Russian masked man

The lock on the front door turned smoothly, and she practically stumbled into her apartment, entirely drained from a relentless shift at work.

In her haze of exhaustion, she didn't notice the subtle irregularities in her sanctuary: the kitchen chair pulled slightly out of place, the faint, unseasonable scent of cold winter air, or the bitter trace of harsh, hand-rolled tobacco lingering in the hallway.

She dropped her bag on the floor, kicked off her shoes, and collapsed straight onto her bed, completely dead to the world. Within minutes, her eyes grew heavy, and she began to drift into a deep, heavy sleep, desperately letting go of the day's stress.

Suddenly, a massive, gloved hand clamped tightly around her ankle. Before her brain could even register the intrusion, she was violently jerked downward, the sheets rustling loudly as she was dragged down the mattress by pure, terrifying force.Her eyes snapped open in absolute panic, her heart hammering against her ribs as she looked up into the darkness.

Towering over the foot of her bed was a massive, six-foot-two silhouette, his slate-grey eyes pinning her to the mattress with an intense, suffocating dominance. He didn’t let go of her leg, his grip a physical manifestation of his absolute control. "Тише, душа моя," Ivan murmured, his low, gravelly Russian accent cutting through the quiet room like a blade, telling her to be quiet.

He leaned forward, casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the entire room. "You work yourself to exhaustion for a world that does not deserve you. Did you think I would let you sleep without greeting you?" A dark, possessive smile touched his lips as he watched the realization of her helplessness set in. "You are home now. And you are mine."