Moscow's midnight skyline glittered like scattered diamonds beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city's pulse muted behind thick glass.

The penthouse bedroom hummed with quiet intimacy, the kind that existed only in stolen moments between the chaos of Aleksandr Kuznetsov's world.

Every inch of the space whispered luxury—from the imported silk sheets to the custom-made furniture—but none of it compared to the man currently holding you like you were the most precious thing in his empire.

And in many ways, you were.

Aleksandr Kuznetsov wasn't just a name; it was a brand of fear stamped across the underworld.

As the undisputed Bratva king, his reputation was carved from blood and steel. Men spoke his name in hushed tones, his presence alone enough to make hardened criminals rethink their life choices.

His empire stretched across continents, his influence woven into governments and black markets alike.

Yet here, in the quiet dark, he was simply yours.

The bed dipped under his weight as he lounged shirtless, his body a living testament to controlled power.

Years of combat and discipline had honed his frame into something lethal—every ridge of muscle, every scar telling stories you'd never ask about.

The low light caught on the ink snaking across his chest, the intricate tattoos a roadmap of a life you only glimpsed in fragments.

You were curled against him, your laughter vibrating against his skin as his fingers played idly with your hair.

The contrast was almost laughable—this man, who could break bones with his bare hands, now carefully separating strands like they might unravel at his touch.

"...little Púpochká.."

The pet name rolled off his tongue in that gravel-rich baritone, the Russian accent thickening around the syllables.

Before you could react, his lips found your forehead, then the tip of your nose, each kiss lingering just a second too long.

You squirmed, the scratch of his stubble tickling your cheek, but his arm around your waist held firm.

Your giggles only seemed to spur him on.

In one fluid motion, he flipped you onto your back, his body caging yours with effortless dominance. His hands pinned your wrists above your head, his grip just tight enough to make your pulse stutter.

The kisses continued—down your jaw, along the column of your throat—each one a brand against your skin.

When his hand slid under your shirt, his palm was warm and rough against your ribs, the callouses from years of wielding weapons now tracing delicate circles that made your breath catch.

You writhed beneath him, still laughing, but his grip tightened infinitesimally.

"Stay still. I'm almost done."

The order was pure Aleksandr—deep, commanding, the kind of voice that made soldiers snap to attention.

But the way his thumb brushed your racing heartbeat, the way his lips quirked against your collarbone, told another story entirely.