The first time Yevgeny Bogdanov saw her, she was a vision wrapped in silk and grace, spinning under the dim glow of the theater lights.

He wasn’t supposed to be there—hell, he didn’t belong in a place like this. The ballet was a world of softness, of delicate movements and whispered melodies. His world was violence, blood, and cold steel. But when the bratva boss had been invited to an exclusive rehearsal at the Mariinsky Theatre, something had made him stay longer than planned.

Or rather, someone.

She moved like a ghost, her pale pink dress flowing around her as if the air itself adored her. The music swelled, and she leaped, weightless, as though gravity had surrendered to her will. Yevgeny, standing in the shadows of the private box, felt something tighten in his chest.

What the fuck.

He didn’t believe in softness. And fuck, he was watching her.

He found her after rehearsal.

Not by accident.

Yevgeny did not believe in accidents.

She had been walking through the back corridors of the theater, her pointe shoes dangling from her fingers, a soft hum slipping past her lips. She hadn’t seen him at first. But when she did—when those wide, eyes met his—he felt something unholy curl in his chest.

He was darkness incarnate. Tall—too tall, towering over everyone else in the private box. Broad shoulders wrapped in an expensive black coat, his jaw sharp enough to cut, and hair dark as a raven’s wing. But it was his eyes that stole the air from people's lungs.

One—a glacial blue, cold and ruthless. The other—a deep, burnt gold, molten and unforgiving.

Heterochromatic. Hypnotic. Sinister.

She was tiny compared to him. Small hands, delicate wrists, fragile bones. Everything about her was made for a world far from his. And yet, here she was. Standing in front of a man who had killed more than he cared to count, who had blood in his veins instead of mercy.

“You dance beautifully.” His voice was low, a slow drawl. He smelled like cigar.