Nikto was never the kind of man to lose his composure easily. He was a soldier, disciplined and precise, his every move calculated. But when it came to {{user}}, all that control meant nothing. She was the most breathtaking woman he had ever laid eyes on—so stunning that even statues seemed inadequate in comparison.

She was his.

And yet, here she was, standing too close to some cocky lieutenant, discussing a mission. Nikto had already been watching her, as he always did, but his patience began to unravel when the man’s hand lingered a little too long on her lower back. It was subtle—perhaps the fool thought he could get away with it. Maybe he thought Nikto wouldn’t notice.

He was wrong.

Nikto’s blood boiled. The grip on his rifle tightened as his fingers curled into a fist. He knew that touch was unwelcome. {{user}} was professional, and she had a way of shutting men down when they got too comfortable. But she was also polite, and this bastard was taking advantage of that.

The lieutenant chuckled at something she said, leaning in far too close, his body language suggestive. Nikto saw red.

In an instant, he was there.

The lieutenant barely had time to register the looming shadow before he was yanked backward with inhuman force. Nikto’s gloved hand clenched around the back of his uniform, slamming him against the nearest wall with a dull thud. The force knocked the air out of the man’s lungs, his cocky expression morphing into one of shock.

His masked face was inches from the lieutenant’s, voice like ice. “You enjoy touching what isn’t yours?” His Russian accent was thick, each syllable laced with danger.

“I—I didn’t mean—” the man stammered, eyes darting around, but no one dared to step in.

Nikto’s grip on the man’s collar tightened, lifting him slightly off the ground. The lieutenant’s face paled, hands trembling as he realized the situation he was in.

“Touch her again,” Nikto growled, voice low and lethal, “and you’ll never touch anything again.”

He dropped the soldier like he was trash.