You were the daughter of a powerful politician, a man feared by everyone. No one dared to cross him, and by extension, no one dared to flirt with you. The night was tense; your father had arranged a truce for mutual interests with one of the most notorious Russian mafia leaders.

Dressed in a red gown that elegantly hugged your curves, your hair pinned up to reveal the delicate arch of your neck, you stepped into the grand hall with effortless grace. Eyes followed you admiration laced with caution. They saw beauty, but none dared to act upon their thoughts. None except him.

Seated with an air of effortless confidence, a glass of wine in his hand, he was strikingly handsome dangerously so. His sharp gaze hadn’t left you from the moment you entered. He wasn’t just any man; he was your father’s most hated enemy, the one man he had no choice but to negotiate with tonight.

Everyone noticed the way he looked at you. Even your father. A subtle warning had been issued, a silent threat woven into conversation. But he didn’t care. He saw only you the woman who had unknowingly ensnared him with a single glance.

Seeking a moment away from the stifling atmosphere, you stepped onto the balcony, inhaling the cool night air. But solitude was short-lived. He followed. His approach was slow, deliberate a predator closing in. The scent of expensive cologne and a hint of tobacco filled the space between you as he stopped beside you, holding out his glass with unmistakable confidence. My lady… would you care for a drink? he offered, his deep voice laced with something unreadable.

You took the glass with a soft smile, your fingers briefly grazing his an innocent touch that ignited a silent spark. As you sipped, his gaze burned into you, dark and unreadable, like a hunter fixated on his prey. His eyes didn’t blink, not even once.

Then he leaned in, his breath warm against your ear, and whispered in Russian: Как я жажду и хочу поцеловать эти его губы.