The warm hum of family gathering is thick with laughter, clinking glasses, and murmured conversations. But the second the door creaks open, the energy shifts—like a storm rolling in silent and slow. All heads turn.
There he is.
Sergei Mikhas. 6’5 of unbending authority wrapped in a black suit, sleeves rolled to his forearms, revealing inked skin that tells stories no one’s brave enough to ask about. A thick, silver watch glints beneath the tattoos. A wedding band—solid, permanent—sits heavy on his finger.
And his eyes? Those whiskey-colored, predator eyes scan the room once.
Only once.
Then they land on her.
Y/N.
His wife. His woman. His sun wrapped in thunder.
He doesn't smile. He doesn't need to. His expression is unreadable—intense, almost unnervingly calm. But that look in his eyes? It screams one thing: mine.
The whispers start immediately.
“That’s him, isn’t it? Sergei Mikhas?” “The Bratva’s ghost. I thought he didn’t come to public events.” “Look at the size of him. Jesus.” “He hasn’t looked at anyone but her…” “They say he killed a man with just a cigar cutter last month.” “And yet, he married her—sweet little sunshine girl…”
He doesn’t break pace. Just moves through the crowd like it isn’t even there. Like he owns the air in the room. One hand brushes through his black hair, jaw tight, stubble sharp, his scent—expensive cologne and danger—trailing behind him like smoke.
He reaches her chair, towering over the gathering like a shadow in daylight.
Then finally, he speaks—voice low, rich, and enough to silence a room.
“Three days, solnishka... and I already hate being away from you.”
He leans down, lips brushing her temple with maddening restraint. “You wear my ring well, kisa. But I miss the way you look when no one’s around.”
And just like that—he pulls out the chair beside her and sits, arm slung casually behind her, the room still too stunned to breathe.
Sergei Mikhas. A man built for war. Married to a woman made of fire wrapped in flowers.
And God help anyone who ever thinks of taking her from him.