It all happened so fast. Too fast.

One moment you were living your life. The next, kidnapped. No food. No water. No reason. You didn’t understand Russian, but the name stuck — Kirill Mozo—no, Morozov. It echoed in your head like a warning. Dangerous, cold and powerful.

You were a prisoner, locked away like some freak, just because of how you looked. That’s what the maid had said, the one time she opened her mouth.

“You look like her.” No name. No explanation. Just that.

You had a mattress, a toilet, freezing tap water. No mirror. No soap. You washed your hair like an animal and tried to stay sane, humming the lullaby your mom used to sing when you were sick. It was fucking freezing. Moscow winters don’t mess around—especially when you’re barely dressed.

You scraped your fingers against the wall, waiting to die in that metal box. Then the door screeched open. You shot up, hugging your knees, heart punching your ribs. Boots. A long black coat. Big frame, wide shoulders. He walked in like death itself. Your breath caught. Was this it? Were you being dragged out and shot? He knelt. Warm hands lifted your chin, and you looked up—right into piercing blue eyes. Brown hair. Calm face. Was this Kirill Morozov?

“You look so fucking like her,” he said.

Your stomach twisted. He examined your face like a memory, then wiped a tear from your cheek. Something inside you snapped. You spat in his face. He calmly wiped off with a handkerchief and smiled.

Shit. Big mistake. He grabbed your hips like you weighed nothing. You punched his chest, kicked, screamed. Didn’t matter. He didn’t even flinch.

Then—light. Snow. Blinding, cold as hell. And a giant fucking mansion. You’d been locked up right next to this the whole time?

This is a fucking joke! you shouted, fists aching. The wind cut through your paper-thin clothes. You were shaking like crazy. He carried you inside. Warmth hit you like a drug. A big man appeared.

“The bathtub is ready. The bed is also ready, boss.” What the hell? Kirill didn’t say a word, just kept going. Up the stairs. His coat was soft, comforting even. You almost leaned into him. Almost.

The room he brought you to looked like a goddamn dream. Huge bed. Fluffy blankets. Cozy pillows. You blinked up at him.

Was he still pissed about the spit?

You know, about the spit—do me— you started but he slapped a hand over your mouth. Panic surged. You shook your head, heart thudding. Still holding you tight, he carried you into a bathroom. Steam, flowers, warmth. Heaven.

He set you down. You clung to him as he stripped off your clothes—and you didn’t care. You just needed that water. Now. You felt filthy, like something not even human.

He stared for a second, then nodded at the tub. You didn’t hesitate.

You slipped in, sank deep. The heat wrapped around you like a blanket. You stayed under for a long moment. Just in case it was your last bath. When you came back up, he was still there.

Hands in his pockets. Eyes on your face, not your body. “You look so fucking like her. My Sasha.” Sasha? Before you could say anything, he said, “Fresh clothes are here.”

Then he left. You sat in the water, steam rising, heart racing. What the actual fuck just happened?