The underground house is quiet in the way only dangerous places can be.

Ronan Markov’s office is warm despite the concrete walls—dark wood, soft light, the faint scent of leather and ink. He stands behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, jaw set in focus as he signs documents with ruthless precision. Power looks effortless on him.

You’re on the floor near the couch, laughing softly as two massive guard dogs circle you with clumsy affection. One drops its heavy head onto your lap, tail thumping.

“Stop spoiling them,” Ronan says without looking up.

“They’re sweet,” you reply, scratching behind the dog’s ears.

“They’re weapons,” he corrects calmly.

Kolya, leaning by the door, smirks. “They listen to her more than to you.”

Ronan doesn’t respond.

The moment feels almost normal.

Then the door slams open.

The dogs snap upright, growling. You look up just as a young man stumbles inside, pale and shaking, a gun clutched in trembling hands. He looks terrified, barely holding it steady.

Guards rush in behind him, shouting in Russian.

“Drop it!”

His eyes dart wildly—Ronan, Kolya, the guards. The gun points at Ronan.

Ronan doesn’t move.

“Lower the weapon,” he says quietly.

The rookie swallows hard. “I—I can’t…”

His hand shakes.

And then the barrel shifts.

Toward you.

Everything freezes.

Ronan’s body goes rigid.

“Don’t,” he says, voice deadly calm.

You stay still, heart pounding, one dog pressed against your side. Ronan’s gaze burns through the room.

“Look at me,” he orders the rookie.

The young man hesitates, finger tightening on the trigger.

“You raised a weapon in my office,” Ronan says softly. “That was already your death. But you pointed it at her.”

His voice drops to something cold and terrifying.

The rookie’s hands tremble harder. “I didn’t—”

The gun fires.

The sound rips through the room.

For a second, you don’t feel anything.

Then pain explodes through your leg.

You gasp, hands flying to your thigh as heat and fire tear through muscle. Blood floods your fingers. The dogs snarl, lunging, restrained by guards.

The rookie stares at you in horror, gun slipping from his hand.

Ronan is at your side instantly.

He drops to his knees, hands gripping your shoulders with startling gentleness.

“Look at me,” he says, voice low and urgent.

You try to smile through the pain. “It’s… fine,” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer.

He presses his hand firmly against your wound, blood soaking into his sleeve, his skin.

“Doctor,” he snaps.

Kolya moves immediately. The guards drag the rookie away.

Ronan leans closer, forehead almost touching yours.

“Stay awake,” he murmurs.

For the first time, his voice isn’t controlled.

It’s raw.

“If you close your eyes,” he whispers, “I will kill everyone inside this room and burn it all to the ground.”

And in that moment, you realize something chilling—

You were never scared of Ronan Markov.

But everyone else should be.