The soft squelch of her rain-soaked shoes was the only sound as Niamh tiptoed through the dimly lit hallway, cradling the tiny, trembling kitten close to her chest. Her soaked dress clung to her skin, and water dripped silently from her hair, pooling onto the marble floor beneath her. She had slipped in through the back door—there was no way she could sneak a stray animal past the front entrance without alerting the entire house.

The kitten let out a quiet mewl and nestled further against her, seeking the warmth of her body. Niamh’s heart squeezed. She’d found it curled up beneath a bush outside, shivering and alone in the storm. She hadn't thought—she'd just acted.

She padded quietly toward the staircase, holding her breath.

One more step.

Then another.

And then—

Click.

The hallway lights flickered on, casting a harsh glow across the living room. Niamh froze.

"Oh, so the princess of pity has brought home another stray." Cara’s voice was cold, laced with venom. Her arms were crossed, one eyebrow raised as she leaned against the wall like she had been waiting for this moment.

Niamh’s eyes widened. Her grip on the kitten tightened instinctively. "Cara, please—"

Before she could finish, another figure emerged from the shadows.

"What the hell is this?" Aira’s voice sliced through the silence. "Look at the floor. You're dripping water everywhere! You've dirtied the entire hallway."

Niamh swallowed hard, her throat dry. The kitten squirmed slightly but didn’t protest. "I… I’ll take him to the cat house tomorrow. I promise."

Aira let out a dramatic sigh. “You and your pathetic rescues. You’ll ruin the name of this family.”

"Honestly," Cara added with a smirk, "it’s hard to tell which of you is more pitiful. The mutt or you."

Niamh said nothing. She just held the kitten a little closer, as if shielding it from their words. Maybe she couldn’t save herself from this place.

But tonight… she could save him.

“Why are you standing there like a fool? Get out of my sight!” Aira’s voice cracked through the room like a whip.

Niamh flinched, her fingers tightening around the kitten’s damp fur. Without a word, she turned and walked away, her footsteps silent but hurried on the cold marble floor.

The hallway to her bedroom felt longer than usual, shadows stretching along the walls like silent witnesses. Once inside, she quietly closed the door, leaning against it for a moment, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

The kitten stirred in her arms.

Her expression softened. She crossed the room and gently placed the tiny creature on a fresh towel. “Don’t mind them,” she whispered with a sad smile. “They’re always like this.”

The kitten meowed softly, curling its damp body into the towel as Niamh carefully began to dry it. She giggled when it reached out a tiny paw, rubbing it against her palm as if thanking her.

"You are such a cutie," she murmured, brushing her finger along its tiny ear. “I’ll name you… Lily.”

warmth filled her chest. Amid the bitterness of her world, this moment—this tiny life—felt like a secret rebellion. Her fairytale didn’t start with a prince.

It started with a kitten.

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The air was thick with sweat, blood, and roaring adrenaline.

Loud cheers erupted inside the underground MMA club, a brutal symphony of fists, grunts, and chaos echoing off concrete walls. The crowd was ravenous, pressing against the cage like predators watching a slaughter.

In the center of the ring stood a man who hadn’t moved an inch.

The other fighter—bloodied and gasping—kept swinging, desperate to land a blow strong enough to make him stumble, to force even a step backward.

But it was useless.

For over thirty minutes, the monster hadn’t budged.

Every hit he took only made the tattoos on his inked arm seem more alive—satanic symbols wrapping around muscles like shadows that fed on violence. The sweat on his skin made them glisten, bold and haunting, as if each mark whispered a curse of its own.

He wasn’t just huge. He was carved from something darker—something meant to break men, not fight them.

The cheerleaders, high on the heat of violence, could barely contain their interest. Eyes followed the way his body flexed with effortless power, the way he stood still as stone, unbothered. Untouched.

Mikhail Cozlov didn’t fight to win.

He fought to remind them all why no one survived him.

The fighter, panting and desperate, snapped.

In a flash, he pulled a concealed blade from his shorts and lunged forward, sliding across the mat. Steel met flesh.

A clean cut opened on Mikhail’s forearm.

Just a sliver of blood. But it was enough.

The air went still—unnaturally still.

The crowd, moments ago chanting and howling, fell into a suffocating silence. Even the cheerleaders froze, their smirks wiped clean as dread bled into the room like a toxin.

Everyone knew.

You don’t draw Mikhail Cozlov’s blood.

His gaze dropped to his forearm, where the crimson line glistened against inked skin. He stared at it—silent, motionless.

Then he looked up.

Not with rage.

With something colder. Deadlier.

The fighter, who just seconds ago had smiled in triumph, stiffened. That smile died the moment their eyes met. Mikhail’s aura had changed—his body coiled like a beast on the edge of snapping, like a wolf that had just scented betrayal.

At the edge of the ring, Mikhail’s right-hand man, Leonid, tensed. His voice cut through the tension, low and urgent. “Mikhail…”

But it was already too late.

Mikhail lunged—not like a man—but like something feral and unstoppable. A wounded wolf with no intention of mercy. The crowd didn’t cheer. They just watched, frozen, because what was about to happen…

Mikhail didn’t just attack—he unleashed.

His fist collided with the fighter’s jaw with a sickening crack, sending blood splattering across the mat. The man’s head snapped to the side, the body already limped by the second blow. But Mikhail wasn’t done. Not even close.

He straddled the unconscious body and began hammering his fists down with merciless precision—again and again and again.

Crack.

Crunch.

Thud.

The sound wasn’t just punches anymore. It was bone splintering under sheer force. Skin tearing. Flesh caving in beneath knuckles hardened by years of wrath.

The crowd didn’t cheer. No one dared breathe.

