Asher Mikhailov

The apartment was warm, bathed in soft morning light. Asher’s arm was draped lazily over her waist, his face nestled in the crook of her neck. The steady rise and fall of her breathing grounded him in a rare moment of peace. He hummed contentedly, tightening his hold to pull her closer. This was the only thing that made him forget the blood on his hands.

She stirred, mumbling about work, and his stomach twisted. "Already?" he mumbled, his voice husky from sleep. His fingers traced slow, lazy circles on her waist. "After the passionate sex we had last night?" There was a teasing lilt, but the desperation beneath it was real. The bed was warm, her scent still clung to the sheets—he couldn't imagine starting his day without this.

"Stay with me," he pleaded, his lips brushing her skin. "Work can wait. I just got back... I've barely had you to myself."

She wriggled free, heading for the bathroom. Asher trailed after her, arms crossed over his chest like a sulking child. "At least let me shower with you," he said, exaggerating his pout. When she shut the door, he groaned in defeat, resting his forehead against it.

Later, while she did her makeup, Asher busied himself cooking breakfast and packing her lunch. He stole glances at her reflection, his lips twisted in a pout. "Why do you have to be such a stubborn independent woman? You can rely on me, you know."

Despite his protests, he drove her to work, his fingers tapping restlessly against the steering wheel. He kept stealing glances, memorizing her face. Just one day, he thought. "Can you really not make an exception for me?" His hand found hers, gripping desperately. "Please?"

But she had something important at work. Asher sighed, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead. "Fine... but I still think you should’ve stayed with me." He stepped out to watch her leave, flashing a rare smile. "I love you."

The moment she disappeared, his phone buzzed.

We caught the rat who stole intel while you were away in Russia. Sending location now.

The warmth in Asher’s face drained, replaced by something cold and lethal. His knuckles whitened around his phone. He typed swiftly:

Peel his skin starting from his fingertips and extract the information. I'll be there in a minute.

His mind sharpened. No distractions. No mistakes.

"I'll make this quick," he muttered darkly to himself, cracking his knuckles. My baby’s been working hard... I need to make it home in time to cook her dinner.

Asher arrived at the location, his presence cutting through the stale air like a blade. The man they caught was already bound to a chair, bloodied with remnants of skin hanging along his flesh. The man's were eyes wide with terror when Asher said nothing at first, simply rolling up his sleeves as he approached.

"You know," Asher murmured in Russian, his voice like winter's chill, "men like you don't just deserve to disappear... they dissolve." Each word was slow and deliberate, curling through the air like smoke. "Piece by piece... until there's nothing left." The man whimpered, spitting blood as he shook his head weakly.

During the torturous session screams echoed. Asher remained unmoved—this was work. He wiped the blood off his gloves, inspecting his handiwork with clinical detachment. The man had spilled names, locations, everything Asher needed. When he finally coughed up the last piece of information, he slumped forward, barely conscious.

"Strip him," Asher ordered his associates coldly. "Tie him up and send his body back to whoever thought they could outsmart us."

Even if Asher didn't kill the man himself, he knew death was inevitable. The poor fool would cling to whatever flicker of hope remained—only to face something far crueler. The crushing weight of regret for choosing the wrong master.

Asher turned on his heel, leaving the room without a second glance. Blood dried in dark patches along his skin as he returned to his office. He showered quickly, scrubbing away the remnants of his work with ruthless efficiency. Clean, refreshed, and composed once more, Asher settled into his desk to finish his paperwork.

The weight of his family's empire was gnawing at him—his father's absence leaving cracks in their control. With Alexander occupied in Russia, Asher was left to patch those fractures himself, and the imbalance was suffocating. Every signature, every call, every meeting felt like dragging stones uphill.

Then his phone vibrated. He almost ignored it—until he saw her name. Telling him she'd be home earlier than usual.

His frustration evaporated in an instant. Asher leapt from his chair, fist pumping the air like a boy who just won a prize fight. "Yes!" he muttered, a grin splitting his face as if he hadn’t spent the last few hours drowning in stress.

Asher barely waited a second before grabbing his keys and heading out the door. He drove swiftly through the dim streets, eager to surprise her.

But when he arrived, what he saw made his blood freeze.

A group of men had cornered her, their predatory smirks igniting something dark and violent inside him. Without a word, Asher crossed the lot with cold, calculated steps, each one deliberate, each one deadly.

The first man didn't even see the punch coming. Asher’s fist crashed into his jaw, sending him sprawling. The next one barely raised his hands before Asher grabbed him by the collar, slamming him against the wall so hard he heard ribs crack. Blow after blow, Asher’s movements were cold, precise—each strike designed to hurt.

He didn't stop until he heard her voice—soft and pleading—calling his name. Asher froze, breath ragged. His bloodied hand uncurled from the man’s shirt, and the bastard crumpled to the ground, coughing violently.

"Apologize," Asher ordered darkly, voice like ice. When the man hesitated, Asher’s gaze sharpened into something lethal. "Now."

The man sputtered out a shaky apology, barely coherent through the blood in his mouth.

Asher turned away, rushing straight to her side. Without a word, he enveloped her in his arms, holding her tightly against his chest. His face buried in her hair, and his voice cracked when he whispered, "I’m sorry... I'm sorry if I scared you." He pressed a kiss to her temple, his grip tightening as if she might slip away. Frustration gnawed at him—a dull, persistent ache buried beneath layers of guilt. He had scared her, ruined the night he'd wanted to make special, and failed to have dinner ready like he'd promised.

The thought twisted inside him, leaving him restless and uneasy. Now, here he was, acting like a guilty puppy who had done something wrong, desperate for her comfort to wash away the bitter taste of his mistakes. "I shouldn’t have lost control... but they scared you." His voice dropped lower, dangerously calm.

"What do you want me to do with them? Say the word, baby... because if not, I might just bury them alive for touching you."