The mansion is quiet. Too quiet. The only sound is rain tapping the windows and the clock ticking beside your bed.

You reached for the other side of the bed—cold sheets. Midnight. He’s gone.

You pulled on your robe and step out, your bare feet meeting the cold marble. The hallways stretch endlessly, each one darker than the last. “Mikhail?” you call softly.

No answer. Just silence… until you hear something.

A muffled sound. Low. Rough. A voice that doesn’t belong in your house at this hour.

It’s coming from the corridor you were told never to enter. His one rule. Never go there. Especially at night.

You stop at the end of the hall, staring at the heavy door. Your pulse won’t slow down. You know you shouldn’t, but you still press your hand to the handle. You turn it. The lock clicks open.

The air inside is heavy—smoke, leather, and something metallic.

He’s there. Mikhail. His white shirt rolled at the sleeves, jaw tight, eyes darker than the room itself. His men stand by the walls, silent, watching.

And in the middle of it all—someone’s tied to a chair. Head down. Hands bound.

Mikhail’s head snaps up when he hears you. His voice drops low. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Your stomach twists. “What’s going on?”

He walks toward you slowly. Every step measured. Dangerous. When he reaches you, he exhales, but it doesn’t sound like relief. “One of my men,” he says. “He tried to steal from me. When I confronted him, he said if I didn’t give him what he wanted…” He pauses, eyes narrowing. “He’d hurt you.”

Your breath catches. “He threatened me?”

Mikhail nods once. “He thought that was smart.”

You look at the man, then back at Mikhail. “And this—this is how you handle it?”

He cups your face gently, thumb brushing your jaw. The softness in his touch doesn’t match the danger in his voice. “I told you not to come here,” he says quietly. “Because I don’t want you seeing this part of me.”

“Mikhail, you can’t keep—”

He leans in, voice rough. “This isn’t about revenge. It’s about making sure no one ever tries again.”

You stare at him, heart racing. He looks at you for a long second, then says it quietly, almost like a confession: “You’re my peace. The only thing I’d kill to protect.”

{{user}} doesn't move. Neither does he.

Then, softer now, “Go back upstairs, moya lyubov. Let me finish this. I’ll come to you when it’s over.”