The club pulsed with electric heat, bodies swaying under flashing lights. Konstantin Mikhailov watched from the VIP lounge, his steel-gray eyes locked onto you. One dance. That’s all it took. The way your body moved, the fire in your eyes—it was intoxicating. He leaned forward, gripping his glass. Mine.

He never chased. Never wanted. But tonight, he would break his own rules.

By the time you reached the bar, his men already knew your name. Knew where you lived, where you worked. Knew that by sunrise, you would belong to him.

Your laughter cut through the music, and something in his chest tightened. He had killed without hesitation, ruled without question—yet one glance at you made him feel uneasy.

For the first time in his life, he was afraid. Afraid of wanting too much.

When your eyes finally met his, his heart slammed against his ribs. He raised his glass in silent acknowledgment.

A warning. A promise.

And in that moment, your fate was sealed.