Mikhail sat in the private weapons chamber, a sleek, dimly lit room lined with polished mahogany shelves stacked with precision-crafted firearms and weapons. In his hand, he held a rare piece of artistry—a prototype pistol with a matte black finish and a custom-forged barrel.

His eyes gleamed with intrigue, the kind that only arose when he found something deadly and beautiful in equal measure.

He ran his fingers slowly along the barrel, his touch reverent.

“This one fires like light itself,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “No sound, no delay.”

Then, with calculated ease, he raised the gun and aimed at the crimson apple placed atop a thin rod a dozen feet away. His finger barely touched the trigger—

Bang.

A whisper of a shot—and the apple exploded in a clean, soundless burst, scattering in precise, burning pieces.

Leonid, standing a few paces behind, nodded in approval, though not without wariness.

“Understood, Czar,” Leonid said. “I’ll have the blueprint sent to our manufacturing line. We can begin production immediately.”

“Make twenty units to start,” Mikhail replied, setting the gun down with care, like one might set down a lover. “No compromises. I want carbon-titanium alloy, not that cheap composite shit the Black Serpents tried to sell me last month.”

Leonid smirked faintly. “They’re still apologizing for that.”

“They should be groveling,” Mikhail muttered, standing up and rolling his shoulders. “I don’t negotiate with people who value profit over precision.”

He walked over to the gun rack, placed the prototype into its new slot like a trophy.

Leonid cleared his throat, breaking the silence that hung heavy after the shot.

“Czar,” he said carefully, “Russia is demanding your presence. The council has been asking for updates… how long are we staying here in Ireland?”

Mikhail didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he cracked his neck slowly, the sound echoing faintly in the quiet room. Then he lowered himself back into the leather chair with a lazy, unbothered grace. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, unbidden.

Niamph.

His nymph. His wild kitten.

The image of her flashed in his mind—those wide, glossy eyes brimming with fury, not fear. The way she had answered him back without flinching. Her trembling voice, her clenched fists, her fire.

If any member of his clan had seen it… they might’ve thought he was hallucinating. That someone dared to talk back to the Czar and lived?

Had it been anyone else, he wouldn’t have hesitated. He would’ve crushed that defiant mouth with his bare hands—ended it before the second breath.

But with her?

He hadn’t felt rage.

He had felt… amused.

Intrigued.

Addicted.

He didn’t just tolerate her defiance—he welcomed it.

That kitten had claws. And she wasn’t afraid to use them.

Mikhail exhaled through his nose, his smirk fading into a thoughtful stillness.

“The business here is unfinished,” he said finally, voice neutral but laced with something unreadable. “I’ll return to Russia soon. But not until everything I came for is… handled.”

Leonid tilted his head slightly. He knew better than to question that tone. Whatever "business" the Czar had in Ireland—it wasn’t just about weapons.

It had a name now.

And it purred when held too tight.

Leonid nodded with a knowing expression, then added quietly, “Babushka has been calling for the past three days. It’s been a while since she last heard from you.”

He hesitated before continuing, “As you know… it’s sort of her ritual now—to have you at Sunday lunch. Every week, without fail.”

Mikhail didn’t respond immediately. He simply sat there, gaze fixed on the far wall. The quiet buzz of the dimly lit chamber wrapped around them like a shroud.

Leonid’s voice softened. “You should give her a call.”

Mikhail exhaled slowly through his nose and reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, irritation flickering through him.

He knew exactly why he hadn’t returned her calls.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care.

He did.

But lately, her conversations have begun circling around the same insufferable topic—marriage. A “Czarina,” as she liked to call it. Her newest obsession.

“I want to see the face of your bride before I die.”

Her exact words.

And every time she said it, he felt something in his chest twist. Not from sentiment—but from cold, choking resistance.

The thought of marriage filled him with nothing but disgust. The idea of being tied down, following some ridiculous rituals to have a licensed for having sex or turned into some domestic cartoon of himself—it was a mockery of everything he was.

So he had chosen silence instead.

Avoidance.

Even if it meant hurting the one person in the world who had loved him without condition.

“I’ll talk to her later,” Mikhail said finally, his voice devoid of emotion, eyes still fixed straight ahead.

Leonid opened his mouth to say something—maybe a gentle reminder or a word of protest—but then stopped. He looked at Mikhail’s rigid posture, read the tension in his clenched jaw, and thought better of it.

