Chapter two to five—My Dark Romance Novel[Vaughn&Natasha]

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CHAPTER 2

NATASHA

The sting of the restraints has my eyes snapping open.

Darkness.

A void stretches around me, thick and suffocating. For a moment, I register nothing—just the press of fabric against my skin and the tight pull of something binding my wrists. Silk ties, I remember. Then, a shift. A presence.

My breath stutters as my eyes adjust, pulling shapes from the gloom. A shadowed figure stands near, tall and unyielding. The outline of a man.

A scream rips from my throat.

The figure moves. A soft click echoes. Light spills from a lamp, casting golden illumination over the room. And then I see him.

Vaughn Volkov.

The man I once believed in. The man I hate now.

He’s watching me. Silent. Lethal.

Bare-chested, clad only in grey sweatpants that sit low on his hips, revealing the ridges of his abdomen. But it’s his eyes that freeze me. Green—deep and consuming, once a place of solace, now a reminder of everything twisted between us. Purple bags underline them. Sleep deprived.

His eyes burn into me now and for a moment, I forget where I am. Forget the silk biting into my wrists. Forget the suffocating presence of him.

Because I’ve seen that look before.

That night on the beach when I first saw him.

_

I hadn’t meant to stare. But Vaughn Volkov was the kind of man who demanded attention without saying a word. He had walked toward us—six foot three, broad shoulders, the wind whipping through his dark hair as if the world itself bent to him.

His frame was imposing, built for both strength and intimidation. Muscles coiled beneath his tailored suits—lean, honed, and functional rather than excessive. His torso carved with the kind of definition that speaks of both discipline and the necessity of being battle-ready. His arms were strong, veined, and capable. His presence was a promise of violence. Of power restrained, but never absent.

"Stay away from Vaughn," Anastasia had warned. "Don’t even think about him. He’s not good news."

I should have listened.

Instead, I had been trapped in the moment our eyes met. That gaze—dark green with flecks of gold—had held me captive long before he ever did.

He didn’t look at Anastasia or Irina. Just me.

A slow, deliberate sweep—from my eyes to my lips, down to the sliver of skin at my waist where my navel piercing glinted in the moonlight. His hands had flexed. His stare had darkened.

I should have looked away.

Instead, I had felt the air shift, something unspoken crackling between us.

"Natasha, this is Vaughn. Vaughn, this is Natasha."

"I know," he had said, eyes still on me. Then, just as easily, he had turned and walked away.

And I—stupid, reckless fool that I was—had watched him go, heartbeat rattling like a warning I hadn’t heeded.
_

Now, I am tied to his bed, his chair scraping against the floor as he pulls it closer.

I shift back, but the restraints bite into my wrists.

His face flickers with something—frustration, perhaps—but he doesn’t push. He just sits there, calm, collected. As if this situation is normal. As if he didn’t kidnap me, use my body’s reaction against me, and claim me as his prisoner.

His fingers twirl a knife.

My stomach twists.

So this is how I die. Bound like an animal. At the hands of the man I once—no.

I shut that thought down.

He picks up an apple from the side table and begins to slice the skin with eerie precision. His gaze never leaves me.

How the hell can he do that without looking?

I don’t ask. I don’t speak at all. The fear of the unknown is far more terrifying than what I already expect.

Because Vaughn isn’t just any man.

He’s the Pakhan of the Bratva.

The blind assassin even tyrants fear.

My captor.

And possibly my executioner.

"Rosalie says you haven’t eaten anything since yesterday." His voice is a blade wrapped in velvet, smooth and cutting. A lazy smirk tugs at his lips. "Why is that, solnyshka?"

"Stop calling me that, bastard." The words hiss from my mouth as I spit in his face.
The wet trail glistens on his skin.
Silence.

I see it—the flicker of rage. He is holding back.

Then, something worse. Amusement.

A slow, terrifying smile tugs at his lips as he wipes the wet trail with the back of his hand.

I brace for his retaliation. It doesn’t come.

Instead, Vaughn moves closer, deliberate. He picks up a slice of apple and dips it in honey. I press my lips together.

He watches, waiting.

Then, with the patience of a man who always gets his way, he smears the honeyed fruit against my lips. The sticky sweetness coats my mouth. 

"Eat." 

I shake my head. No matter how tempted I feel to do exactly that.

