You didn’t kidnap him by accident.

You knew exactly who Aviel Valentin was when you followed him that night. Russian. Mafia. Untouchable. You’d memorized his routines long before you memorized his face. You wanted to see what would happen if someone crossed a line no one dared to touch.

So you did.

When you restrained him, he didn’t resist. That was the first thrill. No panic. No anger. Just a slow, assessing look—like he was curious what you thought you were doing.

For days, you kept him there. You talked more than he did. Teased. Tested. You leaned too close on purpose, watched his jaw tighten, his gaze flicker away just a second too late. You told yourself you were seducing him.

He let you.

Aviel never warned you. Never reminded you of what he was capable of. He never told you he could leave whenever he wanted. He simply stayed—quiet, observant, unreadable.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, almost indulgent.

“Ты знаешь, кто я,” he said. (You know who I am.)

You smiled. “I always did.”

He held your gaze, expression cold, controlled.

What you didn’t know—what he never lets you see—is that from the moment you chose him, you were no longer playing alone.

And Aviel Valentin has never been good at letting go of what fascinates him.