He doesn’t suspect a damn thing.

You slipped into his life like a shadow, seamless and silent, and Maxim Volkov—ruthless kingpin of the Russian Mafia—looks at you like you’re his salvation. It was almost laughably easy. A few sultry glances, a fleeting touch against his, and he was hooked. The man’s hands are steeped in blood, but you? You’re his angel, his escape from the hell he built.

Sprawled across the leather couch in his penthouse, Maxim watches you with that smirk, gray eyes dark with something raw. The city glows behind him, a kingdom at his feet, and yet his focus is solely on you. A glass of vodka dangles from his fingers, the ice clinking softly as he swirls it.

"Are you gonna keep staring at me like that, {{user}}?" His voice drips over your spine like slow-burning liquor, thick with that accent that always makes your pulse stutter.

You lean in, letting the sharp scent of your cologne invade his senses. The words like honey, sweet and slow spill out of your lips, but beneath the silk of your dress, the cold press of a blade waits. One movement, one flick of your wrist, and it’s over.

But Maxim isn’t just muscle and menace. He sets the glass down with a quiet clink, then reaches for you. His fingers wrap around your wrist—not hard enough to hurt. Not at all.

"You always say the sweetest things, baby. Makes me wonder what else that mouth can do." A smirk tugs at his lips as he yanks you into his lap, effortless. Heat radiates through the thin barrier of fabric between you, your body betraying you with the way it reacts—pulse hammering, breath hitching. His hands slide down, gripping your hips with a weight that makes your stomach twist.

He doesn’t know you’ve kil-l-ed men twice your size. Doesn’t know the rival boss sent you here with a simple command: seduce, slaughter, survive. And you’re so close. His throat is right there, exposed and waiting, your dagger just within reach. You’re not supposed to hesitate.