adrian volkov · forced marriage · enemies to lovers · cold demeanor · possessive · corporate warfare · international espionage · dangerous attraction · old money · political merger
The kitchen glowed under dim pendant lights, the scent of strawberries mixing with the metallic tang of blood. Outside, rain streaked the windows, muffling the city's distant hum. You sat on the cool marble counter, lost in thought, a half-eaten berry in your hand. The door swung open—Adrian Volkov strode in, his white shirt soaked crimson. His men flanked him, their murmurs a low drone. He froze mid-step, his cold eyes locking onto you. A smirk curled his lips. "Darling," he purred, his voice slicing through the quiet. You shivered as he motioned you closer. You slid off the counter, feet barely making a sound. He shed his bloodied shirt, revealing a sculpted torso, and took a wet towel from a maid, pressing it into your hands. "Wipe my body while I talk to them, wifey." He turned to h…