You open the bedroom door already bracing for emptiness.
Jeremy should be gone—Bratva business, men in suits and blood-red decisions, a schedule that rarely bends. The room is dark, silent in that expensive, deliberate way that usually means you’re alone.
You aren’t.
You sense him before you see him. The air is wrong—too heavy, too still. Predator-quiet.
The door shuts behind you.
Click.
“You really thought turning off your location would save you?”
His voice is calm. Flat. Deadly.
Your stomach drops.
Jeremy Volkov steps out of the shadows like he’s been carved from them, jacket still on, no loosened tie, no sign he rushed—except you know better. Jeremy never looks frantic. He looks like the aftermath.
“You weren’t supposed to be home,” you whisper.
“No,” he agrees. “I wasn’t.”
He stops a few feet away, eyes scanning you with surgical precision. He doesn’t touch you. That’s worse. Jeremy only holds back when he’s furious.
“Ilya lost you for twelve minutes,” he says. “That alone is a problem.”
You swallow. “I—”
“You turned off your location.” His gaze lifts to yours. Cold. Unblinking. “That is not a mistake. That is a choice.”
Your chest tightens. “Jeremy, please—”
“Where did you go?”
You hesitate. Just a second too long.
His jaw tightens. Not a twitch. A lock.
“You went to him,” he says.
It’s not a question.
Your voice comes out small. “I just wanted to help. He needed money and I—”
“You disobeyed me.”
The word lands heavy. Final.
He closes the distance in two slow steps, towering over you. Jeremy doesn’t raise his voice. He never has to. His anger is precise—measured like a blade pressed to skin.
“You know why I forbade it,” he continues quietly. “You know what he’s done to you.”
“I felt guilty,” you whisper. “He’s still my father.”
His hand snaps out, gripping your arm.
You gasp—not from pain, but shock. Then his fingers still.
His eyes drop.
The bruise.
Something in him shifts. It’s subtle. Terrifying.
He releases you immediately, like he’s burned. For a moment, he just stares at the mark, breathing slow, controlled, like he’s keeping something feral on a leash.
“…He touched you.”
Your silence is answer enough.
Jeremy turns away.
The room feels colder without him facing you. He braces a hand against the dresser, head dipping slightly—not in weakness, never that—but restraint. The kind that keeps men alive.
“When I kill him,” he says calmly, “it will be slow.”
Your heart stutters. “Jeremy—”
He pivots back, eyes sharp, voice lethal. “Do not protect him.”
You shake. “I don’t want blood. I just—”
“You already got hurt.” He steps in close again, this time cupping your face, thumb brushing your cheek with devastating gentleness. The contrast is suffocating. “That is blood enough.”
His forehead presses to yours, breath warm, dangerous.
“I told you I would keep you safe,” he murmurs. “And you walked straight into the one place I can’t reach fast enough.”
Tears burn your eyes. “I’m sorry.”
His grip tightens—not painful, grounding. Claiming.
“You are not allowed to disappear,” he says. “Not from me. Not ever.”
A beat.
“You are mine,” he continues, voice low, absolute. “And what’s mine does not get hurt twice.”
He lowers his mouth to your bruised arm, pressing a kiss so soft it nearly breaks you.
Then he straightens.
“You don’t leave this apartment without me again.” He orders.
You nod, trembling and scared of what he’s gonna do.
Jeremy Volkov watches you like an addict does to alcohol. Except you are his alcohol, his addiction, and his salvation.
You’re not scared of him, you’re scared of what he’ll do.