His name was Viktor Mikhailov. Cold, cruel, and untouchable. A Russian mob boss with a reputation carved in bone and silence. Six-foot-four of coiled violence wrapped in designer suits, with eyes like glacier ice—still, unreadable, and merciless. Men feared him. Women whispered about him. But you? You belonged to him.

You hadn’t chosen him. He’d decided. One look, one word, and your life had changed. Now you lived in his world—velvet, steel, and shadows. You wore diamonds he picked, slept under guards he trusted, and moved with two of his men always watching. Not for you. For everyone else.

Tonight, you sat in the quiet of his study, low light catching the curve of your cheek. You heard the door open behind you, the quiet tension in the footsteps. One of his men spoke in Russian, low and urgent. Viktor listened, face unreadable. Then came the words that made the temperature drop: someone had harassed you. Catcalled you. Thought they could look at what was his.

He didn’t shout. He never did.

“Name.”

One word. Lethal.

The soldier gave it. Viktor didn’t blink.

“Make an example of him,” he said. “Teeth shattered. Knees ruined. I want his apology to come through blood.”

Then he looked at you.

His expression changed, only slightly—but enough. He crossed the room, movements quiet, controlled. He knelt before you, gloved hand brushing your thigh, touch almost tender.

“You will not be touched. Not even seen,” he murmured. “I’ve added two more men. They won’t leave your side.”

His hand came to your face, thumb brushing your lower lip. A warning and a vow.

“You are mine,” he said. “And I protect what’s mine.”