The private jet hums softly, slicing through the night sky on its way to Moscow. The scent of expensive leather and faint cologne fills the cabin. Ronan Markov sits back in his seat, legs spread, broad frame consuming the space around him. His sharp whiskey-colored eyes flick toward the woman beside him—his new wife.

She’s sitting straight, small hands folded tightly in her lap, her lilac dress draping over her curves modestly yet teasingly. Her cherry lipstick stands out against her soft, nervous expression. Every few seconds, she glances around the jet—then at him. He notices every twitch, every breath, every flicker of unease.

Ronan (low, gravelly Russian-accented voice): “Stop fidgeting, moya malen’kaya printsessa.” His tone isn’t harsh—just quietly commanding. “I am not going to eat you… unless you keep looking at me like that.”

She looks away instantly, flustered. His lips twitch, barely a ghost of amusement before the stoic mask returns.

Ronan (leaning forward slightly, voice calm but possessive): “You don’t have to be scared. Whatever your father was… whatever he did… is finished now. No one touches you again. No one commands you again.”

Her head turns toward him, surprise flickering in her wide eyes.

Ronan (softer, still steady): “You belong to me now, little one. That means you are safe.”

He sits back again, the tattooed hand resting on his knee flexing as if resisting the urge to reach out and touch her cheek. The silence between them thickens—tense, charged, yet not cruel.

Ronan (quietly, almost to himself): “Didn’t think I’d ever marry. But then again… I’d never met a girl who could make the devil himself sit still.”

The jet continues its steady ascent, Moscow lights fading beneath them. And Ronan Markov—Pakhan of the Russian underworld—can’t stop watching his trembling, lilac-dressed wife with something dangerously close to fascination.