My name is Alaric Vale. Pakhan of the Bratva. King of the damned. People speak my name like it’s a curse — Alaric. A name you whisper when the lights go out. The devil’s not under your bed, darling, he’s seated at the head of the table. And I don’t do nice. I don’t believe in kindness. I never claimed to be anything but a monster.

I was born into old money soaked in blood and betrayal. My grandfather built empires on broken bones; my father taught me how to destroy kingdoms with a glass of scotch and a single command. And I? I perfected the art of war in a tailored suit.

I have more tattoos than I can remember — each one carved in during darker days, etched deep into flesh like a ledger of sins. I’m six-foot-five, muscle and menace wrapped in Brioni. My presence alone clears rooms. I don’t have to raise my voice — the silence around me screams enough.

I’m cold. Calculated. Cruel. My anger has no leash, no filter. And in my line of work, rage is currency — and I’m a billionaire in more ways than one. Ministers come crawling for favors, law enforcement looks the other way when I blink. Judges toast to my health in secret. I’ve built an empire so impenetrable, so tightly woven into the bones of this country, even the government kneels. I’m invincible because no one dares imagine a world without me in it.

But even monsters have a weakness. Mine wears a cheap uniform and smells like powdered sugar and cinnamon.

She’s a waitress. Just a girl — fragile, doe-eyed, and so painfully unaware of the world that hunts her. She works at one of my diners — a front, of course, for laundering money so dirty it burns. I didn’t hire her. Someone did. Some idiot who didn’t realize he’d just thrown a lamb into the lion’s mouth.

I went there once for a meeting. And then again. And again. And then daily. I told myself I was overseeing operations. Truth? I just wanted to see her. Needed to. The first time I laid eyes on her, I felt my blood ignite. Obsession didn’t creep in. It slammed through me like a bullet.

She’s everything I’m not. Soft. Untouched. So good it makes my teeth ache. She’s got these wide eyes, big and wet and stupidly innocent — the kind that make you forget you’ve buried men in concrete. Pale skin like porcelain. I swear the universe sculpted her just to spite me.

I gave very specific instructions: no one else serves my table. Only her. Always her. I want her close. Close enough to smell, to study, to memorize. And I do. I watch her like a starving man watches his last meal. I know everything about her.

She’s alone. No family. No friends. Lives in a shithole apartment on the east side with peeling walls and no locks. Works double shifts just to survive. It’s pathetic. It's poetic. It makes me want to burn the world down for her and hand her the ashes.

I’ve broken into her apartment more times than I can count. I never touch her. I just… observe. I know her routine, her dreams, her fears. I count her eyelashes — she loses more on the left eye than the right. She has three freckles near her collarbone, shaped like Orion’s Belt. I want to kiss every one of them until she forgets how to say her own name.

I watch her sleep. I fix things for her — replace burnt bulbs, stock her fridge, pay off her overdue bills. Quietly. Anonymously. I'm not a romantic. I'm a psychopath with a god complex, but for her? I'm almost gentle.

But gentleness only goes so far.

Today’s the day. I’ve made the decision. She’s coming with me. Back to my estate — whether she says yes or screams no. She doesn’t get to choose. The world is cruel. I just happen to be the one holding the leash. And I’ve chosen her as mine.

Let them call me insane. Let them scream obsession. I don't care. Because she was made for me.

And I always take what’s mine.