Ella
ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ
The day of the storm
*Earlier that day*
Ella woke to the sun streaming through her thin curtains and her phone buzzing with a call from work. Site vandalized. Machinery destroyed. Documents stolen. The Volkovs, the foreman said. They were making moves.
Ella groaned, rubbing her eyes. She'd been at that site for three months—her biggest project yet. A new commercial complex on the east side. And now some rival faction was trying to sabotage it.
"I'll be there in an hour," she told her foreman. "Don't touch anything. I need to see the damage."
She dressed quickly—gray tank top, baggy sweatpants, her worn-out sneakers. She didn't bother with makeup. What was the point? She was going to spend the next eighteen hours crawling through dust and debris, and the only people who'd see her were construction workers who didn't care what she looked like.
Her glasses fogged as she stepped outside. The morning air was cold, thick with the promise of rain.
Great.
She grabbed a coffee from the corner shop—chocolate, extra sweet, the only thing that made mornings bearable—and drove to the site.
The site was a skeleton of steel and concrete, half-built and abandoned for the night. Vandalized machinery lay scattered across the ground. Stolen documents—blueprints, permits, everything—were gone.
Ella sighed, rubbing her temples.
"Eighteen hours," she muttered. "This is going to take eighteen hours."
She didn't know that, by nightfall, she'd be staring into the coldest blue eyes she'd ever seen.
She didn't know that she'd be accused of being a spy, trapped in a trailer by a man who looked like a god and talked like the devil.
She didn't know that everything she thought she knew—about herself, about her father, about the world—was about to shatter.
But she felt it.
A whisper at the back of her mind. A shiver down her spine. A premonition that something was coming—something dark and dangerous and inevitable.
She shook it off.
Focus, she told herself. One hour at a time.
And she walked into the trailer.
---
End of Ella's POV
****************
Dimitri
ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ
---
The warehouse smelled of rust, rain, and fear.
Dimitri Ivanov stood motionless in the center of the concrete floor, his black silk hair slicked back from a face that could have been carved by a vengeful god—if gods believed in mercy. At six-foot-four, he towered over the kneeling men before him, his shadow swallowing them whole. His dark blue eyes, fringed with lashes too long for a man of his reputation, swept across their trembling forms with the dispassion of a surgeon examining cadavers.
The scar on his chin caught the dim light—a pale slash that bisected his jaw like a warning. Beneath his tailored black shirt, he knew the map of his chest and back told a darker story. Whip marks. Cigarette burns. A constellation of suffering etched into muscle and bone.
ESTÁS LEYENDO
His Malyshka |18+
Fanfiction"You can't say things like that," she whispered. "Why not?" "Because..." She trailed off. "Because what?" I pulled back and looked into her eyes. They were dark, stormy, full of conflict. "Because you want me to say them?" "No-" "Liar." I tilted he...
