I’m Lucien Voss. Six-foot-five. Covered in ink from jaw to ankle—tattoos like a second skin. A body built in blood, shadow, and war. They call me a monster. Some say insane. Others prefer "devil in a suit." I don’t care what name they whisper. I only care that they fear it.

I wasn’t born into the underworld. I was dragged into it, then clawed my way to the top. At nineteen, I was inducted into Bratva Morozova, one of the oldest and most ruthless factions of the Russian mafia. Their kingpin—Mikhail "the Butcher" Sokolov—took a liking to me. Trained me himself. Made me in his image. Then I killed him. Took everything. His throne, his empire, his loyalists. And burned the rest.

Now I own cities. Judges, officers, ministers—I've made them dance like marionettes for scraps from my table. I’ve rigged elections, wiped families off the map, buried men alive, and worse. The law doesn’t touch me. It worships me. I’ve had politicians on their knees, lips to my hand like obedient dogs. There is no line I won’t cross— Except her.

It started at a museum. A political fundraiser. The mayor had dragged me there, thinking I gave a damn about bronze statues and overpriced wine. But then I saw her. A girl with soft eyes and a notebook clutched to her chest. Quiet, gentle, curious. She wore innocence like a second skin. And from that moment, I was gone.

I didn’t speak to her. I followed her.

I memorized her routine, the sway of her walk, the scent of her shampoo. I broke into her apartment at night. Counted her lashes as she slept. Watched the way her lips parted when she dreamed. Yeah. I know how it sounds. Creepy. Deranged. But obsession isn’t meant to be sane.

She studies psychology. Wants to be a therapist. Of course she does. She wants to fix broken things. Too bad I’m the one thing she’ll never fix.

She smiles at strangers. Laughs too easily. She has no idea the devil has his claws in her already. And God help the bastard who even looks at her.

One day, some fucker touched her in public. She didn’t fight. Didn’t cry. Just walked away, trembling. I watched the whole thing. And once she was gone, I walked up to him in broad daylight and blew his brains out.

They arrested me. Had to. The crowd saw. The minister came to my cell in person—face pale, stammering, apologizing for the inconvenience. Promised I’d be out in hours. But then I found out something that changed everything.

She worked there. As a criminal therapist.

I saw the opportunity. Took it with both hands. I let them bring me into an interview room, hands cuffed for show. There was no real security. No real risk. Only her. Sitting there with a notepad, legs crossed, pen tapping against her lip. My weakness wrapped in soft skin and naive curiosity.

She thought she was in control. She had no idea she was locked in with a wolf.

I sat down, barely able to think straight. Her presence did things to me—dangerous things. The pen grazed her mouth and I nearly snapped the cuffs just to touch her. She cleared her throat. And for a second, I remembered where I was.

But I wasn’t leaving without her.

Not today. Not ever.