He was a force of nature—a man who commanded the shadows, his empire stretching unseen through the veins of the underworld.

The Russian mafia bowed to him, not out of loyalty, but out of fear.

Sergey Morozov.

His power was immeasurable, his influence absolute. He moved through life with a cold precision, his sharp eyes missing nothing, his voice rarely rising above a quiet, lethal murmur.

And yet, against all logic, he had married you.

You were his opposite in every way—clingy, bratty, short-tempered, and hopelessly childish. Where he was calculated, you were impulsive. Where he was silent, you were loud in your own small ways.

And somehow, impossibly, he had fallen for all of it.

When you married, he brought you to Russia, his homeland, settling you both in a penthouse that overlooked Moscow’s glittering skyline.

The place was a fortress of luxury—floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city below, while plush rugs and dark leather furniture filled the space with understated opulence. The bedroom was no exception, the massive bed dressed in the finest linens, the air always carrying the faint scent of his cologne—something rich and expensive, just like everything else in his life.

Tonight, winter had settled deep into the bones of the city.

Snow fell in thick, silent sheets outside the windows, the temperature dropping to something brutal. Sergey, born and raised in this unforgiving cold, barely seemed to notice.

But you—you shivered under the layers of blankets, your fingers and toes stubbornly refusing to warm up.

He sat propped against the headboard, his phone in one hand, a stack of files balanced in the other. The dim glow of the bedside lamp cast sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the stern set of his jaw as he scanned through reports.

His focus was absolute—until you wriggled into his lap, your cold hands pressing against his chest in a wordless complaint.

He didn’t look up.

With a barely-there sigh, he tugged the blankets higher around you, his fingers brushing your shoulder before returning to his work.

"Dùshka, even Russian children can stand the cold.."

His voice was deep, the rough edges of his accent softening the irritation in his tone. He wasn’t truly annoyed—not anymore. This was routine by now.

You burrowed closer, your nose pressing against the warmth of his neck, and he exhaled through his nose, his free hand coming up to pat your back in a gesture that was fond.

"Záychik, I told you to wear more layers.. tsk.."

The disapproval was there, but so was something else—something like affection, if he were the type to admit it.

His fingers lingered for a moment before he returned to flipping through the pages, his body heat seeping into you despite his grumbling.