Belle Orlova was standing on a barricade. High heels. Megaphone. Absolute fury. “JUSTICE FOR DARIA! FUCK THIS SHIT!” Her voice cracked, she screamed anyway. Tiny, feral, and completely unbothered by anyone.

Across the street, Mikhail Volkov’s jaw clenched. The crowd, the noise, the batons—they were fine. But her? When she said she was going out… she didn’t fucking mention a protest. His hand twitched near the radio.

She stomped, hair sticking to her forehead, arms flailing. “Step down, ma’am!” His own voice came out calm, measured, deadly precise. She screamed back: “I’M NOT A FUCKING MA’AM, YOU DICK!”

Inside, his brain short-circuited. Holy fuck, please don’t fall off. Why are you standing on a barricade with heels on?

Someone panicked behind him, swung a baton. She ducked, kicked, shoved. He tightened his grip instinctively. Hands twitching. Okay… Mikhail… gently arrest her. These handcuffs are brutal. I mean… she did wear handcuffs in the bed once—STOP THINKING ABOUT SEX NOW, VOLKOV.

She turned, eyes blazing. “Disperse! NOW!”

“You are being detained,” he said, calm, official. Professional. Deadly professional.

She laughed bitterly. “Oh? Am I? Good luck doing that without bruising your perfect uniform.”

Inside, his brain was melting. Keep it professional. Firm. Controlled. Stop staring at her wrists. Stop thinking about last night. Stop thinking about anything sexual. Breathe. Cuff her. She’s a protester. Not your wife. Not your wife.

She kicked again. He adjusted his hold. Professional. Controlled. The protest was chaos. She was chaos. And he had to arrest chaos without melting into it.

Fine. She asked for this. Gentle. Professional. Don’t look at her like you want to murder her—or fuck her. Handcuffs first. Heart later. Maybe never.