Vaughn exhales, as if this is tiresome for him. And then, before I can react, he pushes the fruit between my lips. 

I bite down on instinct. 

His eyes darken. 

"Good girl," he murmurs. 

The words send a violent shudder through me. My stomach twists in fury, but Vaughn only chuckles. He pulls another slice, this time bringing it to his own lips first. He bites into it slowly, chewing, swallowing, then presses the rest against my mouth.

"Over my dead body."

When I don’t open my mouth, his hand snaps to my jaw, fingers rough as they force my chin up. My body betrays me, arching instinctively into his hold. I curse myself. He smirks, dark and dangerous. 

"Fuck, Natasha." I see it then - the control it takes for him to not pull me closer.

My instincts kick in. I drive my knee up, hard and fast. His body jerks—a sharp breath hisses past his lips—but the sound isn’t pain. It’s something else. Something darker. His arm yanks my hips down into the mattress. His free hand wraps around my throat, tightening for just a second before going lax again. His gaze drops to my lips, then lower, and that’s when I feel it—the rigid press of him against my stomach.

A slow, cold wave rolls through me, drowning out the fire that came before. No. It’s disgust, not heat, that coils inside me. Except my body doesn’t seem to know the difference.

My stomach clenches involuntarily, the slow curl of tension foreign and unwelcome. I force my breath out, shove at his chest, but the way he looks at me—calm, knowing—makes my pulse stutter.

I hate him. I hate him.

And he fucking likes this. 

Vaughn tightens his grip on my throat, dragging my focus back to his eyes,"Look at me when I’m here. Don’t get lost in that mind of yours, solnyshka." 

"I am not your anything, Vaughn." 

His chuckle vibrates against my chest, a deep, rumbling sound that seeps into my bones. My nipples tighten against his skin, betraying me. A sharp breath escapes before I can stop it, my fingers curling into fists, nails biting into my palms. I force my body to still, to resist—but the heat simmering beneath my skin refuses to die.

"That’s where you’re wrong, printsessa." 

He lifts the same piece of the sliced apple to my lips. 

"Eat." 

A command.

"I’d rather starve." 

His smile sharpens. "You haven’t eaten in twenty hours. As much as I enjoy seeing you tied to my bed, feeling your nipples harden under me, I’d rather you stay alive for this.”

He waits. I don’t oblige.

He leans closer, his breath a whisper against my lips. “Or I swear on everything I own, I will drag my tongue between those pretty thighs until your moans shake these fucking walls. And I won’t stop until your mouth opens—whether it’s for this apple or to beg me for more.” 

My breath stutters. 

A cold, humiliating truth sinks into my bones. 

He means it. 

I clench my teeth. And swallow second slice of apple he pushes into my mouth. His smirk deepens.

“I’ll make you suffer for this, Vaughn,” I vow, my voice shaking with rage. 

A slow, wicked grin curves his lips. "You have no idea how much you already make me suffer, Natasha."

Before I decrypt his words, he trails a fingertip over my lips, then pulls away, standing. 

“Now, be a good girl and eat your meals. Unless you want me to feed you again.” 

He winks. 

“Rosalie will bring your clothes and other necessary items in the morning. If you need anything else, she will help you with it. And Natasha,” his voice roughens,”I’m trying to be patient here. I will never force you. Touch you without your consent. But if you vain my patience. If you try to escape me. Or hurt yourself in the process or starve, I’ll show you exactly why they call me the Blind Assasin.”

Then he’s gone, leaving only the dim glow of the lamp and the hell of my own making. 

The hell of Vaughn Volkov.

For nineteen years, I watched my mother suffer—mistreated, used like a commodity, bound to my father in the name of a truce. Until it ended. Until she breathed her last. Until she died as nothing more than collateral. A weakness in this ruthless world.

The world I loathe.

The world Vaughn rules.

I swore on her deathbed that I would never return to this darkness. That I would never let it touch me again.

That’s why I cut ties with my father. Why I stayed away from Andrei and Ivan the moment Irina told me what they were. Mafia men.

The only reason I let Vaughn into my sanctuary was his promise. His oath that he wasn’t one of them.

Turns out, he’s not just one of them.

He’s the fucking master. And a liar.

Why did I, even for a moment, think Vaughn would be an exception?

My exception.

