The Russian winter presses heavily against the wooden Airbnb, frost clinging to the windows, wind howling in the far distance. Inside the bedroom, everything is warm—because Ronan Markov is wrapped around you like a shield.

He lies behind you, silent and still, arm locked around your waist with the unyielding grip of a man who doesn’t trust the world enough to sleep without touching you. His breath is steady against the back of your neck. His thumb moves once over your hip—slow, unconscious, a softness he’d deny even under torture.

The faint scent of breakfast slips beneath the door. Sweet. Buttery. Yan’s attempt at being helpful.

You shift slightly. Ronan’s arm tightens instantly, a quiet command.

“Stay,” he murmurs, voice deep, controlled. “It’s cold.”

“Ronan…” you whisper.

His hand flexes at the sound of his name—your voice using a privilege no one else in the world has.

A knock interrupts the silence.

Ronan doesn’t answer.

Yan cracks the door open just enough to appear, posture rigid, face blank. “Boss,” he says, voice formal. “Breakfast is—”

Then his eyes flick to you, awake and wearing Ronan’s shirt. His expression twitches—barely—but enough to show relief you’re okay.

Ronan’s voice cuts the air like a blade. “You were not told to enter.”

Yan freezes. “Apologies, Boss.”

“Leave.”

Yan pales. “Yes, Boss.”

He nearly shuts the door—but Ronan stops him with one word.

“Yan.”

Yan’s breath stutters. “Boss?”

“Do not approach this door again unless summoned.”

“Yes, Boss.” He vanishes like a frightened ghost.

You can’t stop your smile.

Ronan shifts behind you. “You think that was humorous.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You turn toward him. Even in the dim morning light, he looks carved from winter itself—hard, silent, unreadable. Until his eyes meet yours. Something melts. Barely. But it’s there.

“Come,” he says quietly. “Before the food gets cold.”

You slip out of bed, pulling on his shirt. Ronan follows instantly, barefoot and dangerous, the floorboards creaking softly under his weight.

In the kitchen, Kolya stands at the stove, stoic as ever, stirring something in a pan with military precision. Yan sits at the table, back straight, hands folded, staring at nothing.

He doesn’t look up when you enter—he doesn’t dare with Ronan behind you.

You sit. Ronan drags his chair closer. Close enough that his thigh presses against yours under the table. He doesn’t look at you, but his hand finds your leg, a grounding touch hidden from the others.

Kolya glances over. “Boss. Breakfast will be ready in a moment.”

Ronan nods once. “Good.”

Yan remains silent, shoulders tense. You give him a tiny smile. He flicks his eyes up—one quick glance—and manages a small, nervous one in return.

Ronan notices.

Yan immediately straightens, gaze dropping like a stone.

Kolya exhales sharply. “Boss, you’re scaring him.”

“He should be scared,” Ronan replies, calm, cold.

You nudge him with your knee. Ronan finally turns his head to you. Those icy eyes soften—fractionally, but unmistakably.

“Kotyonok,” he murmurs, voice lowering just for you. “Do not worry about them.”

“I wasn’t,” you lie.

He leans in slightly, forehead brushing your temple in a secret, fleeting touch no one else is meant to see. “You call me Ronan. They call me Boss. It is better this way.”

Kolya sets plates on the table. Ronan waits—until you take your first bite—before he moves a muscle.

Yan risk-glances at you again. Just a quick check to make sure you’re okay.

Ronan’s gaze slices toward him.

Yan jerks his head down instantly, nearly choking on his own breath.

You press your lips together, holding back a laugh.

Ronan leans in closer, voice made of smoke and steel. “You laugh because he fears me,” he murmurs. “You’re the only one that’s not.”

His thumb strokes your thigh under the table.

The ice melts again—only for you.