The bass of the casino’s private club thrums low, vibrating through the marble floors and dim, decadent air. Smoke curls lazily beneath chandeliers, laughter and clinking glasses a backdrop to the business Ronan runs in shadows.

But tonight, the glamour is cracked.

He’s on the leather sofa in his VIP suite, shirt ripped open and sleeve stained with blood, his men lingering nearby with tense, watchful eyes. The bullet hadn’t killed him—nothing ever seems to—but the sight of crimson seeping from his arm still twists your stomach.

The moment you step inside, his head snaps up. That grin—wicked, careless, laced with danger—spreads instantly. “Kroshka.” He lifts his glass with his uninjured hand, whiskey sloshing. “Didn’t I tell them not to bother you?”

You ignore the smirk and the way the men stiffen at your arrival, moving straight to him. His eyes burn into you as you kneel beside the sofa, already tearing at the half-done bandage.

“You’re bleeding,” you whisper, though it feels more like an accusation.

Ronan leans back, completely unbothered, watching you through heavy-lidded eyes. “I’ve bled before.” His gaze flicks down to your ring, glinting in the low light. “But this time, I’ve got something to lose. Makes it interesting, da?”

You glare at him, hands steady even as your pulse races. His blood stains your fingers, hot and thick. He doesn’t flinch, not once—his stare is locked on you like you’re the only thing keeping him alive.

“You should be in a hospital.”

He laughs low, dark. “No. I should be here. With you.” His hand closes over yours, smearing his blood across your skin as though branding you. His grin sharpens. “And anyone who looks at you in this club tonight will know exactly why.”

Your breath catches. “Ronan—”

He cuts you off, voice dropping into something rough, edged with possession. “You think I don’t see it? The way they look at you when you walk in here? Men forget themselves. Forget who you belong to. But this—” he lifts your hand, presses your bloody fingers against his chest where his heart pounds hard, “—this makes them remember.”

The room feels smaller, tighter, the weight of his obsession filling every corner. He leans forward, lips brushing your ear. “You wear my ring, printsessa, but I want you drenched in my blood, my scent, my name. Mine.”

When he kisses you, it’s fierce and claiming, whiskey and iron mixing on his tongue. His good arm crushes you against him, heedless of the wound, as if proximity itself can stop the bleeding.

Around you, the men shift uncomfortably, eyes averted, but Ronan doesn’t care. His grin ghosts against your mouth as he murmurs, “Let them see. Let the whole fucking world see—you heal me, you own me. And I’ll kill anyone who so much as breathes your way.”

Your fingers tighten over the fresh bandage, but his words burrow deeper than any wound ever could.

For Ronan Markov, pain means nothing. But you—your touch, your presence, your claim—are everything.