Because Vaughn Volkov isn’t an exception. He’s the fucking rule.

Chapter 3

Natasha

The first thing I notice is the scent—something faintly floral, unfamiliar. But beneath it, heavier, darker, him.

I keep my breathing even, my body still, as my eyes adjust to the soft morning light filtering through sheer curtains. The room around me is grand, but cold—obsidian marble floors, high ceilings, furniture carved from dark oak. A dresser stands near the wall, a full-length mirror reflecting the vast emptiness of the space. There is no warmth here, no sign of life.

Everything about this place is controlled. Impenetrable. Just like him.

My gaze shifts to the nightstand. A plate rests there—apple slices, the same ones Vaughn fed me last night. The sight of them sends a sharp pulse of unease through me. Because it isn’t just about control.

A soft rustle breaks the silence.

"You’re awake."

I turn my head. A woman stands near the dresser, her silver-streaked black hair pulled into a neat bun, sharp green eyes watching me with quiet assessment. She isn’t young, but there is nothing frail about her. Her posture is poised, her presence calm.

She carries a bundle in her arms. A folded lavender nightdress rests on top, the fabric soft, familiar. But it’s the small silver object she holds in her palm that makes my breath catch.

A locket.

My locket.

I stare, my pulse hammering.

I lost it over a month ago. I had torn my dorm apart looking for it, convinced I had misplaced it. But it had never been misplaced, had I?

"Where did you get that?" My voice is sharp, edged with something I don’t want to name.

The woman—Rosalie—simply places it on the nightstand. "He wanted you to have it back."

A cold chill crawls up my spine. He.

Vaughn had this. All this time.

I swallow hard, my mind racing. My dorm had been locked. No one should have been able to get inside. Unless—

A realization settles in my bones, heavier than the silk ties still binding my wrists.

He’s been watching me. Longer than I ever knew.

My fingers curl into the sheets, a sick mix of unease and something dangerously close to fascination twisting inside me.

Rosalie moves closer, her fingers working quickly to untie the knots at my wrists. The silk loosens, sliding away, leaving faint impressions on my skin. I flex my fingers, fighting the urge to rub at the marks.

"Mr. Volkov wanted me to pass on a message," she says, stepping back. "You’re free to move around the house, the garden, and the pool. But only until sundown."

My eyes snap to hers. The unspoken threat sits heavy in the space between us.

"You’ll find the mansion heavily guarded," Rosalie continues. "Every move you make is being watched. And if you try to escape…" She hesitates, as if carefully choosing her words. "It will not end well for you."

A bitter laugh presses against my throat. "And if I don’t try?"

"Then you may find that he isn’t as cruel as you believe."

I scoff, but Rosalie doesn’t waver.

"This world has hardened him," she says quietly, watching me. "But it hasn’t changed the man he is inside. He just hides it better." A pause. "And for the first time in years, I’ve seen his walls crack… because of you."

A shiver runs through me.

Vaughn is ruthless. Dangerous. Someone I should hate.

And yet…

Yet he has returned something precious to me. Yet he has fed me. Yet he has been watching me. Not just now, but for longer than I had even realized.

My pulse quickens.

I can’t let myself be swayed.

I need to understand him. To find his weakness.

To escape.

Rosalie hands me a bathrobe before leaving, closing the door behind her.

The bathroom is as extravagant as the bedroom, but where the latter is cold, this space carries something even more unsettling. Intimacy.

A concrete slab stretches across one side, where water pours from an overhead fixture like a waterfall. A full-length mirror stands against the opposite wall, catching my reflection in sharp detail.

But it’s the dresser beside the sink that sends a slow wave of unease through me.

My skincare.

My exact body wash. My comb, brush, even lingerie—delicate, lace-trimmed, perfectly my size.

Every detail is right. Precise.

Vaughn has never set foot inside my bedroom.

And yet, he knows me this well making me even more suspicious.

I turn toward the bathtub. Crescent-shaped, positioned near a window that overlooks the sea. Moonlight would hit the water perfectly at night.

My fingers find the light switch. With a soft click, the room darkens, leaving only the golden glow of the chandelier above.

I step out of my clothes, letting the silk robe pool at my feet, and sink into the bath.

The moment the hot water touches my skin, a sharp sting licks over my bruises. I suck in a breath, my muscles tensing. But the heat works its way through, soothing the ache beneath my skin, unwinding the tight coil in my body.

