He wasn’t supposed to want her. But he did.
In the heart of Moscow’s frozen skyline, behind the marble walls of the Bratva estate, Viktor Barinov ruled with brutal precision. The name alone—Barinov—made men flinch and politicians sweat. He dealt in weapons, information, and loyalty paid in blood. His empire was absolute. His word, law.
But tonight, none of that mattered.
Because Anya Morozova sat in his private study—cross-legged, composed, and completely unaware of the storm she stirred in him.
She was beautiful, yes—but it was more than that. She was bold. Sharp. Dangerous in her own right.
A freelance investigative journalist with a reputation for digging too deep, she’d crossed his radar two weeks ago with a damning exposé on one of his lesser-known fronts. She wasn’t supposed to know what she knew. And yet, here she was—eyebrows arched, lips pursed, eyes sparking like lit matches.
“Is this where you kill me?” she asked, voice silk over steel.
Viktor leaned forward in his leather chair, unbuttoning his jacket. The soft creak of expensive fabric and leather punctuated the silence.
“If I wanted you dead, Anya,” he said in that low, accented voice that made even his enemies shiver, “you wouldn’t have made it past the gate.”
“Comforting.”
She was calm. Too calm.
That both irritated and aroused him.
“You’re smart,” he continued. “But reckless. This article you’re writing—do you think you’ll come out of it clean?”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“I know. That’s your most dangerous flaw.”
He stood and walked slowly toward her. She didn’t move, but he saw the subtle shift of her breathing. She wasn’t immune. Just very, very good at pretending.
“You broke into my world, Anya,” he said, standing inches away. “I don’t let people walk out of it.”
She raised her chin. “So what now? Am I your prisoner?”
He reached down and traced his knuckle along her jaw. “No,” he murmured. “You’re my guest. For now.”
Strike one. She should have slapped him. Instead, she felt a ripple of heat through her belly.
Two Weeks Earlier
Anya had never intended to fall into this story. Her original target was a human trafficking ring in Odessa. But one name kept showing up again and again—Barinov. At first, she thought it coincidence. Then she dug deeper.
Too deep.
Anya knew men like Viktor didn’t get exposed—they got worshipped, or disappeared. And yet, some part of her wanted to provoke him. She wanted to meet the devil in a suit. See if the man behind the myth could be brought to his knees.
But she hadn’t expected this.
She hadn’t expected the intense, controlled charisma. The way he spoke her name like a secret. Or the way his eyes burned into her skin without ever touching her.
Back to the Present
Viktor poured two glasses of vodka. He handed one to her, and she took it wordlessly. He watched her lips wrap around the rim of the glass and felt his body tighten.
“You investigate dangerous men,” he said. “Why?”
“I could ask you the same.”
“I don’t investigate. I eliminate.”
Anya looked at him over the rim. “Maybe I do too.”
The tension thickened between them—intellectual, emotional, undeniably sexual.
“I should be punishing you,” he said, stepping closer.
“Then do it,” she whispered, and immediately regretted the way her voice cracked.
His hand brushed her hip. “You think I won’t?”
Her breath hitched. She didn’t step back.
“You call yourself fearless,” he murmured, “but you tremble under my hand.”
“Maybe I like the danger.”
He leaned in, his lips just beside her ear. “You have no idea how dangerous I am.”
Her voice faltered. “Then show me.”
Strike two.
He kissed her.
Hard. Possessive. A kiss that claimed, not asked.
Anya gasped, and Viktor took the opportunity to deepen the kiss. His mouth devoured hers—hot, commanding, electric. Her hands rose to his chest, not to push him away but to pull him closer. He responded by grabbing her waist and lifting her effortlessly onto the desk behind her.
“Tell me to stop,” he growled.
She should have. She didn’t.
Instead, she whispered, “Don’t you dare.”
The Surrender
Clothes disappeared between stolen breaths and frantic hands. He stripped her blouse and skirt with surgical precision. She reached for his shirt, but he stopped her.
“No,” he said. “I undress for no one.”
She challenged him with her eyes. “Then let me earn it.”
He smirked. “Be careful what you offer, Anya.”
Viktor pushed her thighs apart and dropped to his knees, dragging her panties down slowly—deliberately—watching her the entire time.
“You’re wet,” he said, voice roughened. “Already.”
“Maybe I like Russian men in power.”
He chuckled, dark and low. “And maybe I like women who don’t know when to shut up.”
His tongue met her heat, and Anya arched with a cry. He licked her slowly at first, teasing her clit with agonizing gentleness, then added pressure, rhythm, and intent. Her fingers twisted in his hair as she bit her lip, unwilling to cry out too loudly.
“You taste like sin,” he murmured against her.
She moaned. “Then be my priest.”
He looked up at her, eyes blazing. “You don’t want confession, Anya. You want corruption.”
He gave it to her. Fully.
He stood, wiped his mouth, and unbuckled his belt.
“I want to fuck you against this desk,” he said.
“Then do it.”
He flipped her over, hands tight on her hips, and slid into her in one deep, satisfying thrust.
She cried out, back arching, and he groaned as her body clenched around him.
“You fit me,” he growled.
“God, yes…”
He thrust again, harder. Faster.
The room filled with the sounds of skin against skin, breathless gasps, the scratch of her nails across the desk. He pulled her hair, made her look at him in the mirror above the bar.
“Look at what I do to you.”
She saw it. Saw herself—flushed, desperate, hungry—and him behind her like a beast in a suit.
She came hard, trembling, breathless.
He wasn’t far behind.
He didn’t pull out—he wanted her to feel all of him. When he came, he bit her shoulder, claiming her with every inch.
Aftermath
They collapsed together on the leather couch, her body on top of his, sweat cooling in the icy air of his study.
“I should hate you,” she murmured.
“You will,” he said. “But not tonight.”
She looked up. “Is this a game to you?”
“I don’t play games.”
“You just fuck journalists who threaten your empire?”
He smiled lazily. “Only the reckless ones.”
She shook her head, but the smile touched her lips.
“You going to kill me after this?”
“No,” he said, brushing her hair from her face. “But I will protect myself. If that means making you mine… I will.”
“I don’t belong to anyone.”
“You will.”
One Week Later
Anya never submitted the article. She still had the files. Still had the evidence.
But she didn’t publish.
Not yet.
She visited Viktor again. And again. Once in St. Petersburg. Once in a safehouse outside Sochi. She knew it was dangerous. She knew the line was thin between desire and destruction.
But every time he touched her, kissed her, claimed her—she surrendered.
He opened a side of her no man ever had.
She found herself confessing secrets. And in return, he told her things no one else knew—about a brother he lost, about why he built his empire not for power, but for survival.
He wasn’t a monster.
He was a man shaped by monsters.
And now, he was hers.
Final Scene
Anya stood on the balcony of his Moscow penthouse. Snow fell lightly on her coat. Viktor stood behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist.
“You still thinking of running?” he asked softly.
“Every day.”
“But you haven’t.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“You’re surviving,” he said. “Like me.”
She turned to face him. “And what happens when one of us stops surviving?”
He kissed her forehead.
“Then we burn. But at least we burn together.”
The End