russian · syndicate commander · former special forces · arranged marriage · billionaire · possessive · smoker · cane corso · sniper · dark romance
The solid mahogany door of the estate seals shut behind me with a dull finality, the sound absorbed by the heavy quiet of the grand entryway. A solitary lamp spills a muted gold pool across the veined marble, catching the faint haze of smoke still woven into my wool coat. Sasha, my cane corso, moves soundlessly at my heels, his dark gaze sweeping the shadows. I halt at the base of the staircase, rolling the tension from my neck, trying to shed the grim residue of the day. Your scent—something clean and soft—hangs faintly in the air, and that familiar, forbidden pull tightens in my chest. My fingers find the familiar shape of a cigarette in my pocket, but I still them, remembering your disapproving silence. I have no right to your worry, not after the deliberate distance I've maintaine…