I reach for the soap, lathering my skin. The scent wraps around me, familiar and soft, but my mind is already slipping—dragged back to a memory.

Him.

The elevator.

The sharp jolt when it stopped. The sudden plunge into pitch-black darkness.

My chest had caved in almost instantly, the walls pressing closer, the air thinning. I had barely been able to breathe, panic clawing up my throat.

Then—his hands.

Strong. Steady. Bracing me against him.

"Look at me," Vaughn had said, his voice low, unwavering. "Just me."

I had clung to that voice, to the only solid thing in the suffocating dark. My fingers had curled into his jacket, my pulse thundering against his.

"I—I can’t," I had whispered, my breath uneven.

"You can," he had murmured, his grip tightening. "You are."

I had swallowed, forcing my eyes up. And he was there.

Tall. Close. Watching me like he saw everything.

His touch had been warm. Secure. His presence wrapping around me like armor.

"I don’t like small spaces," I had confessed shakily. "Or the dark."

"I know."

His thumb had brushed against my wrist, the gentlest thing I’d ever felt. A stark contrast to everything he was.

"You’re safe."

I had believed him.

His lips had pressed against my forehead, the barest graze of warmth. A touch that made my stomach dip.

Not just safe. Excited.

The memory crashes over me, making my breath hitch.

The bathwater is cooling, but my skin burns.

Rosalie’s voice cuts through the memory, sharp and grounding.

"Natasha."

I blink, the heat of the bath pressing against my flushed skin. The water has long since cooled, yet my body burns, the past lingering too close.

"Enough," Rosalie says, concern etching her voice. "You’ve been in there too long."

I force myself to move, reaching for the towel. My limbs feel heavy, my breaths unsteady, but I push past it, wrapping the fabric tightly around me before slipping into the bathrobe. The silk clings to my damp skin as I tie it loosely at my waist.

The moment I step out, I feel him.

A shadow looms just beyond Rosalie.

I freeze.

Vaughn.

Vaughn stands there, his presence swallowing the space between us.

His shirt is wrinkled, the top buttons undone, revealing the smooth expanse of his collarbone. Dark strands of hair fall over his forehead, messier than I’ve ever seen. But it’s his eyes that hold me captive.

Wild. Frantic. Worried.

His gaze drags over me, searching—for what? Injuries? A reason for my silence? His breaths come hard, uneven. There’s something unhinged in the way he takes me in, something raw.

He hasn’t slept.

The dark circles beneath his eyes, the restless energy coiling around him—it screams of unease. Of a man who has been waiting for something he can’t afford to lose.

And the worst part?

I know I am that something.

A small tremor ghosts through his fingers, the same hands that have bound me, claimed me, owned me in ways I refuse to accept.

My throat tightens, my mind screaming to step back. To not reach for him.

But the Vaughn I’ve known overpowers the Vaughn he really is.

Before I can stop myself, my hands lift, pressing lightly against his shoulders. Grounding him.

His muscles tense beneath my touch, his breath faltering.

“I’m fine,” I murmur, barely recognizing my own voice.

Something cracks inside him.

His exhale comes slow, but shaky—so shaky—like I’ve just pulled him back from the edge of something dark.

Then it slips out, so soft, so broken—“Solnyshka.”

The word—raw, desperate—wrecks me.

His sun. His light.

A prayer. A plea.

I should pull away. Should remind him that I’m not his to name, to want, to need.

But I don’t.

Because at that moment, I’m not sure if I want him to stop.

Vaughn’s gaze flickers downward, locking onto the loose tie of my robe. A slow, shallow breath parts his lips. His pupils darken, swallowing every trace of control.

His thumb twitches.

And then, he touches me.

A single, lazy drag of his finger against my waist, skimming the copper piercing on my navel.

A brush of heat. A whisper of possession.

I suck in a sharp breath.

It’s barely a touch, barely anything at all, and yet—it unravels me.

His other hand ghosts over my wrists, his jaw clenching as his eyes catch the faint abrasions from the ties.

A curse slips past his lips. Low. Furious. Regretful.

My breath hitches. His fingers, rough and calloused, barely touches my skin, yet every nerve in my body ignites beneath them.

Then, before I can stop it, a sound escapes me.

Soft. Barely audible.

