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“Undefeated.”

The word landed in my chest like a fist.

I twisted the stem of my wineglass between my fingers. “You love it, don’t you?”

“I love what it does to the men who step in the ring with me.”

That made me shiver.

I took a sip of my wine. Let it settle. Then asked carefully, “What about the Bratva side of things?”

He didn’t even blink. “What about it?”

“You’re still going to run it? With your brothers?”

He tilted his head. “Yes.”

“And… is it all fight rings and smuggling and dirty money, or?—”

“Be specific, Sloane.”

I exhaled. “Have you ever killed anyone?”

He didn’t answer right away, just stared at me: flat, composed, calculating. Then he nodded. Once.

Something in my chest twisted—half fear, half something darker. A throb in the base of my spine, the kind of instinctive thrill that came with knowing the man across from me could end lives… yet had chosen not to hurt me even when I’d messed around in his world.

I didn’t look away, and neither did he.

He lifted his wineglass, drank slowly, and when he set it down again, I knew we’d just crossed into something else entirely.

“You still want to marry me?” I asked, voice too breathless for my own comfort.

“Yes,” he said, with a finality that sent heat rushing through every inch of me.

The second course came and went.

Some kind of roasted duck with glazed figs and wild mushroom risotto, perfect and delicious and expensive, but my fork barely moved.

I took another sip of wine, letting the decadent red glide down my throat as I tried not to think about how deeply I was already in this. I so badly wanted to lean across the table and touch thehand he wasn’t using to eat, just to feel the heat of it, just to remind myself that he was real. That this was all real.

When dessert arrived—a dark chocolate tart with raspberry coulis and a little dollop of cream so perfect it looked like art—I finally broke the silence.

“This was…” I cleared my throat. “A lot of effort.”

“I like feeding what’s mine,” he said simply.

I looked down at the tart, then back at him. “So that’s what I am now? Yours?”

His eyes didn’t flinch. “You were always going to be. From the second I saw you watching me at that fight.”

I should have rolled my eyes. Should have laughed, maybe. But instead, I picked up my spoon and tasted the dessert. It melted on my tongue: dark, rich, a little bitter, a little sweet. Like something self-indulgent and wrong and impossible to walk away from.

Likehim.

That’s when it really hit me. I’d never been with a man like Nikolai Morozov. Not even close.

The guys I’d dated—boys, really—had been pretty and messy. All cocky grins and soft hands. Sloppy kisses that didn’t go anywhere. Fingers that fumbled and begged. All ego and nothing to back it up. All play, no purpose. They wanted attention. Nikolai wantedobedience.They wanted to be adored. Nikolai wanted toown.