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Aithan

It’s been weeks since Leon and I started investigating our inside men, and we still do not have a concrete lead. I ignore the pang of failure and frustration to focus on this evening’s event.

The evening air carries the subtle bite of fall, but inside the luxury limousine, heat rolls off Yelena in waves. She is a vision—no, a temptation—wrapped in midnight blue silk that clings to her curves like a second skin. The gown cascades down her body, pooling at her feet like liquid moonlight. Delicate embroidery of silver thread lines the bodice, shimmering under the dim interior lights. The plunging neckline is tastefully cut, revealing just enough to tempt, but the real showstopper is the way the deep blue fabric complements her porcelain skin, making her electric blue eyes shine even brighter. Her raven waves tumble down her back in soft curls, glossy and decadent.

She is breathtaking. And she is mine.

I drag my gaze from her bare shoulder to her lips, painted in a sultry shade of red that is daring me to ruin them. “You look devastatingly beautiful, agápi mou .”

She smiles, catching the hunger in my gaze. “And you look dangerously handsome,” she quips, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle on my tuxedo lapel. “But keep your hands to yourself, Vasilios. I spent an hour on my makeup.”

I groan, my fingers twitching as I resist the urge to drag her onto my lap. “A damn shame.”

She laughs, batting away my hand when I graze my fingers up her thigh. “No. You’re going to mess up my dress.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I murmur, recalling how this same body trembled under mine just hours ago. My blood thickens at the memory, but Yelena raises a brow in warning.

“If you touch me, Aithan, I swear I’ll—”

I lean in, my breath warm against her ear. “You’ll what?”

She lets out a huff, crossing her arms, but the flicker of amusement in her eyes tells me she enjoys teasing me. This woman will drive me to madness.

The limo slows, and I glance out the window as the grand estate comes into view. The venue is one of the most lavish properties my family owns—golden chandeliers glowing through towering glass windows, a red carpet rolled out for the evening’s esteemed guests. The wolves of the Greek underworld are gathered here tonight.

The driver steps out and opens our door. I exit first, then extend a hand to Yelena. When she places her fingers in mine, I grip them tightly, possessively.

We walk into the event arm in arm, and immediately, the room stills. Heads turn. Conversations lull. The presence of Yelena Vasilios commands attention, and I see it in their eyes—the appreciation, the approval, the envy. She belongs here.

But just as quickly, my father sweeps in, pulling Yelena from my grasp.

Sabastian beams, introducing his new daughter-in-law to his associates with undisguised pride. It is undeniable—the Russian Bratva’s princess is a prized acquisition to the Vasilios empire.

“Ah, my dear Yelena,” my father says, leading her toward a group of high-ranking men. “Allow me to introduce you properly.”

As the night progresses, the air becomes thicker with tension. But Yelena holds her own, engaging in sharp, intelligent conversation with the most powerful men in the room. Her wit is just as sharp as theirs, if not shaper. But not everyone is pleased.

From across the table during dinner, one of the Greek elders, Demetrios, an old dog from the traditionalist faction, raises his glass and smiles coldly. "I must say, Aithan, your wife is quite… captivating. A Russian beauty amid our Greek legacy. How very modern of you to let an outsider in."

A few chuckles rise from his side of the table, laced with skepticism rather than humor.

Yelena smiles, but there is steel beneath it. "Modern? Or strategic? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like both families benefit from this union, and everyone's pocket is going to get fatter from that benefit."

Leon chokes on his drink, barely covering his laugh with a cough. Demetrios’ smirk tightens, and he lifts his wineglass to his lips, conceding to Yelena’s bite.

Later on, I watch as she shakes hands, smiles, and engages effortlessly. She is natural at this. Her regal posture, the way she moves with confidence—it is not an act. She was born into this world and has mastered its nuances. And as much as I detest my father monopolizing her, I allow it. For now.

But my eyes never leave her.

Even as I engage in discussions with other men, my gaze flicks to her, ensuring she remains within my sight. After all, she is mine.

My fingers tighten around my glass as a surge of possessiveness grips my chest. Every pair of male eyes in the room is on her, lingering too long for my liking.

Leon lets out a low whistle beside me. "Well, damn. She cleans up well."

"Shut up, Leon." My voice is quiet, but the warning in it is clear.

Yelena is poised, regal, and unreadable as she makes her way through the crowd. She greets the guests with effortless grace, her head held high, her smile calculated yet warm enough to mask the fire beneath her surface. It’s a dance, a game of power and perception, and she plays it beautifully. She’s not here to be meek. She’s here to show them that she is my wife and no one’s pawn.

Then, I see him.

George Nikolaou.

He is standing too close. Smiling too wide. And Yelena is laughing—actually laughing at the motherfucker.

Something primal stirs inside me. The instinct to claim. To remind her who she belongs to.

I excuse myself from the conversation, my movements slow and deliberate. I pluck two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter, my grip tightening around the stems. I reach them just as George leans in slightly, and Yelena tilts her head, amused.

Note to self: Remember to pay George a visit.

“Enjoying yourself?” I murmur, stepping between them as I offer Yelena one of the flutes.

She accepts it with a grin. “Immensely.”

George clears his throat, sensing the shift in energy. He straightens and extends a hand. “Aithan, good to see you.”

I shake his hand, my grip purposefully firm. “Nikolaou.”

His gaze flicks between me and Yelena, assessing. “You have quite the wife.”

I don’t smile. “I know.”

Yelena arches a brow but remains silent, sipping her champagne.

George chuckles nervously. “Well, I should—”

“You should,” I agree, my tone laced with a silent warning.