Blood pooled beneath the fighter’s head, soaking the mat like a dark halo. His face was no longer recognizable—just a mess of bruised flesh and broken structure. But Mikhail’s expression never shifted. His jaw clenched. His eyes blank.

It wasn’t rage anymore.

It was ritual.

His right-hand man, Leonid, gripped the edge of the cage, knuckles white. “Mikhail, enough!” he shouted.

But Mikhail didn’t hear him.

He wasn’t in the ring anymore—he was back in the fire of every scar carved into his soul. And now, someone dared to draw his blood.

That couldn’t be forgiven.

Finally, when the fighter’s chest barely moved and the mat had become a crime scene, Mikhail stood.

Covered in blood—none of it his own—he rolled his shoulders back, calm as silence fell over the room. His expression was cold. Distant.

The emperor of the Bratva had spoken without saying a word.

And everyone understood:

He wasn’t just feared because of his name.

He was feared because no one walked away after tasting his wrath.

The fighter lay broken on the mat, the crowd still paralyzed in stunned silence.

Mikhail stepped off the ring like a phantom carved from war—bare-chested, dripping in blood and sweat, knuckles raw and red. His heavy boots echoed against the concrete floor with every stride.

From the side, the head cheerleader stepped forward—the night’s chosen bait.

She swayed her hips with practiced grace, her lips curling into a sultry smile as she raised a clean white towel toward him. “Let me help you with that,” she purred, eyes flicking to the blood streaked across his chest.

Mikhail didn’t even glance at her.

He walked past without a word, without a twitch in his jaw, as if she didn’t exist. Her smile faltered as she stood frozen, the towel hanging useless in her hand.

Leonid was already there, falling into step beside him. He didn’t speak—just handed Mikhail the black bag slung over his shoulder. Inside it were his clothes, watch, and the matte-black ring he always wore—engraved with the insignia of his family’s criminal empire.

Mikhail disappeared into the corridor leading to the back, the cheers behind him never returning. Only silence remained in his wake.

In the washroom, the sink ran red as he rinsed the blood from his arms, staring into the mirror at a face carved from stone. His eyes were still cold. Unshaken.

Drawing his blood was a mistake.

Letting him live would’ve been a greater one.

It had become a ritual now.

Mikhail came here not for the fight—but for the release. The brutality, the blood, the weight of his fists against flesh… it was the only thing that silenced the chaos in his head.

It was his therapy.

His medicine.

His curse.

The rage inside him had no beginning and no end. He didn’t even remember when it started. Only that it demanded violence the way others needed oxygen.

Tonight, he could’ve let the fighter go—with just shattered ribs and a fractured ego. But the moment that blade sliced his skin, even slightly, something inside him snapped loose.

Drawing his blood was unforgivable.

Still shirtless, steam curling off his shoulders under the dim washroom light, he picked up his phone and dialed Leonid.

One ring. Two. Click.

“да?” came the voice on the other end.

(Yes)

“Send the cheerleader in,” Mikhail said, his voice a deep, cold command.

No explanation. No emotion.

Then he hung up.

Within minutes, the door creaked open.

She stepped in, her heels clicking softly against the tiles, echoing in the silence of the dimly lit washroom. Her eyes landed on him—towering, shirtless, blood still faintly smeared across his tattoos, steam curling around him like a phantom’s breath.

Her thighs clenched instinctively.

There he was—Mikhail Cozlov.

A god carved in sin and shadows.

She walked toward him, hips swaying with calculated seduction, fingers slipping to the hem of her top.

But just as she began lifting it—

“Kneel.”

The word sliced through the air like a blade.

Cold. Unflinching. Commanding.

She froze.

Mikhail’s eyes didn’t even move to look at her fully. He just stood there, wiping his bloodied hands with a towel, his gaze fixed on the wall in front of him—as if she wasn’t worth a direct look yet.

Her breath hitched. Slowly, without a word, she dropped to her knees on the cold floor.

Obedient.

Because that’s what everyone did in front of Mikhail Cozlov.

They obeyed.

Whether out of fear, or desire, or something darker.

Mikhail unbuckled his belt with practiced ease, his expression carved from stone—cold, unreadable. He never cared for the act of fucking. It was too slow, too involved. Inefficient. But this—this was quick, effective. A release.

Her lips parted instinctively as he guided his cock to her mouth—and then, with a sharp thrust, he pushed inside.

She gagged around his length, her throat tightening as he filled her in one brutal motion.

He pulled back only to thrust deeper again, setting a ruthless rhythm that made her choke and spit, tears pricking the corners of her eyes.

His expression remained carved from stone—cold, detached. Not a flicker of pleasure crossed his face.

Her mascara smeared, lips swollen, throat raw—but she stayed there, taking every inch like she was desperate for it. And maybe she was.

she looked up at him like he was a god. Because men like him didn’t kneel. They were knelt for.

And to her, being used by Mikhail Volkov wasn’t shameful. It was an honor.

When he was done, he shoved her back with no more force than it took to swat a shadow.

She stumbled, wiping her mouth with the back of her trembling hand, chest rising and falling as she tried to catch her breath. But Mikhail had already turned away.

With calculated precision, he buckled his belt, straightened the cuffs of his shirt, and slipped it on—each motion smooth, practiced, devoid of emotion.

He didn’t spare her a single glance.

To him, she was already forgotten. Just another face blurred in the haze of his ruthless life.

The door creaked as he opened it, the hallway light spilling in briefly before it shut behind him with a hollow thud.

Mikhail Cozlov never lingered.

He simply took what he needed…

And left the silence behind.

So this is my new story. You can expect an update everyday as i have already wrote few chapters. I hope you will also like it thr way you love dark devotion. And if you want character sketch it will be uploaded in my Instagram account.