the holster at his back, his veiny hand flexing around the grip like it was a part of him. The air shifted around him—calm gone, replaced by lethal focus.

“Mikhail!” she called after him as he strode to the door, but he didn’t turn.

Two guards flanked him immediately, weapons ready. The door slammed shut behind them, leaving her in silence.

Her pulse hammered. She couldn’t just sit there.

She crept to the glass wall, peering down at the city streets. Sleek black cars idled at the curb, men in dark coats spilling out with weapons concealed but unmistakable.

Gunfire cracked below. Muffled shouts.

Alisha’s breath caught. This is real. This is happening.

The door to the suite burst open again, and she jumped back—only to see one of Mikhail’s men stumble inside, blood blooming across his arm.

“Stay—inside!” he barked in accented English, slamming the door shut again as another round of gunfire echoed in the distance.

Her body trembled. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so small, so powerless.

Then, through the chaos, his voice thundered in Russian:

«Ubit’ kazhdogo! Nikto ne vykhodit!» (Kill every one of them! No one leaves!)

The sound of his command chilled her. It was the voice of a king declaring war.

Minutes felt like hours. Gunshots, shouts, then sudden silence.

Her hands shook against the glass when the door opened once more.

Mikhail stepped back inside, dark shirt now splattered with flecks of blood—not his own. His eyes locked on her, burning with fury and something else she couldn’t name.

“They dared to touch my home,” he muttered, pacing toward her. He looked dangerous, unhinged, the wolf beneath the silk suit.

Alisha’s breath caught. “Are you—are you hurt?”

He stopped, inches from her, chest rising and falling with controlled rage.

“No,” he said, low and deadly. “But they will be.”

Before she could reply, he lifted her chin roughly, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“You see now?” he growled. “This is my world. Blood. Betrayal. Enemies who will kill without hesitation. And you…” His voice cracked like a whip. “…you are in the center of it.”

Her chest tightened painfully. She wanted to look away, but his grip held her there, drowning in the storm of his eyes.

“Mikhail…” she whispered.

For a moment, something softened in his expression. Just for a heartbeat. Then it was gone.

“Pack a bag,” he ordered, releasing her. “You’re not safe here anymore.”

Alisha’s hands fumbled with the silk robe as Mikhail’s words echoed in her ears: Pack a bag.

Her life had already spun beyond her control, but the authority in his voice left no room for protest. She stuffed her few belongings—phone, wallet, keys—into the small bag the staff had brought her. It felt absurd. As if a purse could protect her from bullets and mafia wars.

When she stepped out of the bedroom, Mikhail was already waiting, his shirt changed but his presence no less lethal. A convoy of his men surrounded them, tense, weapons visible now.

“Let’s go,” he ordered, his tone clipped.

She swallowed hard, trailing behind him as they moved through the private elevator. Two men stood in front of them, two behind. Soldiers. Shadows. Wolves.

The ride down was suffocatingly silent. Alisha clutched her bag to her chest, her eyes flicking to Mikhail. His jaw was clenched, his hand resting casually near the pistol at his hip. Every inch of him radiated control—and violence waiting to be unleashed.

When the doors slid open to the underground garage, her breath caught.

A line of black SUVs waited, engines rumbling. Armed men moved with precision, checking corners, scanning shadows. This wasn’t transportation. This was an extraction.

One man opened the door of the lead SUV, bowing his head slightly. “Boss.”

Mikhail guided Alisha forward, his hand firm on her lower back. The warmth of his touch contradicted the chill crawling up her spine.

Once inside, the door slammed shut, and the convoy rolled out into the waking Moscow streets.

Alisha stared at the city blurring past, the neon signs giving way to gray industrial sprawl, then the distant green of countryside. Her heart beat too fast.

Finally, she whispered, “Where are you taking me?”

Mikhail’s gaze stayed on the road ahead. “To a place no one can touch you.”

“I don’t need—”

“Yes, you do.” His interruption was sharp, final. He turned his head then, his dark eyes pinning her in place. “The Orlovs won’t stop. They saw you. That makes you leverage. Which means you are mine to protect now.”

Her chest tightened. “I’m not—”

“Don’t argue,” he snapped, then softer, «Pozhaluysta, detka.» (Please, baby.)

The Russian word disarmed her more than the command had.

The rest of the drive passed in tense silence, broken only by the rumble of engines and the crackle of radios.

When the gates finally appeared, Alisha’s breath caught again.

The estate was nothing like the glittering penthouse. Hidden deep in forest, towering iron gates parted to reveal sprawling grounds, high walls crowned with barbed wire, and men patrolling with rifles. Cameras followed their every move.

It looked less like a home and more like a fortress.

As they drove up the winding path, the mansion itself loomed into view—a vast structure of dark stone and glass, its sharp lines both beautiful and intimidating.

Alisha whispered, “This is… where you live?”

Mikhail’s lips curved faintly. “This is where I rule.”

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