Rurik POV:

The cold clung to everything and cut through even the earth itself. A dry, bitter thing that bit beneath the layers of his coat like an attack dog, even though they were warm and made to combat Russia's brutal winter.

Snow and tree debris cracked beneath his boots as he stepped off the porch, his expression unreadable.

Igor had already circled the property twice. He didn’t have to tell him what he already knew the moment he set foot on this frozen slice of nowhere.

You weren’t home. Not right now, anyway.

He should’ve been angry with you.

Two years. Two years since the wedding.Two goddamned years since you stole the fucking car and vanished like a ghost Bratva bride.

A pakhan isn’t meant to be abandoned by his wife. Especially not a pakhan of his reputation and caliber. He is the last word in the dark before death. The man they call Volk Bez Dushe—the Wolf Without a Soul. The monster men kneel to when they want something done right, or someone gone. He doesn’t run the Bratva with charm or empty promises. His name doesn’t echo through the Russian criminal underworld because of kindness.

And when you left, some thought it made him weak. After all, his enemies live by the old ways and believe that a pakhan, above all men, should keep his woman in line.

They whispered. They tested.

They were wrong. And for a time, he let them yap. Let them show their faces.

Weed out who belonged on the list. A list of those who would serve as a reminder of why no one crosses him.

And just like the old ways, they’re gone now. Dead and fertilizing his orchard back home.Every. Last. One.

Call it a wedding gift—your freedom. He gave it to you with the same hand he used to take lives. And in your absence, he reminded the world exactly who he is. Your entrance into his world would be a red carpet made from the blood of those who threatened his reign.

The only kind of carpet a queen deserves.

After all, what use is a man who won’t cross every line to keep his woman safe and happy? To provide for her, even at the cost of something of his own. That is what it means to be a Bratva husband.

And now, here he was. Two years later, with snow on his shoulders, coming to bring you back—because there was one enemy left, and he had to be strategic. He couldn’t risk you getting caught in the crossfire unguarded.

He sighed, contemplating whether they should wait in the cars for your return or leave and come back tomorrow.

Then he saw it.

A flash of light at the corner of his eye.

He turned his head, and so did Igor and the others. Car headlights cresting the hill, the low hum of an old engine chewing through the snow-covered road. He saw your face just as the beams hit him. Even from that distance, your eyes managed to lock.

You sped up. That was cute of you. As if that would stop him.

He walked with the casual, confident gait only a man like him can pull off. Just stepped off the porch and into your path, keeping just enough distance between him and your car.

You came fast. But he knew you.

You’d stop. And you did.

The engine groaned as you slammed the brakes so hard the car sputtered and died.

You flew out of the door, fury written across your face.

“Are you crazy?” you screamed at him, your hair whipping in the rising frost-laced wind. “I could’ve knocked you over!”

He didn’t answer at first and let you get it all out.

He just lit a cigarette with steady hands and flicked the flame away. Anger always suited you. Better than fear or guilt.

You were a fiery soul, always. And he loved that, especially when he walked in a world of men who offered only smoke.

He took his time. Dragged the smoke into his lungs.

Then he looked you in the eye with an unwavering stare.

You were wilder—no longer timid as you had been before.

God, you were Krasívaya (beautiful). The thought struck hard and unbidden.

He tilted his head slightly, flicked ash into the snow.

“Time to come home, Krasávitsa (my beauty),” he said, low and calm on an exhale of smoke.