He inclines his head before disappearing into the crowd. I take a sip of my champagne, my body still tight with lingering possessiveness.

“Was that necessary?” Yelena asks, amusement dancing in her eyes.

I meet her gaze, unrepentant. “Yes.”

“Keep that up, and soon no one would want to talk to me.”

“That is the plan, my little princess.”

She laughs softly, taking another sip of her drink. “You’re impossible.”

I lean down, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. “And yet, you keep testing me, agápi mou .”

Her breath catches, and I revel in the power I have over her.

The evening progresses, and the underlying tension of power remains thick in the air. Deals are discussed in hushed tones, alliances reaffirmed over clinking glasses. But even as I move through the room, engaging in conversations, I keep Yelena’s hand tucked in mine.

Alex, one of my enforcers, walks to us and clears his throat slightly. “ Kyrios, can I borrow your wife for—”

“I’m sure you just want to borrow her for just a minute.” My voice is smooth but edged with warning. “But no. My wife and I need a moment.”

Yelena tenses beside me, but Alex merely inclines his head, retreating with a knowing smile.

“That was so rude of you,” she whispers, her voice laced with irritation as we walk away.

“There is nothing rude about wanting to be alone with my wife.” I take a slow sip of champagne before adding, “Besides, he hasn’t been able to keep his eyes off you. I may get to shoot him later.”

She stops abruptly, eyes flashing. “Aithan, don’t be ridiculous. You’re not shooting anyone.”

I smirk, watching the way she scowls up at me. God, she’s stunning when she’s angry.

Before she can lecture me further, she hands me her drink and steps back. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

I raise a brow. “Is that an invitation?”

She rolls her eyes, swatting my arm lightly. “No. Behave yourself. I’ll be back in a minute.”

I watch her go, admiring the sway of her hips, the confidence in her stride. Even in a room full of predators, she walks like she owns the place.

Yelena

I take my time swaying my hips as I walk away from Aithan, fully aware of the effect it has on him. His pewter-gold eyes have been burning through me all night, his whispers laced with promises of what he plans to do to me once we’re alone. The heat in my body coils tighter at the thought, a silent anticipation threading through my veins. I don’t need to turn around to confirm he’s watching—I can feel it in the way my skin tingles like it always does under his gaze.

I step into the brightly lit bathroom, my heels clicking softly against the polished marble floors. The party outside is still in full swing, the muffled sound of music and conversation filtering in through the door. I take a deep breath, steadying myself as I head toward the sink.

The reflection that greets me in the mirror is one of controlled poise, but I know the truth lurking beneath my composed facade. My body is already humming in anticipation, the moisture between my legs a traitorous sign of how much I crave Aithan. I bring out a disposable silk handkerchief from my clutch, dampen it, and gently dab at my cheeks, thankful that my makeup is waterproof.

I bend my head to wet the cloth again, momentarily lowering my gaze, and everything goes to hell in that moment.

A gloved hand clamps over my mouth, and before I can react, an arm snakes around my throat, locking me in a chokehold.

A scream claws its way up my throat, but his gloved hand smothers it before it can break free. His weight crashes into me, forcing me against the cold countertop. The sharp edge digs into my lower back, but pain is the least of my concerns.

I thrash, kicking at his shins, clawing at his wrist, but he’s strong—unyielding. His grip tightens over my mouth, the fabric of his glove soaking up my muffled cries. Panic explodes inside me, but I refuse to let it drown me.

I slam my knee up, aiming for his groin, but my dress reduces the impact of my knee colliding with his ball. He grunts and jerks back just enough for me to wrench my head sideways. My teeth sink into the coarse fabric of his glove, biting down hard.

A low curse hisses through his mask. His hand recoils, but his glove is caught between my teeth.

I don’t hesitate.

I twist, reaching for anything—anything. My fingers close around the glass soap dispenser. I swing.

The impact shatters against his temple.

For a breathless second, he sways. I scramble forward, my only thought to run. But his hand snatches my wrist in a vise-like grip. Before I can yank free, he slams me sideways.

My skull collides with the mirror. A spiderweb of cracks splinters through the glass as stars burst behind my eyelids.

Dizziness crashes into me, but I fight it. I fight him.

With everything I have left, I drive my nails into the skin exposed at his throat. A strangled growl rips from his chest, but he doesn’t let go. He shifts, pinning my body against the sink with his.

The glint of something metallic catches the light.

A syringe.

Terror floods my veins as I struggle harder, twisting, kicking, desperate to break free. My foot connects with the side of his knee, and he falters, but only for a second.

Then his hand clamps down on my shoulder.

The sting is sudden, sharp—like fire piercing my skin.

I gasp, a strangled sound of disbelief.

The needle digs into my flesh, but before the liquid can fully enter my bloodstream, a sound echoes from the hallway—footsteps.

Someone is coming.

The masked man jerks his head toward the door, hesitation freezing him for a split second. Then, he makes a decision.

He yanks the syringe out halfway, ripping it from my skin in his haste.

I barely register the pain before he bolts.

His boots slam against the tile as he spins towards one of the corner cubicles in a frantic retreat. In his rush, the syringe slips from his grasp and clatters to the floor, rolling to a stop near my feet.

I want to move. To grab it. To do anything.

But my limbs feel like they belong to someone else. They are heavy and sluggish. My breath is now coming in strangled gasps—the partial dose still courses through me, dulling my senses like thick fog settling over my mind.

My knees buckle, and the cold floor rises to meet me. Or maybe I crumble down to it. As the edges of my vision darken, I hear the footsteps again. They are closer now.

Then, everything fades.