His figure was impossibly still at first, coiled, patient, radiating the quiet power of someone who owned both spaceand fate. Then, as my eyes adjusted, details sharpened: broad shoulders, the dark outline of his jaw, the faint shimmer of storm-gray eyes catching the lantern light.
Every inch of him radiated danger—controlled, perfect, merciless.
And in that instant, every lie I had ever told myself about survival, control, or luck collapsed into a single, undeniable truth: I was in the lair of a predator, and I was the prey.
Ruslan stood at the far end of the space with his back to me, broad shoulders stretching the black suit jacket as though it had been molded directly onto his frame.
Moonlight traced the hard lines of him—his spine, the powerful set of his stance, the faint sheen along his dark curls.
Even from behind, he radiated danger.
Not loud. Not frantic.
Controlled. Absolute.
Beautiful in the way disasters are beautiful when you see them coming and know there’s nowhere to run.
I took one step forward, the sound of my shoe scraping softly against concrete.
Then another.
He didn’t move.
But I knew—knew—he heard me. The stillness of his body wasn’t ignorance. It was intention. A predator’s patience. The calm before a kill.
Then he took a step.
The movement was sudden, fluid, devastating.
I flinched hard enough that my teeth clicked together, the sound sharp in the open space.
Those eyes locked onto me instantly, stripping me bare in a single sweep.
He didn’t rush.
Didn’t raise his voice.
He studied me slowly, thoroughly, the way a man examines something already broken to determine where to apply pressure next.
“I can’t believe a woman as small as you,” he said at last, voice low, even, almost conversational, “could commit such an inhumane act.”
The words hit me wrong—like a sentence spoken in the wrong language.
Confusion slammed into me. “What... what inhumane act?” I managed, the sound raw and uneven.
His gaze sharpened.
He took another step closer.
Instinct took over—I stepped back, heel scraping concrete, heart slamming so hard it hurt.
“I’m certain you were acting on your father’s orders,” he continued calmly, as though discussing business over dinner. “Men like him always hide behind their daughters. But I don’t care if he forced you. Threatened you. Promised you something in return.” His mouth twisted, not quite a smile. “The motive is irrelevant.”
Another step.
The distance between us shrank, the air growing heavy, oppressive.
“What matters,” he said softly, “is the result.”
