Chapter 7 You've got three questions

Vladislav Mikhailov's pov

I don't believe in fate. Never have. Life is about power, decisions, and control. That's how I've lived for over forty-five years. But that belief shatters the second I glance from my VIP balcony and spot her-Little Babochka, laughing at the bar, too close to some fucker.

Rage coils through me like a serpent. I move before I register it, down the stairs, across the room, slicing through the bodies on the dance floor until I'm there-beside her, reclaiming what's mine.

I lead her, more like drag her to the dance floor, my hand never leaving the small of her back. She's tense beneath my touch, but she follows, step by reluctant step.

The lights above shift-deep red, gold, shadows. The air smells of sweat, spilled liquor, and danger. But beneath it all, I still catch it-her. Soft, warm, familiar Jasmine scent. Like rain before a storm.

And then, as if the universe is mocking me, the DJ transitions to "Too Much" by Daniel Caesar ft. H.E.R.

Fate. Fucking fate.

I pull her close, one hand on her waist, the other sliding up her spine until my fingers rest against her neck, under that silky curtain of hair. I feel her breath catch. She doesn't speak, doesn't run. Good.

"You get three questions," I say near her ear, voice low. "That's all I'm giving you tonight."

Her lips part, her brows pulling together. "Your name. Your real one."

I almost smirk. Of all the things she could ask, she chooses the name that's haunted headlines for decades. But I swallow the sarcasm. She wants the truth? I'll give her a taste.

"Vladislav Viktorovich Mikhailov."

"What do you do for a living?"

I smile at that. It's innocent. Hopeful. "I run this club," I say slowly, then lean in, "among other things."

She squints at me as if she knows I'm dodging something, but she doesn't push-yet.

"And the prison cell?" Her voice dips, quiet, hesitant. "Why were you in there?"

I pause. That's not a question she's ready to hear the truth for-not really.

I grip her a little tighter and lean down, so my lips brush the edge of her cheek. "Are you sure you want to know?"

Her chin lifts as she spares me a straight glance, "Yes." but she teters for a moment, "I guess..."

I study her. That steady fire in her eyes-reckless. Brave. So goddamn beautiful.

"I'm into dark things, Caitlyn," I murmur against her skin, and I feel her shiver. "The kind that don't get whispered about even in rooms like this. Things far too twisted for someone like you. What you saw... that was a glimpse."

Her breath hitches. I see her lips tremble just slightly as fear engulfs her huge brown eyes, but she masks it immediately, but I see it.

"The club is a mask. This-" I gesture to the pulsing lights, the dancers, the smoke. "It's just a stage. The real work... happens in shadows."

The song ends. But we don't move. We stay locked, chests brushing, eyes not looking anywhere but forward, at each other.

She breaks first. Tries to pull away.

But I tighten my grip, not rough... but firm. "Don't go," I whisper. "Not yet."

I am not ready to let her go, but I didn't know how to make her stay. So I do what my instincts tell me to do-I lower my face into her neck, breathing her in-clean, warm, faintly floral, and uniquely hers. I don't hide it. I inhale shamelessly, like I've been suffocating and she's oxygen.

She stiffens. I know she's about to speak. She turns her face to look at me-

And that's when I do it.

I lean in.

At first, it's a mere brush, my mouth hovers over hers, giving her one last chance to pull away, but when she remains still, my lips graze hers, though it was less of a kiss it carries more emotions, ones which I have tried so hard to hide even from myself. More like a whisper of a promise.

I halt for a second to give her one last chance to pull away, but she doesn't pull away. She leans into it. And that's all the invitation I need.

My hand cradles her jaw as I kiss her again, deeper this time. Mouths open, moulding into each other, I explore her mouth, tasting the citrus taste of apple martini, sharp and sweet, laced with something warmer... her.

She tastes like fire and ruin.

Tongues tangle. It's not soft-it's hungry. Her nails dig into my shirt, as my hands slide into her hair, and I can feel the ragged gasp against my lips when I bite her lower lip.

My blood hums.

I break the kiss only to catch her gaze-eyes glazed, lips swollen.

"Come with me," I rasp

I don't wait for an answer; instead, I maneuver her through the crowd, never letting go of her hand as she jogs to keep up with my long strides. People part for me. They always do.

The VIP hallway is darker, quieter, lined with velvet and shadows. One of my most trusted guards steps aside without a word, unlocking the heavy door.

I don't look back.

The door clicks shut behind us.

And now, silence settles between us, thick and charged, as the pounding music fades into distant, incoherent echoes...We're alone.