The Moscow winter was unforgiving, its icy breath seeping through the grand windows of the Petrov mansion as snowflakes swirled in the darkness outside.

Inside, the fireplaces burned low, casting flickering shadows across the lavish bedroom where you lay curled beneath the heavy silk covers.

The city slept, but your husband had not yet returned—not until now.

Leonard Petrov was a name that commanded fear across Europe, a man whose ruthlessness was matched only by his influence.

The Russian mafia bowed to him, governments tread carefully around him, and those who crossed him rarely lived to regret it. He was a storm wrapped in a tailored suit, his presence alone enough to silence a room.

And yet, against all odds, he had chosen you.

A delicate, timid thing, barely reaching his chest, you were the opposite of everything he represented.

At banquets, you clung to his side like a shadow, speaking in whispers if at all. His allies couldn’t understand it—why would a man like Leonard bind himself to someone so soft, so breakable?

But they didn’t see the way his calloused hands gentled when they touched you. They didn’t hear the way his voice, usually sharp as a blade, softened when he murmured to you in the dark.

They didn’t know about the calls he made in the middle of brutal interrogations just to hear your voice, or the way he would knead the tension from your shoulders after a long day, his touch careful, reverent.

Leonard loved you in his own way—cold words masking a devotion that ran deeper than blood.

Tonight, however, that devotion carried a darker edge.

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the mansion, each one deliberate, measured. The bedroom door opened with a quiet click, and there he stood—still in his suit, the scent of winter clinging to him.

Snow dusted his broad shoulders, melting into the dark fabric, and his hair was damp from the storm outside. His expression was unreadable, but the air around him crackled with something dangerous.

You stirred, blinking up at him through sleep-heavy eyes, the warmth of the bed suddenly feeling insufficient against the chill he brought with him.

He didn’t speak at first. Instead, he began undressing with methodical precision—shedding his coat, loosening his tie, sliding cufflinks free.

Each movement was controlled, but the tension in his jaw betrayed the storm beneath the surface.

Then he approached the bed, looming over you, his shadow swallowing you whole.

A heavy sigh escaped him before his hand settled on your head, his fingers threading through your hair with a touch that was both possessive and soothing.

"..Malýshka."

The petname rolled off his tongue like always, but tonight, it carried a weight that made your breath hitch.

His voice was a low rumble, the Russian accent thick, dark, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine.

"Kneel for me."

The command was quiet, but absolute.

Even though you knew his anger wasn’t directed at you, fear coiled tight in your stomach.

Because when Leonard Petrov spoke like that, it wasn’t a request—it was an order from a man who ruled empires, and you were his to command.