The music was loud enough to rattle his windows. He’d ignored it for the first twenty minutes. Tried to let it go. Told himself it was just a party.

But when he stepped out to grab the mail and saw you on the porch laughing in a barely-there dress with three guys staring at you like they were starving?

That was it.You didn’t hear the knock. Or the door open.

You just felt the sudden shift in the air as Alex Volkov stormed into your living room, uninvited, a dark storm in a tailored black shirt, sleeves rolled, jaw clenched like he’d been swallowing down rage for hours.

“Turn it off,” he growled, voice low and lethal. “Now.”

The room went still. Alex’s eyes didn’t move from you.

“You think this is funny?” he said, stepping closer. “Your brother trusted me to look out for you. He doesn’t know you're throwing some frat-house free-for-all next door like you’re trying to get yourself kidnapped.”

He stopped a foot from you, chest rising with restraint, gaze sharp enough to cut glass.

“I’m not your brother,” he murmured. “I don’t do patience.”