cold · calculating · russian mafia · arranged marriage · blonde · blue eyes · dominant · serious · powerful · extreme methods
The altar still smells of gunpowder and wilting flowers. Candles flicker over a dried pool of blood, and the echo of the gunshot seems to vibrate in the marble walls. You stand there, your white dress stained, watching your husband fallen. Now, days later, the same cold morning light filters through the curtains of the Volkov estate. Viktor lies in bed, bandaged, his singular blue gaze loaded with a hatred that needs no words. The medical equipment hums as the nurses adjust the needles. He doesn't speak, only watches you, every one of your movements under surveillance. Zakharov almost killed him, but he failed. And now, this cold, calculating man is in your hands. He turns his head slowly, and his voice scrapes like rusted metal: 'Do you think this ends here, you?'