She walks toward him, each step slow—measured. The sway of her hips is deliberate, like a siren luring a ship to wreckage. The soft silk clings to her skin, revealing the enticing mole on her waist—an accidental temptation that makes something primal stir inside him.

His eyes devour her with the hunger of a starved child.

Her face is veiled. Her eyes—smoky and dangerous—look straight into his soul, daring him, challenging him. She grabs his collar, yanking him down with a quiet command only her touch could carry. His breath falters.

His gaze flits—her eyes, her veiled lips, the curve of her cheek.Every inch of her is a memory he has tried to drown, yet it returns like a ghost, sweeter and deadlier each time.

Then the wind comes.

A soft gust.

It lifts the veil.

And he sees her.

The face that haunts his waking hours. That torments his sleep.

Those cherry red lips. That heart-shaped face. Eyes like a midnight lullaby.

She leans in closer, slowly—so slowly. Their lips are about to meet. He can almost feel the brush of her breath—

Mikhail’s eyes snap open.

He is back in reality.

The illusion fades.

He’s sprawled in the dim light of his private lounge, head resting on the armrest of a leather chair. The taste of her still lingers in his mouth. His breathing is shallow.

The crystal glass in his hand lies shattered—crushed in his grip.

Blood trickles down from his palm, crimson and silent. But there is no flinch. No reaction. Not a twitch of pain.

Only a strange, dark ecstasy painted across his face.

He leaned back, breath shallow—like he was drowning in a memory he didn’t want to escape.

“Niamph.”

He whispered her name into the silence.

The rooftop flashed before his eyes.

The voice, soft but commanding.

The crease on the forehead, the scrunch of her nose. The biting of her lips. The batting of her eyes. Fuch, she was so close.

"Don't close your eyes."

That voice still echoed through his veins. A phantom lullaby etched into his bones.

He remembered the warmth of her breath as she hovered above him, the concern in her wide eyes, and how close she had been. So close, he could count her lashes, feel the tremble of her fear and resolve.

Fuck.

It was her.

The girl from that night.

The same one dancing barefoot in the rain with children like she belonged to another world.

A world he had no right to touch.

Her white dress soaked, clinging to every curve, her body moving with the rhythm of thunder and rain like a wild hymn. The image was burned behind his eyes now—graceful, untouchable, maddening.

His hands curled into fists. His breath grew ragged.

What cruel game was fate playing?

Was it destiny, or just the universe mocking him again—dangling something pure in front of something ruined like him?

He wasn’t sure.

But he knew one thing.

She had slipped into his world like a whisper.

Now, she echoed in his every thought like a storm.

He dialed Leonid, voice sharp like a blade unsheathed.

"Find every girl named Niamph in this city. I want them standing in front of me by tomorrow."

No pause. No discussion.

He cut the call before Leonid could even respond.

Mikhail stared at his hand—blood still licking down his fingers, warm and thick, pattering softly onto the floor like a ticking clock counting down to someone’s doom. He pulled a white handkerchief from his coat pocket and wrapped it around the wound with practiced indifference. The white turned crimson fast, but he didn’t flinch.

He wasn’t unfamiliar with pain.

He had been born in it. Raised by it. Now, he wielded it like an artist wields a brush.

He remembered the reason he came here.

Let’s give the journalist a front-row seat to the hell he tried to expose.

Mikhail rose from his seat, the broken glass crunching beneath his leather shoes. He picked up his coat, the shadows stretching behind him like hungry beasts.

Then... he’d hunt the little nymph.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The golden rays of the morning sun filtered softly through the curtains, warming Niamph’s skin as she slowly blinked awake. She stretched her arms and yawned, casting a lazy glance at the clock. Late again.

With a sleepy murmur, she sat up and whispered her daily verses from the Bible—words she believed cloaked her day in light and peace. After slipping into her sandals, she made her way toward the bathroom.

Knock. Knock.

She paused mid-step.

The sudden knock jolted her nerves.

She opened the door slowly—only to find Aunt Jenny standing there, breath ragged, eyes darting toward the hallway behind her.

Without a word, Jenny slipped inside and locked the door behind her with urgency that turned Niamph’s confusion into dread.

“Aunt Jenny…?” Niamph asked, heart skipping a beat.

