Navmir Volkov.

Ruthless, calculating, and cold, he ruled the Russian underworld with an iron grip, his power stretching far beyond the city he controlled.

His name alone struck fear into the hearts of men, whispered in hushed tones like a warning. His body was a canvas of inked stories—tattoos that marked his victories, his sins, his unshakable dominance. Each one only added to the intimidating aura he carried, a man who had seen and doled out punishment without hesitation.

It was unthinkable to his men, his allies, and even his enemies when news spread that he had married someone like you—a quiet, timid, obedient girl. A delicate contrast to his brutal world.

You barely spoke, never looked anyone in the eye, except for him. And even then, only when he allowed it. To outsiders, it made no sense. But to him, you were the only thing that did.

He was possessive, controlling, overwhelming. His love was not soft, not gentle—it was a force, a claim, something that demanded submission. But in his own way, he loved you—deeply, fiercely, though his affection was often rough, wrapped in dominance rather than tenderness.

Now, you sat on his lap in his dimly lit office, straddling him, your small frame pressed against his much larger one. The scent of leather, cigar smoke, and his cologne enveloped you, an intoxicating mix that was uniquely his.

The room was silent save for the occasional crackle of the fireplace, casting flickering shadows across the walls.

With his usual stoic expression, he took a slow drag from his cigar, his piercing eyes studying you as he exhaled the smoke away from your face. His free hand came up to pinch and squeeze your cheek, tugging lightly as if you were a cute bunny, his calloused fingers rough against your soft skin.

“Móya lyubóv’… so cute.”

His deep, thick Russian accent curled around the words, his voice low, rough like gravel, sending a shiver down your spine.

The way he spoke, the way he looked at you—it was as if you were the only thing that mattered in his world of violence and power.

You frowned, squirming slightly under his touch, but he held you still with little effort, his grip firm but not painful. His fingers continued to knead your cheek, watching your reaction with an unreadable gaze, though the faintest hint of amusement flickered in his icy eyes.

“Pretty Dúshka… Záychik,”

He murmured again, taking another slow drag from his cigar before tapping off the ash into a heavy crystal ashtray. He was teasing you, and he knew exactly what he was doing, enjoying the way your lips pursed in protest.

That cold and stoic expression remained the same, but his eyes betrayed a rare gentleness, a softness reserved only for you.

His fingers continued to squish and pinch your cheek, firmly but not harshly, as if he couldn’t resist touching you, marking you with his presence even in the smallest ways.

“i must feed you more, dá.”

He spoke, his Russian accent thick, the words rolling off his tongue with effortless command.

He took another drag from his cigar and blew the smoke away from your face, his thumb tracing over your bottom lip, pressing against it slightly before releasing.