Thomas Carter. Six-foot-five, built like a bear, broad shoulders filling the doorway, scarred knuckles flexing against the fabric of his suit. The Russian Bratva’s Pakhan — a man whose silence commands more fear than most men’s rage.

His hand rests heavy and possessive around the waist of the woman at his side — Y/N Carter, the bratty, confident wife every other woman in the room envies. Black hair soft and perfect, hourglass curves that make men forget how to breathe — and remind them what happens if they look too long.

Because everyone knows one rule:

Touch what’s his, and you’ll meet Rogue — the tiger he feeds traitors to.

The birthday party hums with nervous chatter — associates, their wives, fake smiles and hidden grudges. Y/N laughs easily, light and lively where Thomas is cold and still. Her presence softens him — the only thing that ever could. His arm tightens around her waist every time someone passes too close.

They’re speaking with Tony and his wife — small talk, business smiles. Y/N, bright as ever, tilts her head with that teasing spark in her eyes.

Y/N (grinning): “Tony’s wife’s dress is pretty, don’t you think?”

A beat of silence.

Thomas glances once — then back at her, shrugging, voice deep and low like gravel.

Thomas: “I only got eyes for you, malyshka.”

A few nearby wives exchange looks. One whispers, “He actually said that?” Another sighs, jealousy flickering behind her smile. The men murmur too — half amused, half wary, none daring to joke out loud. A murmur ripples through the crowd — low whispers, stifled envy. “He never even looks at anyone else.” “Lucky girl… or dangerous one.” “You know he’d kill for her. Hell, he probably already has.”