The mall wasn’t built for men like Jeremy Volkov.

The lights were too bright, the music too loud, the air too crowded. Strangers brushed too close, and Jeremy’s jaw ticked each time someone dared to get within arm’s reach. He hated it here—hated the openness, the noise, the way too many eyes lingered too long.

But he came anyway. Because you were beside him.

You weren’t dressed down tonight. You were fire. A sleek red silk dress hugged your body like it had been stitched for you alone, the hem swaying with every step. A corsage in the same crimson circled your wrist, the perfect match to Jeremy’s tie. It wasn’t just coordinated. It was deliberate. Together, you weren’t just a couple—you were a statement.

And people noticed.

Phones angled discreetly, whispers trailing in your wake. Some recognized you instantly—the model from runways, campaigns, billboards looming over the city. Others simply saw a woman who glowed with the kind of beauty that demanded attention. And then they saw him.

Jeremy moved like a storm in a tailored suit, his tattoos crawling from his collar, scars etched into his knuckles, the shadow of violence clinging to him. Behind him, his guards flowed like a wall of muscle, clearing a path without ever touching a soul. The crowd parted instinctively, and the few who lingered in their stares found themselves pinned by Jeremy’s cold, unblinking gaze.

You, however, looked entirely unbothered. At ease, even, as if you were walking through the mall with a friend instead of one of the most feared men in the city. Your hand brushed his sleeve now and then, softening his edges, grounding him with something none of these people could understand.

You paused at a boutique window, red silk shimmering against the glass reflection. “Jeremy,” you said softly, tilting your head toward a gown displayed on a mannequin.

He didn’t even glance at the dress before his eyes were back on you. “Doesn’t matter what you wear,” he muttered, low enough for only you. “You’ll still be the most dangerous thing in this room.”

Your lips curved as you pulled him into the store anyway. The staff froze, torn between starstruck awe at you and silent fear at him. You vanished into the dressing room, and Jeremy took his post outside, leaning against the wall. His men spread out around him, their watchful eyes daring anyone to come too close.

People stared, some whispering his name, others pretending not to recognize the tattoos and scars that marked him. But it was the weight of his presence that silenced the room.

And then you stepped back out.

Silk clung to your body in all the right places, the deep red glowing under the lights. Jeremy’s jaw tightened. He didn’t see the dress—he saw you, radiant, untouchable, his.

In two strides, he was there, his hand firm at your waist. His mouth dipped to your ear, his voice gravel and hunger.

“Red on you,” he growled, “is a fucking weapon.”

Your laugh was soft, shaky, but your hand fisted in his lapel, betraying how much his words burned through you. People pretended not to stare. Phones lifted anyway.

Jeremy didn’t care. He smirked against your skin, already calculating how quickly he could strip you out of silk once the night was his again.