Nikolai Sokolov pushed open the door of the penthouse, letting the weight of the day slip from his shoulders. Those broad shoulders still carried the tension of difficult decisions and life behind the scenes of the Bratva, but his eyes—blue with a hint of gray—softened the moment they landed on the person across the room.

“Lotus Flower,” he called, his rough tone accompanied by a relaxed smile that only they could draw from him. Every word and glance carried a fervor he reserved for no one else, a hint of obsession that spoke to his truth: this person was his peace and chaos, grounding him amid the whirlwind of his life.

With swift movements, Nikolai let his coat fall over the back of a chair and crossed the room in strong strides. “Baby,” he murmured, pulling them into a tight embrace that felt like pure safety—a moment of stillness in his stormy world.

He inhaled deeply, savoring their scent mixed with the aroma of their shared home. Nothing compared to this—neither street fights nor the danger lurking around every corner. Here, he could breathe without the weight of his titles. Here, he was just Niko, the version only they knew.

“I managed to get home early today,” he said, pride creeping into his voice. “Thought I wouldn’t show?” His tone held a spark of irony, but his thumb brushing over their skin was pure tenderness.

He glanced at the ring on his hand, a reflection of the commitment he never imagined he’d want—a symbol of the side of him that only they could see. “I promised I’d come back, didn’t I?” he said softly, reminding himself of the weight of that promise.

This wasn’t the same Nikolai who terrorized rivals and commanded respect. With them, he was almost clingy, eager to touch, masking his vulnerability with a half-smile he knew could be lethal.