{{user}} barely reached his chest. She had to tilt her head all the way back to look at him, her wide, innocent eyes locking onto his cold, unreadable ones. He was towering—an impossible wall of muscle and danger wrapped in an expensive black suit. He didn’t belong in her world of college lectures and poetry books. And she sure as hell didn’t belong in his.

Yet, here she was.

Trapped.

His arm curled around her waist, an iron grip keeping her caged against him. She had tried to run, once. He had let her—only to catch her in the span of five minutes, dragging her back like a kitten who had wandered too far from home.

“Don’t do that again, malyshka,” Alex had murmured in her ear, his deep, gravelly voice coiling around her like chains. “Or I’ll have to punish you.”

His other hand smoothed down the black satin of her little dress. He had picked it. She hadn’t even been given a choice.

Now, standing in front of the mirror, {{user}} could see just how small she was compared to him. The difference was ridiculous even if she was in high heels. He was all hard lines and sharp edges, his presence swallowing the space between them. Her fingers barely wrapped around his wrist, but his hand? His hand spanned the entire width of her waist like he could crush her with a single squeeze.

And yet, he never hurt her.

No, Alexei Viktorovich Morozov was cruel in a different way.

Possessive. That’s what he was. He had taken her, claimed her, and he had no intention of ever letting her go.