A moan.

Vaughn stills.

His entire body goes rigid, like a predator catching the scent of something delicious. His gaze snaps to my face, his breath sharpening.

No. No, no, no.

I feel it—the shift. The moment everything between us tilts.

A tear slides down my cheek.

Hate. Longing. Confusion.

I don’t even know which one I want to win.

Vaughn’s gaze softens—just for a second, just enough to make me believe—

Then, he does the unthinkable.

His thumb brushes my cheek, catching the tear.

And then—he kisses it away.

A sharp inhale. A crack in my chest.

The warmth of his lips against my skin sends a violent tremor through me. My hands curl into fists, my breath staggering.

No.

The moment shatters.

Reality slams into me, cruel and unrelenting.

This isn’t a lover’s touch. This isn’t tenderness.

He is my captor.

And I am his prisoner.

A ragged sob wrenches from my throat as I shove him. Hard.

He doesn’t react at first. He just stands there, the silence stretching, his breath still uneven, his jaw locked tight. Something flickers across his face—something shattered, unguarded.

And then, like a switch flipping, his expression harden.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, his eyes darkening into something lethal. Without a word, he turns and storms out, the door slamming behind him.

The air feels suffocating, the weight of what just happened pressing down on me.

Rosalie’s hands are gentle as she leads me to the bed.

She says nothing as she sits beside me, her fingers moving through my damp hair, untangling the strands with careful precision.

The silence burns, pressing into the raw edges of my thoughts.

Then, finally—I break.

“Why is this happening to me?” My voice cracks, barely above a whisper.

Tears slip past my lashes, silent and unrelenting.

Rosalie doesn’t hesitate. She pulls me into her arms, cradling me the way no one has in years.

I shouldn’t lean into the comfort. But I do.

She holds me as I shake, as my walls crumble, as exhaustion claws its way through me.

Rosalie lifts a small bite of food to my lips. “Eat, dorogaya.”

I let her feed me. Small pieces, careful and nurturing, like I’m something fragile. The weight in my chest grows heavier, my body finally succumbing to the exhaustion.

My eyes flutter close.

Somewhere in the haze, I feel Rosalie’s hands gently binding my wrists to the bed once more.

The silk presses into my skin, soft and inescapable.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Sleep drags me under.

Chapter 4

VAUGHN

Seeing my father’s body—cold, lifeless, sprawled in a pool of his own blood.
Hearing the splash as my mother hit the water, sinking into the abyss.

These weren’t just memories.
They were the foundation of the man I became.

Life doesn’t wound you and let you heal. It crushes you, grinds your bones into dust, and expects you to keep walking. It tears the breath from your lungs and demands you breathe. It shoves a blade into your hands and whispers, Tighten your grip.

This is my world. Vaughn Volkov. Pakhan of the Bratva. A man who should have been fearless. But at his core? A coward.

Because what kind of man can watch his mother waste away and do nothing?
What kind of son lets his father’s corpse turn cold before he can even scream?

The leather belt whistles through the air, snapping against raw flesh. A hiss of pain sears through my teeth, but I don’t stop. The second lash lands sharper, burning like fire over old scars.

Two done.
Eight to go.

Ten. Always ten.

The mirror in front of me is lined with bronze, a relic of the past. I meet my own gaze in the dim light, sweat beading along my temple. My back is a mess of crimson lines, fresh and old wounds intertwining like the wreckage of a war long lost.

But this is nothing.

Pain is a shadow I’ve lived beside my whole life. Losing what I love? That’s the real torture.

A sound cuts through the silence—soft, barely there. A whimper.

My grip on the belt tightens.

She is in a nightmare.

Seven days since I dragged an angel into hell.
Seven nights since my name became a curse on her lips.

Natasha.

I should feel nothing. I should be deaf to her cries, blind to the way she flinches when I step too close. Her suffering should mean as little as the bodies I’ve buried.

But it doesn’t.

Her tears burn. Her fear lingers in my chest like a knife wedged between ribs.

I slam my fist against the mirror. The crack splinters outward, a spiderweb of fractured glass. My reflection warps, distorting into something even uglier than the truth.

I don’t have a heart.
I have revenge.

The only thing that kept me alive that night.

One year ago, gun pressed to my temple, finger curled around the trigger, I had been ready to end it. Ready to let go, to let the darkness take me whole—until a name cut through the endless loop.

