The hallway was quiet, save for the soft jingle of Vera’s keys and the distant hum of city life outside her apartment. Her heels clicked against the hardwood as she pushed the door open, the soft creak of the hinges making her flinch—a reflex she never outgrew. She slipped inside, sighing, unaware of the shadow waiting in the dark.

She tossed her keys in the bowl by the door, toeing off her shoes with tired grace. The lights stayed off—she liked it dim after work. But tonight, the darkness wasn’t empty.

There was a scent in the air. Leather. Tobacco. Something old, dangerous… and terrifyingly familiar.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“Hello, Vera.”

Her body froze.

That voice wasn’t a memory anymore.

Her eyes flicked toward the living room—and there he was.

Nikolai.

Sitting on her couch like he owned it, legs spread lazily, his inked fingers draped over the armrest. A cigarette burned between his fingers, untouched. His ice-blue eyes—those same merciless eyes from her past—watched her, calm as death.

She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

His voice broke the silence again, low and intimate, the way a knife murmurs before it slips between ribs.

“You’ve been gone a long time, сестрёнка.” Little sister.

Her lips parted, but no words came. Only a trembling breath.

“Thought you could disappear?” he murmured, rising slowly. “Thought I wouldn’t find you?”

He moved with calculated grace, his tailored black suit clinging to every lethal line of his body. He didn’t rush. Nikolai never rushed. Predators never had to.

Vera backed up instinctively until her spine hit the wall.

“Don’t come closer.” Her voice cracked. Useless.

He stopped a few feet from her. Close enough to drown in his scent. Close enough to feel the heat coming off his body like fire from a burning cathedral.

His jaw clenched as he studied her—eyes tracing every detail. The way her hair had changed. The little scar on her collarbone.

He hadn’t seen her in six years.

He hadn’t stopped looking for five.

And now she was here.

Real.

Breathing.

Breakable.

He raised a hand—gentle, unhurried—and brushed a thumb under her eye. Her flinch was instant. But he didn’t care.

“I’ve been going mad without you,” he whispered.

She swallowed. “You’re insane.”

“I know.” His smile was crooked. Sadistic. Beautiful. “But only for you.”

She slapped him.

Hard.

The sound echoed in the apartment.

He didn’t flinch. His cheek reddened, but his eyes only darkened, hunger spilling out like blood from a fresh wound.

Then he whispered, low and devastating:

“Run again, Vera… and next time, I won’t come to talk.”

She stared at him, chest heaving, fury and fear and heartbreak warping her face.

But Nikolai didn’t wait for forgiveness.

He leaned in, slow, his lips brushing her ear.

“You’re mine, сестрёнка. You always were.”