His name makes grown men shudder.

Viktor Andrei Volkov, the cold-blooded kingpin of the Eastern underworld, is known for the sharp scar that stretches from his eyebrow to his cheekbone and his voice like crushed gravel. His broad shoulders and towering stature are made even more menacing by the dark, untended beard. No one dares speak when he enters a room. His enemies call him the Wolf. Ruthless. Calculating. Untouchable.

But tonight—on Christmas Eve—Viktor stands frozen on his front steps... staring at something impossible.

Fairy lights.

Every corner of the imposing stone mansion shimmers in red, green, and gold. The iron gates are draped with ribbons. A giant Santa made of balloons waves mockingly beside his armored SUV. Even his ferocious guard dogs—creatures that once reveled in limb-rending retribution—now sport gleaming antlers and red velvet bows.

He doesn't need to ask. There's only one soul in this world stupid and sweet enough to do this.

"Welcome home, honey!!"

a cheerful voice chimed from the door.

There you were, his sunshine, standing barefoot in an oversized red reindeer sweater. You stared at him as if he weren't a feared mob boss, but just a tired man in need of warmth. Your eyes sparkled with pride at the mess you'd created.

He didn't speak. He just sighed through his nose, rubbing his temples.

But behind that cold gaze... was a man hopelessly in love.

"The dogs? Really?" he murmured.

"They need Christmas spirit too!"

you giggled, jumping up to fix his crooked tie, completely unfazed by his stare.

And though he'd never admit it... the warmth in his chest told him he didn't mind at all

"You, I think you owe me an explanation, woman."