The woman's mouth was warm and wet around him, her lips stretched obscenely as Daniil's fingers tangled in her blonde hair. She wasn't anything special—none of them ever were. Just another body to use, another way to chase a release that never quite filled the emptiness inside him. His penthouse apartment was dark except for the city lights seeping through the floor-to-ceiling windows, throwing shadows over the black silk sheets.

he commanded, his voice low and steady even as pleasure coiled tight in his abdomen. His mismatched eyes—one silver-grey, one obsidian black—watched her fight to take more of him. He was too big for most women, too rough, too demanding. They all left crying.

He didn't care.

She gagged, her throat tightening around his cock, and then—

Pain.

Sharp and sudden. Her teeth dragged against sensitive flesh as she jerked back, choking.

Daniil's hand shot out at once, fisting in her hair and

yanking

her off him. She gasped, saliva stringing her lips to his cock before it broke. Her eyes were wide, terrified, already wet with tears.

He didn't let her finish it. In one smooth motion, he threw her onto the bed face-down, her naked body bouncing on the mattress. She tried to turn, to apologize again, but his palm pressed between her shoulder blades, pinning her.

His voice was dangerously quiet as he settled himself behind her.

He thrust into her without warning, without preamble, burying himself to the hilt in a single brutal stroke. She screamed—pain and shock and something else—as he set a punishing pace. His fingers dug into her hips hard enough to leave marks, holding her in place as he fucked her with cold, mechanical precision. This wasn't about her pleasure. This was about control, about reminding her exactly what she was to him.

Nothing.

She sobbed into the sheets, her body jolting with each harsh thrust, but Daniil felt nothing but the building pressure of his own release. Her crying was background noise. When he finally came, it was with a low grunt, his fingers tightening on her hips as he emptied himself inside her.

The moment it was over, he pulled out and stepped back, already reaching for his phone as it started to ring on the nightstand.

The woman collapsed on the bed, trembling and crying softly.

Daniil answered without looking at her.

The voice on the other end was distorted, professional.

Daniil's expression didn't change.

The voice rattled off an address—a hotel downtown, room number, security detail. Daniil had it committed to memory in seconds.

he said, and ended the call.

Behind him, the woman had worked up the courage to sit up, wiping her tear-stained face. She reached out tentatively, her fingers brushing his arm.

He pulled away from her touch as if it burned.

Without a word, he walked to his dresser, took out a stack of bills, and threw them onto the bed. They scattered over the black sheets—hundreds, maybe two thousand dollars in all.

Her face crumpled.

His voice was flat, final.

She scrambled to gather her clothes, her hands shaking as she pulled on her dress. The money lay untouched on the bed. When she finally looked at him one last time—hoping for something, anything—his back was already turned, his attention on choosing weapons from the hidden panel in his closet.

The door clicked shut behind her, and Daniil was alone.

Exactly how he preferred it.

The senator's aide died quickly.

Daniil slipped into the hotel room like smoke, getting past security with practiced ease. The man was on his laptop, probably typing out whatever information he planned to sell. He never even heard Daniil approach.

One hand over the mouth. One knife across the throat.

The body slumped forward onto the keyboard, blood pooling over the desk. Daniil wiped his blade clean, pocketed the laptop, and was gone before the body had stopped twitching.

Professional. Efficient. Clean.

His phone buzzed twenty minutes later as he drove through the city—$2,000,000 deposited into his offshore account. Another job completed. Another name struck off somebody's list.

The streets were quieter now, late afternoon sliding into evening. Daniil's mind was already moving to the next contract, the next target, the next—

And then he saw her.

His foot hit the brake instinctively, the car slowing as his eyes caught on the coffee shop window. There, bathed in warm golden light, was a woman who made everything else in the world fade to static.

She was laughing—head thrown back, genuine joy brightening her face as she talked to a friend across the table. Her hair caught the light. Her smile was unguarded, real,

alive

in a way that struck something deep in Daniil's chest.

He couldn't look away.

Time slowed. His hands tightened on the steering wheel as something primal and possessive roared to life inside him. He'd killed dozens of people, fucked hundreds of women, felt nothing for any of them.

But

her

?

He needed her. Needed to know her name, her voice, the way she'd sound when he made her scream. Needed to own every smile, every laugh, every breath.

A car honked behind him. Daniil's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, then back to the coffee shop. She was standing now, hugging her friend goodbye, hoisting a bag onto her shoulder.

He drove forward slowly, watching her leave the shop and head toward a car parked on the street. His mind was already working—license plate number memorized, make and model noted, the direction she turned catalogued.

Then he did something he never did.

He turned his car around.

By the time he circled back, she was gone, but it didn't matter. Daniil Karsov was the best at what he did. Tracking people, learning everything about them, making them his?

That was just another kind of hunt.

And he caught his prey, every time.

You're still smiling when you pull into your driveway, the conversation with your friend still replaying in your mind. It had been good to catch up, to laugh about nothing and everything over overpriced lattes. Normal. Easy.

The kind of afternoon that makes you forget, just for a moment, about the stress of moving into a new place.

Your house is small but charming—a rental you'd found online, tucked into a quiet neighborhood with tree-lined streets. You're still getting used to it, still unpacking boxes and working out which key opens which door.

You grab your bag from the passenger seat and head up the front path, fishing for your keys.

That's when you see it.

A box is sitting on your porch. Large, wrapped in expensive black paper with a silk ribbon tied in a perfect bow. No delivery label, no return address.

You freeze, keys dangling from your fingers.

Your first thought is that it's a mistake—wrong house, wrong person. But when you crouch down and see the small card tucked under the ribbon, your name is written across it in elegant, masculine handwriting.

Your heart does something strange in your chest.

Carefully, you pull the card free and open it.

Inside, in the same dark ink:

"My Kotik"

No signature. No explanation. Just those two words and a small illustration of a kitten in the corner.

You stare at it, confusion mixing with something you can't quite name. Kotik. You don't speak Russian, but something about the word feels... intimate. Possessive.

You look up and down the quiet street. No one's watching. No cars you don't recognize.

The box is heavier than you expected when you pick it up, the contents shifting a little inside. Part of you knows you shouldn't open it—shouldn't accept gifts from strangers.

But curiosity wins.

You unlock your door, carry the box inside, and set it on your kitchen counter. The ribbon comes away easily. When you lift the lid, your breath catches.

Inside is the most beautiful necklace you've ever seen—delicate silver chain with a pendant shaped like a crescent moon, tiny diamonds catching the light. It must have cost thousands.

Tucked underneath is a single black rose, preserved somehow, perfect and eternal.

And under that, another note:

"I saw you today. You have no idea what you've done to me. Soon, you'll understand that you were meant to be mine from the start."

Your hands are shaking as you set the note down.

This should scare you. This

does

scare you.

But there's something else too—a flutter of dark intrigue, a whisper in the back of your mind wondering who could possibly be watching you this closely.

Who decided you were theirs.

Outside, three houses down, Daniil sits in his car with the engine off, watching your silhouette move through the kitchen window.

He sees the moment you open the box. Sees you lift the necklace, touch the rose.

His lips curve into something that isn't quite a smile.

he whispers to the empty car, his mismatched eyes never leaving your window.

But you will.

He'll make sure of it.