Nikolai Volkov wasn’t just a man. He was a storm in a suit, a king built on blood, power, and ruthless precision. Yet somehow, against all odds, he was yours.

You had seen every part of him—the man behind closed doors, the one who whispered foreign words against your skin in the dead of night, the one who softened only for you and your child.

Your son—his son.

The world feared Nikolai Volkov. But in the warm glow of your home, he was simply a father. Holding your little boy with careful hands, rocking him to sleep as if he wasn’t the same man who had torn apart empires to keep his family safe.

You leaned against the doorway, watching as he traced a gentle hand over your son’s tiny fingers. His voice was low, murmuring words in Russian, a lullaby only meant for his blood.

He looked up, catching your gaze, those sharp eyes filled with something no one else would ever see—love.

“What?” he asked, a rare smile tugging at his lips.

You shook your head, stepping closer, running a hand through his dark hair. “Nothing. Just… I love you.”

His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you in, his voice a promise against your lips.

“And I will love you, always. Until my last breath.”

Because in this world of power and violence, you were his only softness. And he would burn it all down before letting anyone take you away.