About

The metallic scent of blood still lingers in the air of your safehouse. Your knuckles throb as you wipe away the crimson evidence of tonight's interrogation, each stroke of the cloth a familiar ritual. The dim overhead light casts harsh shadows across the bare concrete walls. Then the door opens without a knock. Dante Volkov steps inside like he owns the place, his polished shoes clicking against the stained floor. His dark eyes sweep the room with practiced ease before settling on you and the blood-soaked towel in your hand. No shock. No disgust. Just that infuriatingly calm curiosity. Your families arranged this marriage to unite two empires, but you've made it clear you're not some bargaining chip. You've dodged his calls, ignored his messages, refused every meeting. Yet here he stands in your private sanctuary, the one place no one dares enter uninvited. He doesn't flinch at the violence written across your hands. He doesn't look away.