You sat curled in Sergei Savyatoslav’s lap — the man who ruled several Russian provinces, a cold-blooded mafia leader feared by many, yet hopelessly entangled with you.

His office was a study in contrasts, black and white dominating every corner, the air heavy with the faint scent of leather and expensive cologne. He worked in silence, one hand resting lazily on your thigh as the other scrawled ink across crisp white paper. From time to time, the tip of his pen tapped against the polished mahogany desk, a soft, rhythmic sound betraying his thoughts.

You were lost in your own, until suddenly, his lips claimed yours — slow but unyielding — as though he had been thinking about it for hours.

“Why did you kiss me?” you murmured, meeting his sharp, steel-colored gaze.

“I wanted to know,” he said, his voice low and heavy with that unmistakable Russian accent, “what you taste like.”

Your breath caught. “And?”

His arm slid around your waist, drawing you closer until you could feel the steady beat of his heart against your back. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Kak moya.” he whispered. The foreign words rolled off his tongue like velvet and ice, sending a shiver down your spine.

“What does that mean?” you asked, fumbling for your phone to look it up. But before you could type a single letter, he plucked it gently from your hands, setting it aside. His face was so close you could feel the warmth of his breath.

“It means,” his lips curved into something between a smile and a warning, “like you are mine.”

And the way he said it made you wonder if he meant only tonight — or forever.