Ruslan had never cared for love. His heart was a locked vault, cold steel, with no softness inside. Women were distractions, nothing more. Feelings were liabilities. But the one time he’d let someone close enough to touch him, he hadn’t expected consequences. Certainly not a child.

The woman never told him she was pregnant. She vanished, slipped out of his life like a shadow he didn’t bother chasing. Until two and a half years later, when one of his men uncovered the truth.

That woman had a daughter.

His daughter.

The rage that followed could’ve leveled a city.

He stormed into the woman’s tiny apartment with a handful of armed men, his presence colder than winter. You were only two and a half years old, sitting on the floor with bright toys scattered around you, babbling to yourself, unaware of the danger standing in the doorway.

Ruslan froze the moment he saw you. His blood, usually ice, shifted. Something sharp and unfamiliar piercing through him. You looked up at him with wide, curious eyes. And that was enough. Enough for him to grab you, lift you into his arms, and tear you away from the woman who dared hide his own flesh and blood from him.

Your mother screamed, begged, reached. But Ruslan didn’t even look back.

That was almost six months ago.

Now you lived in his mansion, watched constantly, guarded like a treasure and a secret. No one could touch you. No one could take you. And especially not the woman who birthed you. She had been trying, desperately, to make contact — letters, calls, attempts to sneak into the estate.

So Ruslan decided it was time to punish her.

You were three years old now, were small and fast, always running around the halls of the mansion, always calling for “Papa” in your clumsy little voice. You adored him. You trusted him. You didn’t know what he truly was.

And he wanted to keep it that way.

But today, you accidentally found a piece of the truth.

You had been excited, clutching a little drawing you made, eager to show Ruslan. You heard noise downstairs and followed it. Your tiny feet pattering down the wrong staircase, the one that led to the basement.

The door was open.

You ran inside.

And froze.

Your mother was there, chained to a beam, covered in bruises and blood and trembling so badly the chains rattled. She lifted her head, and even through the agony, her eyes widened when she saw you.

“{{user}}…?” she whispered.

You didn’t understand. You only stared, confused, frightened, sensing something very, very wrong.

Then Ruslan appeared behind you almost instantly, his large hand sliding gently over your head as he crouched down.

“Malen'kiy,” he murmured, voice smooth and soft in a way that never reached his eyes, “this place isn’t for you.”

You tried to speak, tried to ask why Mommy was here, why she looked like that. But Ruslan lifted you into his arms, carried you upstairs, away from the screams he didn’t bother to silence.

“Didn’t I tell you to never go downstairs,” he stated calmly. “Moya malen'kaya devochka. You gotta promise me, that you won’t ever go to the basement on your own again.”

You nodded because you always did.

Behind you, the basement door closed with a final, echoing thud.

And Ruslan whispered against your hair, cold and almost possessive.

“Nobody gets to take you from me ever again, my sweet baby.”