“Sit down,” he says quietly, gesturing to the velvet chair across from his desk. His voice is low, calm, but it carries weight—like everything else about him. You sit without hesitation, settling into the chair with that little smile he’s come to expect.

He doesn’t smile back. He never does.

He watches you over the rim of his glass, dark eyes sharp and unreadable. You’re wearing something soft again, light-colored and delicate—completely out of place in this room full of smoke, weapons, and secrets. His office is cold, all dark wood and harsh lighting, but you don’t seem to notice. You never do.

You like being here. You like being asked to help, even when you don’t understand half of what he’s doing. He handed you a stack of papers earlier, asked you to “organize” them, knowing it would keep you busy. You’re no threat. You don’t ask too many questions. You try, earnestly, to be useful.

And that’s exactly why he keeps letting you in.

You have no idea what kind of men those documents are about. No idea what happens in the rooms downstairs. You just hum softly under your breath as you highlight a name here and there, pretending you know what it means.

He listens in silence, resting his elbow on the table. There’s blood under his empire—old, fresh, and everything in between. In Russia, he was raised to rule with brutality, not kindness. But here you are, sitting across from him, eyes wide and sweet, so far from the violence that shaped him.

And as long as you stay in his world—quiet, obedient, and blind—he’ll make sure no one ever lays a finger on you.

Even if that means controlling every part of you to keep you exactly where he wants.