Natasha Solovey.

The daughter of the man who had destroyed my family.

When you have nothing left, you can either let the world devour you, or you can burn it to the ground first.

That night, I had made my choice.

I had chosen her.

For days, I had lived for the moment I would press my forehead to hers, feel the warmth of her skin one last time before I painted her in red. I had wanted to watch the light fade from her eyes, to hear her father scream as his precious daughter bled out in my arms.

I had ached for it.

Until I saw her for the first time.
Ten months ago.

And for the first time in my goddamn life—
I hesitated.

-

TEN MONTHS AGO

The sky stretched black and endless, mirroring the void inside me. Storm clouds gathered, thick and bruised, while rain lashed against the world in relentless sheets. But none of it touched me. I was already drowning.

Lightning split the sky as I stepped inside her room, but my mind was fixated on one thing. Her rapid pulse beneath my fingers. How her skin would feel as I slit her throat. How her lifeless body would look at Aariz Solovey’s feet the next morning.

There was nothing holding me back. Especially when I was against the man who took everything I ever loved.

I wasn’t always this way. There was a time when I was just a boy. Loved. Valued. That life belonged to someone else now.

Love. 

The cruelest illusion of all.

The streetlight sliced through the window of her dorm room, casting sharp lines of gold against the darkness. And there she was. Natasha Solovey.

She lay tangled in the sheets, oblivious to the danger watching her from the shadows. Dark waves of hair spilled over her pillow—thick, unruly, refusing to be tamed. Her skin caught the light in a way that made her look effortlessly radiant. How would blood look against that skin?

Her features were soft yet defined—full lips that knew how to smile, though I suspected not every smile reached her eyes. And that chin—stubborn, defiant, the kind that made a man look twice.

I stayed that night.

Close. Too close.

Lying beside her, the scent of her wrapped around me. I should have slit her throat then and there. Should have ended it. But I didn’t. Instead, I watched. I listened.

She whimpered in her sleep, caught in some nightmare.

It pleased me.

And yet—the thought of something else causing her pain, something other than me, bothered me. That was my right. Her suffering belonged to me.

I would make her life a living hell. I would watch her body shatter in my hands, the way my life had been ripped apart by her father.

Children pay for the sins of their parents.

My blood made me the heir to the most ruthless mafia in the world.

Her blood made her my prey.

One hundred eighty days. Six months. Four thousand sixty-eight hours. Fifteen million, seven hundred twenty-four thousand, eight hundred seconds.

That’s how long I had hated her.

How long I had stalked her.

How long I had watched her sleep—counting every freckle on her face, listening to every breath, memorizing the way she curled into herself as if she knew something was watching.

She was prone to nightmares.

And I loved the way she suffered in them. I wanted to be their cause.

The way her body writhed in terror, how her heartbeat spiked, her breath turned ragged, her hands clenched the sheets in a desperate fight against something unseen.

I wanted to be the only monster haunting her dreams.

I wanted to be the only pain she knew.

Chapter 5

VAUGHN

I strike the belt harder, but the thoughts refuse to quiet.

Two months ago, I stepped into her social circle like a shadow slipping into the light—silent, unnoticed, inevitable.

I let her see me. Let her get used to my presence. Let her believe I was just another face in the crowd, another man who found her intriguing but harmless. 

I was anything but harmless.

The evening in the elevator—when my lips brushed against her forehead—something in me snapped.

The way she stilled. The way her frantic breaths slowed, her trembling eased, her body unconsciously leaning into mine as if I were her sanctuary.

She didn’t know.

Didn’t realize that her trust, her fragile dependence in that moment, made me feral.

I let her fall.

And when she did, I was supposed to rip her apart.

That was the plan. Destroy her.Make her suffer. Use her body as a canvas for my revenge, paint it in her father’s sins, then leave her broken at his feet.

That was the plan.

But then one night changed everything.

One fucking night.

It took one accident for her to become more than that. Something I didn’t want. Something I didn’t ask for. But it happened anyway—like every fucking curveball life had ever thrown my way.

“You don’t have to hide your pain.”

Seven words.

Checkmate, my destiny taunted.

That night, she nursed my wound. I had been shot—stranded ten kilometers from the location my men controlled. One call. That’s all it would’ve taken for a team of the best doctors to be at my feet. Being the Pakhan had its advantages.But I didn’t call.

