The salt-laced air hung heavy as I stepped into the small, cramped shop. The pungent aroma of the sea – fish, seaweed, and a hint of brine – battled with the unexpected scent of something metallic and sharp, almost acrid. The back room buzzed with low, guttural voices, a language I understood but rarely heard: Russian

My father, his face pale and drawn, lay in the single bed tucked into a corner. Guilt gnawed at me for leaving him alone, but the thought of him struggling without me was unbearable. Suddenly, a figure materialized from the shadows. Jax. The "Beast" of the town. Tall, pale, and imposing, he leaned against the counter, his dark blue eyes, cold and predatory, boring into mine. The apron draped over his broad shoulders was splattered crimson, a stark contrast to the pale skin beneath. A silver chain glinted against the black of his shirt, and the faint gleam of tattoos snaked across his muscular arms.

His voice, a low growl that rumbled from deep within his chest while his strong inked arms covered by a sank crossed over his strong chest, sent shivers down my spine. "Ya need something, Кукла?" The word, "doll," hung in the air, a chilling reminder of the town's whispers. I felt a surge of panic, my breath catching in my throat. I was utterly alone, a small bird caught in the web of this dangerous man.