Jenny turned, gripping Niamph’s shoulders tightly.

“We have to escape.”

“What? But—what happened?”

Jenny’s breathing quickened, fear practically radiating from her.

“There are men outside, Niamph. With guns. They look dangerous. We can’t stay here.”

Everything inside Niamph went still.

Her thoughts. Her breath. Even her heartbeat seemed to pause for a second.

Guns?

Why? How?

She looked toward the door, fear crashing through her like icy waves. Her hands went cold. A dull roar of panic echoed in her ears.

Jenny pulled her into a hug, cradling her head protectively.

“Shh… I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Niamph clung to her, swallowing hard.

“But… who—how…?”

The words died in her throat, strangled by the rising fear.

Jenny’s movements turned frantic as she glanced toward the window.

“Come, Niamph—we’ll climb out from here,” she whispered urgently, tugging at the curtains.

Niamph hesitated, her gaze flickering back to the door. Her voice came out shaky, filled with conflict.

“But Aunt Jenny… Aira-mom, Cara, Dad—they’re all outside.”

Even with all the tension, the coldness, the pain—they’re still my family, her heart whispered.

Jenny turned to her, frustration and fear laced in her trembling voice.

“My sweet child, this is not the time for kindness. They never cared for you—not the way you deserved.”

Niamph shook her head, her eyes glistening.

“No… no, Aunt Jenny. I can’t… I can’t be selfish. We need to call the police—file a complaint, do something.”

Jenny gripped her shoulders tightly, her voice cracking.

“Niamph… stop being stupid.”

Her breath hitched. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

“This isn’t some fairytale. If they get their hands on us, they won’t spare us. We don’t even know why they’re here.”

Niamph stared at her.

Jenny’s voice softened, breaking.

“Please, child. For once… choose yourself.”

Suddenly, a gunshot rang out from outside.

Niamph’s eyes widened in horror.

Jenny froze, her breath caught in her throat.

“Niamph, let’s—”

But she never finished.

Niamph had already flung the door open and bolted into the hallway.

“No! Niamph!” Jenny screamed after her.

But Niamph couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. The sound of that gunshot echoed in her bones, drowning everything else. Her mind spiraled with dread as her feet carried her forward.

What she saw next made her heart plummet into the pit of her stomach.

Her father was at gunpoint.

Cara and Aira were huddled in a corner, clutching each other in sheer terror. Around the hall, several men in black suits stood like shadows—expressionless, armed, merciless.

And in the center of it all, facing her father, was a man.

Tall. Broad shoulders. The crisp three-piece suit did nothing to soften the brutal power radiating from his form. His presence sucked the air out of the room. A deadly calm cloaked him like a storm on the brink of an explosion.

He held the gun in his hand. Calm. Certain. Unshaken.

His back was to her.

Niamph’s eyes welled up. Her knees felt weak. A broken sob slipped from her lips—soft, but enough.

The man paused.

He turned toward the sound—slowly.

The moment Mikhail’s eyes met hers, he froze.

Time halted.

Recognition flared in his icy gaze—sharp and all-consuming. His little nymph. Standing right there. Eyes wide in terror, lips trembling as she clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob.

Niamph.

Niamph stood rooted, her breath caught in her throat. The man in front of her—he was no stranger. He was the same man she had taken to the hospital. The same man whose name she never learned… and now, he held a gun.

Her heart went numb.

Who was he? What was this?

Mikhail walked toward her in a trance, as if pulled by something primal. The gun still hung loosely in his hand. Behind him, Conor's voice cracked the silence.

“Please—please leave my daughter!”

Desperation. Panic.

But He didn’t even look at the man.

His gaze was locked on her.

On Niamph.

She stared at him, fear turning her blood cold. Every instinct screamed to run. But she couldn’t move.

Not when his eyes devoured her with that unreadable intensity.

Then, softly—trembling—she whispered,

“Please… don’t hurt them.”

Mikhail’s eyes darkened. The softness in them twisted into something else—something cruel. Possessive. Dangerous.

He tilted his head, calculating.

It didn’t take long.

One glance. One thread pulled—and the whole picture unraveled before him.

Daughter Of Conor Moore.

A slow smirk curved his lips.

Niamph felt her knees weaken at the sight.

The glint in his eyes sent shudders down her spine.

