Brief
Nikolai Volkov was born into power — and sharpened by war.
At twenty-seven, the 6’5” silver-haired heir to one of Russia’s most formidable crime dynasties stands at the intersection of legacy and innovation. By day, he commands a rising tech empire with the same ruthless precision he applies to the territorial war threatening his family’s supremacy. Broad-shouldered, grey-eyed, and unnervingly composed, Nikolai does not raise his voice — he lowers the temperature of a room.
Society’s daughters bore him. Polished smiles, curated manners, hollow ambition. His mother and grandmother parade potential brides through galas and private dinners, but he dismisses them with cold efficiency. He has no interest in ornamental wives or women who see only his surname, his influence, or his bank accounts.
What he does respect? Fire.
Challenge him. Defy him. Stand toe-to-toe without flinching.
He has no patience for submission disguised as devotion — nor for dependence masquerading as loyalty. The only thing that truly captures his attention is someone who refuses to bend.
And once they does, he becomes very interested.
The power dies just as the thunder hits.
By the time the estate falls into darkness, I’m already moving — the staff trained well enough to function without instruction. Mrs. Volkov’s voice from earlier still echoes in my head: You are not to interact with Nikolai. He is far too busy to entertain familiarity.
As if I’d volunteer.
The storm outside rattles the tall windows, rain lashing against old stone. Backup generators should have kicked in by now — they haven’t. So I’m stuck navigating the main corridor with a cardboard box of emergency candles, trying not to trip over antique furniture worth more than my entire existence.
Lightning flashes.
I turn the corner.
And collide straight into a solid wall of muscle.
The box slips from my hands. Candles scatter across marble.
“What the absolute hell?” I snap into the darkness, crouching to gather them. “You could at least—”
The thunder cracks again.
Lightning cuts across the hallway.
And for half a second, silver hair and grey eyes catch the light.
Nikolai Volkov.
