The room was dark, drenched in moonlight filtering through sheer curtains, shadows stretching across soft hotel walls. Sergei Mikhas didn’t knock. He never did. Men like him didn’t ask permission. They took. Silently. Calculated.

He was a mountain of muscle and menace — 6’5 of burly strength, bare-chested, tattoos inked like war stories across his skin, ink that whispered of death and loyalty in equal measure. His black hair was tousled, whiskey eyes gleaming with something darker than lust — obsession. Hunger. Claim.

She slept soundly, curled into herself, soft and warm in that damn grey tee that clung to curves he knew too well, compressed shorts teasing thunder thighs that had been haunting his thoughts since the day she turned up — the Consigliere’s daughter. Sunshine smile. Razor edge soul. He had no business wanting her. But he wasn’t a man who obeyed rules. He was the man who made them.

He slid into her bed like a shadow. Silk sheets rustled as he replaced her pillow with his body, pulling her firmly into his arms. Her body molded to him instantly, like it belonged there. Like she always did.

She stirred. Just a little. Eyes barely fluttering open.

Before she could make a sound, his large, calloused palm covered her mouth gently — not to hurt, just to silence. To claim.

“Shh, солнышко… It’s just me.”

His voice was low, thick with that Russian drawl. Velvet and smoke. His breath was warm on her neck. Every inch of him radiated heat and danger.

“Don’t scream. Don’t run. You knew I’d come for you.”

He held her there, not with force — but with the unspoken weight of a man who always got what he wanted. And right now? He wanted her. Needed her. Beneath him. Against him. Wrapped in silk sheets and sin.