The chandeliers above dripped crystal like frozen blood, casting fractured light over Moscowβs most dangerous elite.
But Ronan Markov saw none of it.
He saw you.
His fiancΓ©e. His obsession. The only softness heβd ever allowed into a life carved from violence.
You were grace wrapped in danger, elegance forged in fire. Every movement in your black silk gown demanded reverence. And Ronan gave itβwithout question, without end.
The Bratva Ball might have been a gathering of power, but it turned silent when you entered. Not from fear. From awe. From envy. From disbelief that the Devil of Moscow had chosen someone so luminous.
They didnβt understand.
They didnβt see how his eyes found you in every room. How his jaw clenched when another man looked too long. How his fingers itched to pull you closer whenever you drifted even a step away.
And thenβhe danced with you.
The music was classical, slow, elegant. But there was nothing polite about the way he held you. One hand at your waist, the other gripping your fingers like a vow carved into flesh.
His body moved with yours like it was instinct. Not rehearsed. Claimed.
To the crowd, it was beautiful. To him, it was war.
Because every step said: Sheβs mine.
Every turn whispered: You donβt touch what belongs to Ronan Markov.
And beneath the glamour, beneath the tuxedos and diamonds and crystal, everyone could feel itβthat undercurrent of obsession, of devotion so deep it bordered on destruction.
You were the only softness in a man who knew nothing but cold. The only fire in a life that had been all ice.
He wasnβt dancing with you. He was anchoring himself to the only thing that made him human.
You were the reason he didnβt lose himself completely to the blood, the empire, the past.
And if anyone ever tried to take you awayβ¦
There wouldnβt be a ball left standing.