Because she was there.

Somehow, when I needed someone, I had her.

For the first time in my life, I had someone.

I still don’t know how she found me in the dark. How she managed to drag my half-dead body back to her dorm. But she did. Natasha Solovey—the daughter of my enemy—saved me. Cleaned my wound. Stitched me up. Touched my scars.

And I loved it.

Her fingertips, featherlight against my ruined skin. Her breath, shaky and uneven, ghosting over my body. Her tears—warm drops that landed on my open wound, burning more than it ever could.

Up until then, I had wanted her pain. To see her cry. To see her beg.

That night changed everything.

"I’m sorry you had to go through this."

Her voice was soft, breaking with quiet sniffles.

"It’s not your fault that I was shot."

"It’s not yours either. I know you’re hurting. You don’t always have to hide it."

What kind of sorcery was that?

I haven’t figured it out yet. But after that night, I hunted down anyone who made her cry. And I killed them.

Ten.

I’ve killed ten people in her name.

Ten souls sent to hell because they dared to hurt her.

She doesn’t need to know. Because as the days passed, Natasha became my solnyshka.My light.

She became my obsession.

I still wanted to tear her apart. Wanted to ruin her, break her, crush her. But the moment someone else tried to lay a hand on her, I lost my fucking mind.

That’s when I knew.

There was something else that could drive me insane if not love. Natasha.

The woman who makes me crazy. For her.

But I cannot stop the war I started. Not even for her.

And now, after a year of planning, I’ve finally done it. I’ve taken her. Brought her into my world.

And yet—I feel nothing but pain.

She’s in the next room. For seven days, she has been in my bed, tied to my world.

And I haven’t touched her.

She hates me now. As she should.

But I?

Do I hate her now?

Does it even matter? She’s my captive. My pawn. My leverage. Mine to hurt. Mine to please. Only mine.

And there is no force in this universe that can change it.

Not God. Not fate.
Not even her.

Now that I have her, she’s never leaving.

Not even if she screams. Not even if she fights.
Not even if she begs.

Let her hate me. Let her cry. Let her break herself against the bars of this cage.

She belongs to me now. And she will learn.

One way or another.

Her scream cleaves through my thoughts like a blade, sharp and merciless.

I grip the wood tighter, my knuckles whitening as I drive another lash across my skin. Pain sears through me, raw and electric, but I swallow it down. As long as she is in pain, I will be in pain too.

I will never leave her alone. Anytime. Anywhere.

A few days ago, when Rosalie had burst into my office, breathless, saying Natasha wasn’t answering from the bathroom, my heart has stopped beating. I saw her lips move, but no sound reached my ears. My fingers trembled. My chest ached.

The image of Natasha’s lifeless body crushed me.The thought of her slipping beneath the bathwater, her eyes unseeing, her pulse fading and meeting the same destiny as my mother—it shattered something in me I didn’t know could still break.

I couldn’t fucking lose her.
Not even when we stood on opposite ends of a war that would burn us both to the ground.

I almost said it then. Almost let something slip—something I couldn’t take back. But seeing her alive, without a single mark of suicide on her body, had made me realize the worst truth of all.

Solnyshka is becoming my undoing.

And I need to stop it.

Another scream. Another lash.

I cannot comfort her.
Scream. Lash.
I cannot hold her.
Scream. Lash.
I cannot love her.

“Vaugh…”

Her voice, raw and broken, slice through my resolve.

No.

I am imagining it. She cannot be calling me. She cannot want me—not when she hates me. But what if she did?

I hate her. But I want her.

“Vaughn…” Louder this time. My grip falters. My muscles tense around the welt, locking up.

What the fuck was she doing to me?

She should be screaming in rage, not sobbing my name. She should be cursing me, not seeking me out in the dark.

She is in pain because of me.
The bruises on her wrists are my gift.
The shattered pieces of her trust—my doing.

I had taken everything from her.

So why the fuck am I the one she reached for in the dark?

Why cannot I stop myself from wanting to be the one to take away her pain? 

From wanting to be her comfort?

No. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t—

“Vaughn.”

A sob. My name. It broke me. Before I could stop myself, I was moving. The door to her room crashed open.

Fuck it.

I don’t care what happens next.

❤️‍🔥

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