He simply gave a quiet nod.

“Understood, Czar.”

With that, Leonid turned and exited the chamber, the soft thud of the door closing behind him leaving Mikhail alone once more.

Alone—with his weapons.

And the ghost of his grandmother’s voice is still echoing faintly in his mind.

“I want to see the face of your Czarina…”

He clenched his jaw and leaned back, eyes narrowing.

That word again.

Czarina.

He scoffed at himself, but even then—an image flickered uninvited in the back of his mind.

A pair of defiant, tear-glossed eyes.

A girl who dared to bite back.

No.

He pushed the thought away.

But it stayed.

Lingering.

Like perfume on his skin.

She’s not Czarina material. Not even fucking close.

He ran a hand down his face, jaw locked so tightly it ached. Too soft. Too fragile. Too… unrefined.

Then why the hell can’t you stop thinking about her?

His teeth ground together.

Why the fuck are you keeping her here?

The question sliced through him like a blade. He didn’t flinch.

“I just need to fuck her,” he muttered. “That’s all. Just once. Just to end this fucking madness.”

His voice echoed through the empty room, bouncing off the walls like a confession he hated to make.

“Once I have her—once I feel her tight little body around me, trembling, begging—I’ll be done. She’ll mean nothing.”

But even as the words left his mouth, they rang hollow.

Then why haven’t you done it yet?

His hands clenched into fists.

Because he could. He had—with others. Girls, more beautiful. More skilled. Women who dropped to their knees just at the sight of him, eager to please. Desperate to taste power, to wrap their lips around his cock like they were starving for it.

He have brushed them off like dust.

But her?

That defiant, soft-mouthed little thing with eyes too wide and a voice too honest?

He hadn’t even touched her.

Not like that.

He could’ve pinned her to the wall, ripped the innocence right out of her. Made her moan, scream, cry, break. Taken her until she forgot her own name.

He could’ve owned her.

But he hadn’t.

Because somewhere deep inside, a voice he didn’t want to acknowledge whispered:

Not like that.

He shut his eyes.

“I’m not waiting out of mercy,” he growled to himself. “I’m not a fucking savior. I just… don’t want it like that. If she’s going to give in, it’ll be because she chooses to. Not because she’s afraid. Because she wants it.”

Because forcing her would make him no different than the filth he used to bury in the ground.

But the sick part of his brain— can't stop but thought of her lips—soft, trembling, disobedient—wrapping around his cock sent a jolt straight to his groin.

His bulge roared to life like a beast roused from slumber, pressing hard against the fabric of his pant with unrelenting demand.

He swore under his breath and leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, jaw clenched as tightly as his fists.

Fuck.

His teeth gritted. Closing his eyes  he tried to push the image away but instead he got—her on her knees, those innocent eyes staring up at him, mouth parted in submission or defiance—he didn’t even know what he wanted more.

What the hell is wrong with me?

He is the Czar.

And here he is fantasize like a hormone-drunk teenager.

Burning at the thought of a girl who had barely dared to raise her voice, but did it anyway. A girl who wouldn’t even meet his eyes when he was shirtless, yet dared to speak to him like he is… human.

It pissed him off.

And worse...it fucking did turned him on.

It infuriated him how badly he wanted her to touch him. Not because he told her to—but because she chose to.

He ran a hand through his hair, rough, frustrated.

Fucking hell.

This is bad...very bad.

And yet here he was, hard as stone, aching for a mouth that had done nothing but argue with him.

He stood up and started to pacing the room like a caged wolf.

He couldn’t take it.

Not tonight.

The fury, the heat, the need clawing inside him—like a beast scratching at the inside of his skull, growling, snarling, demanding.

His hand flew into his pocket. He snatched out his phone with frantic fingers, jaw set like stone.

With a few taps, he pulled up a number. It rang once. Twice.

Then picked up.

“Yes, Czar,” came the voice on the other end—sharp, ready.

Mikhail’s voice was low, dangerous.

“Arrange a pit night. Tonight.”

A pause.

No explanation.

No further instruction.

Just a command laced with violent purpose.

Then—click.

He ended the call without waiting for a response.

Because they knew what it meant.

Pit Night wasn’t a party.

It was blood.

It was fists, bone, rage, and release.

