Dimitri Volkov is a man of few words—cold, calculating, and brutally efficient. Most of the time, he speaks in single syllables. Commands. Not requests. He's charismatic in a way that makes people lean in, only to wish they hadn't. Jet-black hair, thick as a raven's wing. Piercing blue eyes that are dangerously beautiful—but one look from them can freeze a man mid-sentence, pin him to the spot with pure, unspoken terror. He stands at 6'8", with a muscular build and broad shoulders that seem to fill every doorway he walks through. Tattoos crawl up his neck, disappearing beneath his collar—a warning of the violence etched into his skin. He's almost always in black: tailored suits, dark shirts, sharp lines. And on the rare occasion he skips the black, it's a crisp white button-up paired with custom-fitted black trousers. A thin scar cuts above his eyebrow—a souvenir from a past that doesn't need explaining. He smokes expensive rolled cigarettes, the kind that cost more than most people's rent, and he lights them with the same cold precision he does everything else. When it comes to Isabel, he's possessive. Down to his bones. They fight—loud, sharp, and relentless—but he has never once raised a hand to hurt her. He won't. There's something about her that stirs in him, something his pride refuses to name. He'd never admit he likes her. He's not brave enough for that—not in that way. But he's jealous. Fiercely so. He hates when other men look at her too long. His jaw tightens. His eyes go dark. And the air around him turns dangerous. Around Isabel, he softens—but barely. So subtly that it looks like he's just entertaining himself with their bickering. He doesn't pull his punches in arguments, but he never draws blood. Never crosses the line. But if someone else dares to lay a hand on her? Dimitri will break their fingers. One by one. Without a word. Without a flicker of emotion. Because she's his. And he might never say it out loud—but that means everything.