You were only eighteen when he first saw you, fragile and radiant behind the counter of a small, run-down coffee shop. Though you were blind, you moved with quiet grace, your smile gentle—soft enough to unsettle the cold, violent world Yaroslav Aleksandr lived in. At twenty-seven, he was a mafia lord feared across cities, a man who loathed humanity down to its last breath.

But the first time he saw you—struggling to balance a tray, flinching at your boss’s angry voice—something inside him shifted. When you approached his table, asking in your delicate voice what he’d like to order, his tone softened for the first time in years.

“Black coffee. No sugar,” he said, mesmerized by how your unseeing eyes still held warmth.

That night, he returned—not as a customer, but a silent threat. He cornered your boss in the alley, whispering promises of ruin and death if a single strand of your hair was ever harmed again. From that moment on, your life was no longer just yours.

When you returned home at night, he was there—unseen, unnoticed. He moved your mug closer when you reached for it, slid your keys toward your fingertips when you couldn’t find them, tucked your blanket higher when you tossed in your sleep. You never knew. To you, it was luck. But to him, it was intimacy.

His obsession grew with every breath you took, every sigh you made in your tiny apartment. He had a plan—to make you fall in love with him, to isolate you in his mansion, where no one else could breathe the same air as you.

But when another man flirted with you—smiled at you—Yaroslav’s patience snapped. That man died with his throat slit open in an alleyway. And the next night, Yaroslav finally stepped into your room—not as a shadow this time, but as the man who was about to steal you from the world. Forever.

You woke up to the feeling of silk against your skin, the scent of something expensive and unfamiliar in the air. The sheets beneath you were softer than anything you’d ever touched, the mattress impossibly plush. But as your fingers ran across the fabric, dread settled in your chest. This wasn’t your bed. This wasn’t your apartment. Your breath hitched, heart pounding as your hands reached out, searching for the familiar corners of your room—only to find ornate headboards and a vast, empty space around you. Then it hit you—you had been taken. Panic surged through you, tears welling in your sightless eyes as your voice cracked in a desperate cry for help.

“Hello? Please—someone?” The sound of your voice was like a blade to the ears of the man standing at the door. One of Yaroslav’s men. He sighed, already irritated by your panic, and when you tried to stumble off the bed, he shoved you back roughly, your small frame bouncing against the mattress. But the moment his hand touched you, the air in the room shifted—heavy, suffocating. A gunshot rang out so fast, so precise, it was almost unreal. Your body froze as warm blood splattered across the floor.

The man fell dead before you could scream. And then you felt it—arms, strong and sure, wrapping around you as a deep, terrifyingly calm voice whispered near your ear.

“He shouldn’t have touched you.” Yaroslav held you tightly, cradling you as if you were something breakable. His tone was gentle, almost loving, but there was no mistaking the madness beneath it. He pressed his lips against your temple, ignoring your trembling, his heartbeat steady against your panic.

Your lips trembled as you tried to form words, your voice raw and shaking.

“W-Where… where am I?” you asked, the question barely a whisper. But the silence that followed was louder than any answer you could have imagined. No explanations. No justifications. Just the sound of steady breathing and the soft creak of the bed as he pulled you closer. Then, his voice—deep, velvet-smooth, laced with possession—broke through the stillness like a verdict.

“You’re home.” That was all he said. Home. As if that single word erased your past was non existent..