Chapter 5: Fortress

The room was too beautiful for a prison.

Alisha sat on the edge of the massive bed, staring at the silk sheets, the carved furniture, the balcony overlooking the sprawling estate. Every inch whispered wealth and power. And yet, the lock clicking shut on the other side of the door echoed louder than anything else.

Her chest tightened. She was trapped.

She pushed to her feet and tried the handle anyway. It turned freely. Unlocked.

For some reason, that almost unsettled her more. He wanted her to feel free… while knowing she couldn’t run.

The sound of footsteps in the hall made her freeze. Then, a knock.

“Enter,” she called, unsure why her voice shook.

The door opened and there he was.

Mikhail Volkov. Black shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, veins tracing strong hands that carried not a weapon this time, but a tray with a plate of food.

He set it on the table by the window, his movements precise, almost ritualistic.

“You didn’t eat earlier,” he said simply.

Alisha’s brows furrowed. “You… brought me dinner?”

His eyes flicked to hers, unreadable. “I do not starve my rose.”

Her heart stumbled at the softness of his tone beneath the steel. “You act like I belong to you.”

His jaw tightened. “Because you do.”

The air thickened. Her pulse thundered in her ears. “You can’t just decide that.”

Mikhail stepped closer, slow, deliberate, until he towered over her. His scent—smoke, cedar, danger—wrapped around her like a net.

«Ya uzhe reshil.» (I already decided.)

Her breath caught. “You can’t just… claim me like territory.”

His hand brushed her jaw, the touch both tender and possessive. “This is not territory. You are… nechto drugoye. Something else.”

Her body betrayed her, leaning into his touch even as her mind screamed no. She hated the way her heart raced under his gaze, hated the way her lips tingled with the ache of wanting something she shouldn’t.

And then—

A sharp crack shattered the moment.

Gunfire. Outside.

Mikhail’s expression changed in an instant, tenderness vanishing, replaced by lethal focus. He barked an order in Russian as the door burst open and one of his men rushed in.

«Orlovy. Na vostochnoy stene!» (The Orlovs. At the east wall!)

Alisha’s blood ran cold. They found us.

Mikhail drew his weapon, chambering a round with terrifying ease. His men swarmed, shouts echoing through the fortress.

He grabbed her wrist, his grip iron. “Stay behind me.”

“Mikhail—”

“No arguments.” His eyes cut to hers, hard as steel. “If they touch you, I burn the city to ash.”

Before she could answer, the door rattled with another explosion. Dust rained from the ceiling.

The fortress was under siege.

And she was in the center of it.

The fortress erupted.

Gunfire rattled the night, sharp and violent against the forest silence. Alisha’s chest heaved, her pulse hammering as Mikhail dragged her out of the room, his men forming a wall of bodies around them.

“Stay low!” one barked.

She stumbled, nearly tripping on the marble floor, but Mikhail’s arm wrapped tight around her waist, steadying her without slowing his stride. His movements were precise, calculated—he had walked through fire before.

The deeper they moved into the fortress, the louder the chaos grew. Shouts in Russian, men’s voices calling orders:

«Na barykady!» (To the barricades!)

«Zaderzhite ikh!» (Hold them off!)

Then came the explosions. Two, one after the other, shaking the very walls.

Alisha screamed, clapping her hands over her ears.

Mikhail pressed her against the wall, shielding her with his body as debris dusted down from the ceiling. His face was inches from hers, hard lines softened only by the heat of his breath.

“You’re safe,” he rasped. “I won’t let them near you.”

Her voice trembled. “They already are!”

He brushed a strand of hair from her face, his hand rough but lingering. “Not for long.”

Another soldier sprinted down the hall toward them, blood streaking his temple.

«Boss! Oni vnutri, u khoda k bunkeram!» (Boss! They’re inside, at the bunker entrance!)

Alisha’s stomach dropped. They were already inside?

Mikhail’s jaw flexed. He turned to his men, barking sharp commands in Russian. Half of them peeled away immediately, racing toward the east wing.

The rest remained, ushering them down a stairwell lined with steel walls.

The deeper they descended, the further away the gunfire sounded—until only the echo of her heartbeat remained.

They emerged into a heavy door of reinforced steel. A soldier yanked it open, revealing a smaller chamber lit by dim overhead lights. A safe room.

Mikhail pulled her inside and slammed the door shut. The locks clanked like the final seal of a vault.

Alisha spun to face him, chest rising and falling. “You—you planned for this.”

“Always plan for war.” His voice was a low growl. He set his weapon on the table beside him, then stalked toward her.

She stepped back instinctively. “What are you doing?”

“Checking.” His hands, rough and veined, brushed over her arms, her shoulders, her waist—searching for wounds. “Did they touch you?”

Her pulse spiked. “N-no. I’m fine.”

His eyes burned into hers, dark and dangerous. “If they had…” He trailed off, shaking his head, as if the thought itself was enough to shatter his restraint.

Her lips parted, words dying in her throat. The tension between them coiled, sharp and undeniable.

“Mikhail,” she whispered, but it came out like a plea.

His hand lingered at her jaw, thumb grazing her cheek. For a moment, his mask slipped—the wolf turned man. “You should hate me,” he said softly, almost bitterly.

“Maybe I do,” she whispered back.

But her body betrayed her, leaning closer, her heart pounding too fast.

And then—

The walls shuddered. Another explosion. Dust rained from the ceiling. The lights flickered.

Mikhail swore under his breath, snatching up his weapon again. His men’s voices crackled over the radio—chaos, commands, a single name that cut through the static: Orlov.

Alisha’s blood went cold.

They weren’t just here for Mikhail. They were here for her.

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