A place where rules didn’t exist. Where monsters like him could feed their hunger on pain, sweat, and silence.

Where the world turned red—and nothing else mattered.

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The soft bubbling of the sugar syrup filled the kitchen, mingling with the faint floral scent of lavender. The hue in the pot was turning a delicate shade of lilac—warm, soft, glowing like something out of a fairytale.

Niamph stood over the stove, wooden spatula in hand, stirring with practiced grace. A small smile curled on her lips as she watched the syrup thicken.

Making candies—it was her quiet joy.

A ritual.

An escape.

She loved how something so simple—sugar, water, a splash of color—could bring so much happiness. She used to make them for the children at the orphanage. Their excited giggles still echoed faintly in her memory, sticky fingers and wide grins from the sweet and savory treats she’d stayed up all night to craft.

But not everyone saw it that way.

Her stepmother and Cara used to mock her relentlessly for it. “Useless girls make useless things,” they would say. “Get your head out of your sugar fantasies.”

One year, for Children’s Day, Niamph had spent the entire night making small boxes of handmade candies. She’d packed each one carefully, tying them with pastel ribbons, making sure the lids were sealed tight to protect them from ants.

She’d been so proud.

But the next morning, she found the boxes open—ravaged by ants. Sticky, ruined, destroyed.

Cara had opened them to “taste” and left them uncovered.

Niamph had cried for hours.

She didn’t just lose candies that day. She lost the small bit of joy she'd carved for herself in a world that rarely allowed her any.

She shrugged the memories away with a deep breath and focused on the present—on the smell of sugar and lavender.

“Wow… Niamph madam,” Lucy said, stepping closer, eyes wide. “It’s looking beautiful! The color, the aroma—it’s just… divine.”

Niamph’s face lit up as she stirred the glossy syrup one last time.

“Thank you, Lucy,” she beamed. “It tastes amazing too. I’ll pack two small containers for Niko and Nia. They’ll be so happy.”

Lucy grinned at her sweetness.

“But don’t give it to them all at once,” Niamph added, wagging a playful finger. “One piece a day. I don’t want you chasing sugar-high twins through the garden.”

Lucy chuckled. “Yes, madam. I’ll make sure they behave.”

She looked at Niamph with quiet admiration. How could someone so pure, so gentle, still glow after everything she'd endured? It amazed her every day.

The syrup had cooled to the perfect consistency, and now Niamph was carefully shaping the candies—soft lilac-colored swirls forming beneath her delicate fingers. Beside her, Lucy mimicked her movements, not nearly as gracefully but with the same enthusiasm.

In the middle of the process, Lucy sneakily popped one into her mouth—and immediately moaned.

“Uhmm… it’s so tasty…” she gasped dramatically, as if she’d just tasted heaven.

Niamph’s eyes widened with joy. That was her favorite part—when someone genuinely loved what she created. She grinned and quickly popped a piece into her own mouth, savoring the smooth melt of sugar and lavender on her tongue. The two girls giggled like children, their laughter echoing through the warm kitchen.

Until—

“Czar is not inside at this hour, sir…”

The voice came from outside—one of the guards. Firm, respectful, but… tense.

Niamph and Lucy looked at each other. That was odd. No one ever visited the mansion. Not since she had arrived.

Niamph wiped her hands quickly and walked to the door, Lucy is close behind. As they reached the entrance, they heard the visitor bark back in irritation.

“Why are you stopping me like this is some low-rent thief’s den? It’s the Mikhail Cozlov’s mansion, not a fucking prison!”

The guards shifted uncomfortably.

“Sir, it’s not like that—Czar has instructed—”

“Shut up.” the man snapped.

The guard flinched.

Niamph blinked. The tone was sharp but the voice… somehow round. Almost funny. She couldn’t help it—a small giggle escaped her lips.

That was enough to catch his attention.

The man brushed past the guards and stormed inside like he owned the place. He was chubby, with expressive eyes and a large duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He folded his arms across his chest and scanned the foyer—until his eyes landed on her.

“You…?”

He pointed straight at Niamph.

Niamph straightened her spine politely. “Niamph,” she said with a small smile.

He marched forward, extending a hand. “Sergey. Sergey Cozlov.”

She took the handshake, blinking.

“You’re… his brother?”

