Zhenya remained propped on one elbow, still hovering slightly over Reece as she slept. His gaze roamed her face—the delicate curve of her cheek, her slightly parted lips, and the way her long lashes cast faint shadows across her skin. The usual fierceness in her expression had left only leaving peaceful vulnerability.

His heart stirred with a warmth he wasn't used to feeling. Slowly, his attention shifted to his own hand, resting near her shoulder. A fresh bandage wrapped around his knuckles. He frowned, realizing he hadn't done that himself. His mind raced back to the haze of the previous night—pain, anger, and the weight of her calming presence. She must have tended to it.

He was careful not to wake her. Her skin was warm under his touch.

Unable to resist, he leaned down and nestled his face into the crook of her neck. The faint scent of her lingered there—soft, familiar, comforting. He let out a slow breath, closing his eyes as he savored the closeness. This woman, is gonna ve the death if me.

For just a little longer, he stayed like that, content to pretend the world beyond their room didn't exist. 

He sat quietly, fingers brushing over the wrinkled fabric of his T-shirt. It wasn't just any shirt—it carried the lingering scent of his flower, delicate yet intoxicating. The faint fragrance calmed his restless mind, keeping his chaotic thoughts intaced. He considered changing into something crisp and clean before heading to work, but the thought evaporated as quickly as it arrived. He wasn't ready to part with the memory that lingered in his shirt.

Reluctantly, he rose. Duty called even when desire whispered otherwise. His journey from the quiet confines of his private space to the towering glass structure of his empire was smooth yet commanding. The vehicle roared down the street as it sliced through the morning traffic. His eyes remained hard, fixed on the grand silhouette of the headquarters of Blackwood Artillery Works—a company renowned for manufacturing and supplying weapons of war to the government.

The entrance was massive, polished floors gleamed beneath tall decorated ceilings as uniformed guards stood at attention. Staff members gasped audibly as their boss would usually dress in white crisp ironed shirt,  strode in wearing a wrinkled shirt.

Eight years of service hadn't prepared one veteran employee for this sight. "The boss in a wrinkled shirt?" he murmured to a colleague. "Unbelievable."

Zhenya ignored the whispers and moved directly to his office, slipping on his glasses as he tackled a mound of paperwork. Contract renewals, weapons testing reports, and classified government dealings filled the files before him. His focus was razor-sharp until Albert, the ever-loyal butler, stepped in.

"The meeting room is ready, sir," Albert informed him with a respectful nod.

Minutes later, Zhenya found himself seated across from the Secretary of Defense, a man accustomed to control and precision. Their conversation was brisk, yet respectful, both parties focused on the delicate business of weaponry and national security.

Then came the intrusion—a pale-faced assistant burst through the doors, clearly unsettled.

"The containers have arrived, sir," he stammered. "But there's... an issue with the defective products."

Zhenya's brows lifted subtly. "Define 'issue.'"

"They've caused... complications," the assistant added, voice faltering.

With a curt nod, Zhenya excused himself from the meeting, offering a simple, "Thank you for your understanding, Mr. Lee. Let us reschedule for next week." He pocketed a sleek silver object,  as he strode purposefully from the room.

The drive to the warehouse led them deep into the forest, where shadows stretched long and foreboding. The isolation was intentional—a necessary precaution for secrets best kept hidden. Trees loomed on either side as their vehicle finally halted before a reinforced structure camouflaged by dense foliage.

A stench hit Zhenya the moment the warehouse doors creaked open. Wrinkling his nose, he shot a glare at the assistant. "I told you to clean this up."

"I—I'm sorry, boss," the assistant stuttered, visibly shaking.

Zhenya's sharp gaze swept the space, settling on the source of the foul odor. Amid sealed crates marked for government inspection lay along with —rotting human corpses piled like discarded goods. Flies buzzed incessantly; maggots writhed in decaying flesh. Leather restraints dangled bloodstained from metal hooks, a horrible reminder of recent tortures.

"These are your defective goods?" Zhenya's voice was low, dangerous.

The assistant nodded weakly, fear draining color from his face.

A cold smile curved Zhenya's lips. "Bring me Reliad."

The traitor was hauled forth, defiance flickering in his bloodshot eyes. Zhenya approached with measured steps, his knife glinting in the dim light. Precision met cruelty as skin peeled away beneath the blade. Screams tore through the warehouse, echoing against the steel walls. The torment continued—bones cracked, flesh shredded—until Zhenya delivered a crushing stomp to the man's jaw, dislocating his mandible with brutal finality.

"Dispose of him," Zhenya commanded, flicking blood from his hands. "And clean up this mess. No evidence. No traces."

The assistant nodded frantically as the lifeless body was dragged toward the corpse pile.

.

.

.

Later, beneath running water, Zhenya scrubbed the stench of death from his skin. Yet, she remained in his thoughts, her gentle fragrance lingering in his mind. Emerging from the shower, he searched for the familiar comfort of his scented shirt, only to find it replaced by a new ironed and, unscented one.

His blood simmered. "Who touched it?"

A trembling maid confessed meekly, "I thought you'd prefer a fresh shirt, sir..."

A dark smile twisted Zhenya's expression. "A mistake," he murmured, voice void of mercy. The price for that mistake would be paid. His flower's scent was irreplaceable—and now, maid's blood would repay the theft.

Bang

.

.

.

Reece leaned against the window, her silhouette framed by the fading twilight. The cool evening breeze played with her hair as her eyes focused on the world outside. Lost in thought, she didn't hear Zhenya's soft footsteps approaching.

In one swift motion, strong arms wrapped around her waist from behind. Her body tensed.

"God!" she gasped, placing a hand over her racing heart. "You scared me."

Zhenya rested his chin on her shoulder, a playful pout curving his lips. "Sorry, honey. I had a rough day at work," he murmured, his voice thick with longing. "I just needed to hold you for a moment."

Reece remained serious, unmoved by his tender gesture.

Noticing her lack of warmth, his brow furrowed. "What's wrong, flower? Did I do something?"

"I have some questions," she said evenly, pulling away from his embrace.

"Go on," he encouraged, though his voice faltered slightly.

"What's your purpose in bringing me here?"

His expression shifted from surprise to unease. "You weren't safe there," he answered carefully. "But now you are. Now that you're with me, I promise no one will lay a hand on you." I'll rip any hand to shreds if they try, he thought darkly but kept silent.

"Unsafe from who? You?" Her tone was cold, cutting through his resolve. "The only person I was unsafe from was your stalker ass.

Zhenya sighed. "Honey, can we please have this discussion after dinner?"

"No," she snapped. "I want answers now."

She took a step closer, her eyes narrowing. "Why did you call me Maeve Blackwood when you broke into my house? Blackwood isn't even my real last name."

He blinked, momentarily thrown off by the accusation. "Honey, I was just... manifesting."

Her eyes remained cold, unyielding, pinning him with suspicion.

Zhenya chuckled nervously, attempting to break the tension. "Positive thinking, you know?"

Reece didn't budge. The weight of her gaze made him shift uncomfortably, a rare crack in his usual composure. Without another word, he took a step back, rubbing the back of his neck. "That was a close one," he muttered under his breath, edging toward the door like a man escaping a battlefield.