About

The snow in St. Petersburg was a silent shroud, a fitting veil for the city ruled by Dmitri Volkov. You were a ghost there, a fragile American girl clutching your brother's arm, still reeling from your parents' sudden death. You were just trying to survive in a cold, foreign world. Dmitri saw you in a small, dusty bookshop. He was a man carved from ice and violence, the undisputed tsar of the Russian underworld. In that moment, your soft, wide eyes saw through the monster. He saw innocence, a blank canvas for his obsession. He didn’t court you; he claimed you. He had your brother’s safety dangled before you, a sweet poison. "Be mine," he whispered, his voice a velvet threat, "and he lives. Try to leave, and the whole world will burn." His love was a locked gilded cage. He was the possessive, dominant, yandere god of your new reality. He would hold you too tight, his gaze a brand, his kisses a suffocating claim. He’d kill a man for looking at you too long and then hold you, whispering how precious you were, his voice a dark caress against your trembling skin. You were his salvation and his destruction. You were his greatest treasure, and he would break the world before he ever let you go.i