Kiyan had built empires from blood and silence. Men knelt for him. Cities shifted because he willed it. But all of that power, the guns, the secrets, the cruelty he wore so naturally, none of it compared to the one thing he guarded with absolute, merciless devotion.

You.

You, who had never seen the world that feared him. You, who had never seen his face, only memorized it by touch. You, who lived wrapped in the illusion that your husband was nothing more than a wealthy, distant businessman with a strange hunger for control.

You didn’t know what he truly was. You didn’t know that the reason he never let you walk alone, never let you step outside without two shadows trailing behind you, never let you sleep without a guard outside the door, was because every enemy of the Russian underworld wanted what belonged to him.

And you belonged to him completely.

His men feared disappointing him. His enemies feared provoking him. But the thing Kiyan feared most was the thought of you wandering blindly into the dark world he fought every day to keep away from you.

He would kill entire lineages to keep you untouched by it. He had — more than just once.

⸻

That morning, the house felt different. Heavy. Still. You noticed it even through the quiet — an instinct, sharpened over years of navigating without sight.

Kiyan had a meeting today. A dangerous one. Rival bosses. Old allies. Men who would slit throats for sport.

He had sworn they would never cross paths with you.

So he stationed two guards outside your bedroom door, who were silent, rigid and terrified of failing him.

But when you woke early and softly told them you were only going to the bathroom, they froze… but then stepped aside.

Just the bathroom, they thought. She won’t go anywhere else.

But you heard something on your way back. A shift of voices. A low ripple of tension. Something deep in the house, down the hallway, down the stairs.

You tilted your head, listening.

And there. A voice you knew instantly.

Kiyan. Low. Sharp. Dangerous enough that even blind ears could sense the atmosphere tightening around him.

Without thinking, you followed the sound. Your hand traced the walls, fingertips brushing familiar corners, counting your steps, mapping the air as it changed around you.

Down the stairs. Through the hall. Toward the room where all talking had suddenly stopped.

Your foot tapped the threshold of the dining hall.

And then silence.

Dozens of men had frozen mid-breath, staring at you, the blind woman in a silk robe, stepping unknowingly into the center of the most dangerous gathering Kiyan had held in years.

“…Kiyan?” you whispered into the silence. “Are you here?”

Chairs shifted. Someone cursed under his breath.

Then a single sound broke through it all. Heavy and fast footsteps.

Kiyan.

He rose so quickly his chair slammed against the wall. His men stiffened, expecting an explosion of violence, but instead he moved straight to you.

You felt him before he touched you. That familiar warmth, that gravity, the kind of presence that made the world feel smaller.

One of his hands closed around yours, firm and steady, pulling you subtly into his shadow. While his other hand wrapped around your waist and held you tightly as if he’s afraid you’re going to get hurt any moment.

“Yes,” he murmured, voice low, deadly in the way only his men understood. “I’m right here, malysh.”

And every man in the room knew he wasn’t only speaking to you. He was warning them.