Mikhail stepped closer.

Niamph instinctively backed away, her breath trembling with each step. Her tear-stained cheeks glistened, her nose red from crying. But there was no escape. Her back hit the wall.

He followed her like a shadow, silent and predatory, until he stood inches away. His towering frame caged her in, his presence swallowing the air between them. Her heart thundered in her chest.

To her, he looked nothing less than a devil cloaked in fine silk.

His hand shot up, gripping a fistful of her hair and pulling her closer. She gasped, eyes wide, then immediately shut them tight—she’d never been this close to a man before. Not like this. Not with such heat, such danger burning from every inch of him.

Her fists clenched against her sides, the tension coiled like a storm inside her.

Their faces were barely apart. His breath fanned across her lips, laced with bourbon and venom.

“You want to save them?” he whispered, voice low and gritted, each word dripping with restrained rage.

Tears fell silently down her cheeks as she gave a small nod, her entire body trembling.

His hand loosened slightly in her hair, but his other rose—gun in hand—and the cold metal traced across her trembling lips. She flinched, breath hitching at the contact. His gaze was merciless, flicking between her tear-filled eyes and her quivering mouth.

“Then come with me.”

Niamph's eyes widened in horror.

"No…" she whispered, her voice nearly lost beneath the pounding of her heart.

From the corner of the room, Conor staggered to his feet, desperation replacing fear.

"Please!" he begged, voice cracking. "You have a vendetta with me—leave my daughter out of this!"

Despite the years of distance between them, the rift, the silence… he still loved her. Perhaps he never said it, but it was there—buried, raw.

But Mikhail didn’t so much as glance at him.

His gaze remained locked on Niamph, like a predator who'd found something sacred and unyielding—something he would take, no matter the cost.

From behind, Jenny dropped to her knees, clutching at Mikhail's leg.

"Please…" she sobbed, tears streaking her cheeks. "She's innocent. Just leave her."

Mikhail looked down at her for a brief second—blankly, coldly—then returned his eyes to Niamph.

The silence in the room was shattered by the deafening crack of a gunshot.

The bullet struck the wall—just beside Conor.

Niamph screamed in terror, stumbling forward instinctively.

"Please! Stop! What… what do you want from me?" she cried, voice shaking.

Mikhail reached for her, cupping her face with a grip that was anything but gentle. He pulled her to him, their faces inches apart, his touch firm, consuming. His jaw clenched, breathing harshly, he pressed his nose to her tear-wet cheek and inhaled deeply—like he was memorizing her.

His voice was low. Dangerous.

"I gave you a choice…" he whispered, every word heavy with menace and obsession. "Choose. Fast."

Niamph sobbed, her face flushed crimson, her breath uneven. Her lips trembled as her heart pleaded in silence:

"Jesus… help us. Please."

But her silence cost her.

A sudden gunshot cracked through the room.

Conor cried out in pain.

"Dad!"

"Conor!" Aira screamed and scrambled toward him.

Niamph’s body went cold. Her limbs froze, her chest tightened—she could barely breathe.

Conor collapsed onto the floor, blood blooming from his shoulder. He groaned in agony, clutching the wound as Aira screamed for help.

Niamph tried to run toward him.

"Dad!" she cried, panic seizing her.

But before she could take a step, Mikhail grabbed her and yanked her back. Her spine pressed hard against his chest, his arm locked around her waist like an iron.

She struggled. Cried. But he didn’t budge.

His breath was warm—chilling—against her ear as he whispered through gritted teeth:

"If he doesn’t get medical attention in ten minutes… he dies."

"Choose. Now."

Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her heart cracked.

"Please… don’t… please..." she begged.

But then she saw it.

Conor's hand slipped from his chest.

His eyes flutter.

The color drains from his face.

He was fading.

Niamph clenched her eyes shut. Her fists trembled.

Then, through the trembling, she whispered—

"I’m ready."

Mikhail exhaled slowly, like a beast finally fed.

Before she could move, Niamph gasped as he hauled her over his shoulder like a prize—his grip firm, possessive, unrelenting.

"No—no, please!" she cried, pounding at his back. But it was useless.

Mikhail walked out with her, unbothered by the chaos he left behind.

his voice rumbled low—cold and cruel:

"Welcome to the cage, little nymph."