Kairus' POV :
The door slammed behind me with more force than I intended. A quiet curse slipped through my clenched teeth, thick in Russian.
"Chyort voz'mi , " I growled, dragging my hand down my face.
I never lost control.
Not with enemies. Not with business. Not even under the weight of death threats or bullets grazing past my skin.
But her?
Babochka.
That goddamn woman tilted her chin and defied me like she wasn't standing in the lion's den with a bloody leash around her throat.
I should've walked away the moment I saw her fists fly in that underground cage. I should've just taken her in chains, not a wedding dress.
But the moment she looked at me, something inside cracked.
She was fire. Wild. Untamed. Everything the world had tried to crush out of her, still alive in her eyes.
And that mouth of hers? When she spat words like knives, unafraid of me? It twisted something in my chest, something old and broken and very much alive.
My blood boiled just remembering how her pulse fluttered beneath my fingers when I held her throat. Not out of fear—but anger. Challenge.
I stood, shrugging off the suit jacket, running a hand over my chest to will away the pounding ache of restraint.I paced.Back and forth like a fucking beast.
My fists were clenched at my sides, still aching from how close I came to tearing that damn dress off her. The silk. The slit. The bare skin beneath my fingertips when I dragged the zipper down her back.
I stopped breathing when I touched her.
Hell, I wanted to stop. But she made it impossible.
Her hatred turned me on like nothing ever had before.
The way she looked at me with loathing in her eyes… like I was the villain in her story. Like I was the monster from her nightmares. And God help me, I loved it.
Her rage was delicious. Her resistance was addictive.
She made me feel alive. Real.
And that's the fucking problem.
"Don't you dare fall for her," I snarled at myself , staring at my reflection in the glass wall of the balcony.
My own eyes looked back at me—empty. Void. Cold.
Just like I'd always been.
I don't love her.
I won't.
I'm not capable of it. Love is weakness. And I wasn't raised to love—I was forged in blood, bullets, and betrayal. The bratva didn't teach softness. They taught ownership.
And Raven?
She was mine.
A debt paid in vows. A cage disguised as a ring.
But still… the way she said "I'm not an object to be owned." The way she leaned into me and dared to spit fire when she should've begged for mercy.
It made something primal rip through me.
You should have thrown her onto the bed and made her remember who she belongs to.
But I didn't. I let her go. I walked away.
Barely.
I should keep this physical. Just sex. Just dominance.
No hearts. No illusions.
And yet—
That fucking wedding ring burned on her finger.
She didn't know yet.
She didn't know what it would do if she tried to take it off.
That's how deep I'd already sunk.
Because if she tried to run…
If she ever even thought of leaving me—
I'd tear down the world to drag her back.
So I told myself again—like a goddamn prayer through clenched teeth:
"I don't love her. I never will."
But even as the words left my mouth…
The memory of her voice—her fury, her fire—echoed louder in my mind.
And my body ached for her like she was already under my skin.
She was poison.
And I was dying for another taste.
I wanted to break her.
I sat down on the edge of my bed and leaned forward, elbows on my knees, pressing my knuckles into my temples.
A glass of vodka on the nightstand shimmered under the room's soft lighting—but it was hard to tell if it was really shimmering or if my eyes were just screwing with me again.
The light bled wrong, like always. A blur of muted grays and shadows.
Everything looked dull.
Everything—except her.
Even now, the memory of her standing under that chandelier, skin glowing, lips dark red and rich, hair like ink bleeding across porcelain—I could still see it. See her.
The only thing in my world that wasn't swallowed by gray.
But I wasn't ready to face that truth. Not yet. Not even to myself.
I downed the vodka in one swig, the burn grounding me.
This was about power. Debt. Control.
Not obsession.
Definitely not… color.
She was in the room down the hall. In my house. In my reach.
I had to remind myself she wasn't here out of love—this was survival for her.
But damn it…
She made me forget I was the one with the leash.
And if she kept looking at me with those eyes—full of rebellion, heat, and everything I swore I didn't need—
Then I wasn't sure who was caging who anymore.
The silence in my room was thick, strangling.
I leaned against the balcony railing, the cool night air biting at my skin—but it wasn't enough to cool the fire beneath it. My jaw ticked as I replayed the scene over and over again: her gasp, her trembling breath, the way she stood her ground even as my fingers ghosted over her slit, over the zip of that cursed dress. The fucking nerve—
A sharp knock shattered the moment.
Before I could even turn, Mikhail barged in, his boots heavy on the marble.
"Boss," he said, voice clipped. "We've got a situation. One of our docks—Vladivostok—was hit. Explosives. Two of our men dead, three missing."
I didn't ask for more.
The storm in my blood shifted.
The heat of desire turned cold. Precise.
Efficient.
"Who?" I growled.
"We think it's the Belov brothers. Or someone they hired."
My jaw clenched. The Belovs had been sniffing at my territory for months like roaches, and now they dared to strike?
Wrong move.
I turned away from the balcony, the moonlight catching only the sharp lines of my face.
All trace of Raven evaporated. Gone.
She wasn't a woman in my mind anymore.
She was a locked chest in the corner of my brain—sealed, waiting.
Business came first.
Always.
"Get the car," I said, already walking toward the weapons room. "Bring me the HK416, full auto. Straps, vest. No silencers."
Mikhail's mouth twitched in something like admiration.
"Yes, Boss."
I opened the black drawer near the wall and pulled out the harnesses. Clipped metal, smooth leather, matte steel. My second skin.
I strapped myself in with a soldier's ease—bulletproof vest under my suit jacket, knives at the thigh, twin Glocks at the waist.
Rage settled in me. Cold. Focused. Calculated.
I was no longer the man who'd almost lost control over a woman's touch.
I was Kairus Vasiliev.
The Butcher of Moscow. The Bratva's ghost. The man who turned blood into empire.
By the time I stepped out, dressed in black like the reaper himself, my eyes had already darkened to death.
Mikhail was waiting at the car.
"You sure you want to go in personally, Boss?"
I slid the gun into my side holster with a click that sounded like fate.
"If I don't," I said, "they'll think I'm distracted."
His eyes flicked briefly back toward the mansion.
I ignored it.
"Let's go remind them what a distracted man is still capable of."
As the doors closed around me and the engine roared, I left everything else behind.
Desire could wait.
Right now, war demanded me.
And I never arrived quietly.