Sergey raised both brows dramatically. “Is that a question or an accusation?”

“I mean… Mikhail Cozlov’s brother?”

He grinned wide, a cheeky flash of teeth. “Undoubtedly.”

Then, glancing down at his own rounded belly, he added, “Are you doubting me because I don’t look like a supermodel in a funeral suit?”

Niamph’s eyes widened. “No! No, not at all!”

He laughed—a deep, joyful sound. “Relax, I’m kidding. God, you’re tense.”

Niamph chuckled softly. It was surreal. How could someone so… normal, even charming, be blood-related to the monster upstairs?

Sergey tilted his head and looked her up and down curiously.

“Are you the maid here? I mean—you don’t look like one.”

Niamph shook her head quickly.

“Interior designer?” he guessed again, now scanning the mansion with exaggerated interest. “Here to fix all this ice-cold horror into something less Dracula’s vacation home?”

Another head shake.

Sergey narrowed his eyes. Then his gaze dropped to her slightly sticky hands. He clapped his hands together like a child who had just solved a riddle.

“Aha! You’re the cook!”

Before Niamph could respond, he added, “It’s amazing. We’re friends now, okay? I love cooks.”

“I’m not a cook, actually,” she said awkwardly, glancing at Lucy, who looked just as lost.

Sergey paused, squinting. “Then what are you?”

Niamph hesitated for a second and then said softly, “I’m… a guest.”

Silence.

Then—

“WHAT?!” Sergey’s voice boomed through the mansion like a cannon.

“A guest? Here? With him? A girl guest?! What kind of alternate universe did I walk into?! Did I miss the apocalypse?!”

He spun in places like he was searching for hidden cameras. “Does he know what a guest is? Has anyone told him? Did someone hit his head?!”

Lucy tried—really tried—not to laugh. But she failed.

Niamph looked down for a moment, lips parting as a thought crept into her heart—a hope.

If he's Mikhail’s brother… and he doesn’t know anything… maybe… maybe he can help me.

Help me escape. Help me save Papa.

But as her gaze flickered to Lucy, she saw it—the gentle but firm shake of her head. One blink. A quiet plea.

Don’t.

Niamph's lips pressed shut again. The hope inside her curled in on itself, wilting. Her heart sank, and the smile that had barely bloomed disappeared altogether.

Sergey noticed immediately.

He frowned, then leaned in a little.

“Hey… hey, wait—was it the cook comment?” he asked dramatically, pointing to himself. “I swear I meant that as a compliment. Honestly, cooks are the real MVPs. You think muscles run this house? No, madam. It’s carbs.”

Still, Niamph didn’t lift her eyes fully. Her face remained gloomy.

Sergey puffed out his cheeks and muttered, “Okay… time for emergency laughter surgery.”

He looked at her, cleared his throat theatrically, and grinned.

“Alright, prepare yourself for some premium Sergey comedy. Here it comes—don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Niamph glanced up, unsure.

Sergey held up a finger like he was about to say something profound.

“Why did the tomato turn red?”

He paused. “Because it saw the salad dressing.”

…

Silence.

Then he followed it with a dramatic fake laugh: “HA! Classic.”

Still no smile.

He leaned in, whispering like it was top-secret.

“Okay, okay. New one. Why did the cookie go to the hospital?”

Niamph blinked.

“Because it felt crumby.”

Lucy let out a snort from behind. Niamph covered her mouth, trying not to smile.

Sergey gasped. “A reaction! I heard a snort! We’re getting warmer!”

He rubbed his hands together. “Last one. I swear on my parrot’s ghost.”

Niamph blinked again, “a parrot?”

Sergey waved dismissively. “Yes, she keeps repeating herself.‘Why are you so fat, Sergey?’ Why does your brother look like a villain from a romance novel, Sergey?’”

That did it.

A small, helpless giggle slipped past Niamph’s lips.

Sergey pointed

at her triumphantly, like he’d won the lottery. “There it is! I saw that!”

Lucy laughed too, eyes soft with relief.

Sergey grinned, proud of himself. Then his expression turned slightly more thoughtful as he studied Niamph’s face.

“Something’s not right,” he thought. “She’s hiding something… but she won’t tell me now. Fine. But Babushka needs to hear about this mystery guest, and fast.”

Comment your thoughts on this chapter.

Your comments motivate me a lot.