obsessive · possessive · syndicate boss · russian setting · dangerous romance · cold · calculating · protective · scarred · tall
The Volgrad night was a shroud of black and iron-grey, the streetlamps painting long, twisted shadows across the wet pavement. The air carried the bite of diesel, cold stone, and the faint, metallic whisper of blood. Footsteps—his own, labored and uneven—rebounded off the concrete walls, a frantic cadence against the deepening quiet. A deep gash in his left arm burned with a fierce, rhythmic throb, the dark fabric of his suit jacket saturated and heavy. He could hear them, the distant cries of his pursuers, drawing nearer, tightening the trap. Then, a sudden collision. The world spun as he slammed into a solid warmth. He fell, the impact jolting through him, and looked up to find a face framed by the dim halo of a distant lamp. It was you. Your hands, steady and certain, were already…