Swati Singh's Blog: Ars longa, vita brevis
June 20, 2025
AUTHOR INTERVIEW: Julia Strelou
AUTHOR INTERVIEW: Julia Strelou on Ocean Folklore, Emotional Depth, and Love That Destroys
With her debut novel Sea of Evil and Desire, released May 6th, 2025, Julia Strelou has made waves—both in hearts and on bookshelves. Her lyrical prose, magnetic characters, and ocean-wrapped mythology invite readers into a world as breathtaking as it is brutal. With its rich folklore, aching romance, and themes of fate, grief, and passion, this is a book that lingers long after the final page.
We had the pleasure of speaking with Julia about her creative process, the heartbreak and beauty behind her characters, and what to expect next in the Sea of Pleasure and Pain. Below, she shares a raw and thoughtful reflection on storytelling, love, and the power of the sea.
I’ve been fascinated by ocean folklore for as long as I can remember. I often imagined the last mermaid, what she might look like, how she might have suffered at the hands of pollution and mankind. That vision became the initial idea behind Sea of Evil and Desire. I wanted to tell a romantic fantasy story and use the narrative to spread awareness about our beautiful oceans and protecting them.Morgana is unlike other human heroines—she’s resilient, magnetic, and powerful in quiet ways. How did you want readers to feel about her evolution?
Morgana is meant to be relatable human. Whenever I wrote her dialogue or imagined her reactions to things, I asked myself how a normal girl, with no training, would react to these situations.
Even if her choices seem frustrating for some who are used to their heroines pre-existing as warriors, I hope that as she grows into her power, this humanness allows her to feel more relatable to readers.
Finn is morally grey because he is tormented by his past, especially how his father treated him. The real challenge was creating a character who carried that darkness yet revealed enough vulnerability to feel complex and human. Hurt people often unintentionally hurt people or make bad decisions. For Finn, it was about finding the balance between the darkness he was raised to embrace and then layering in a hope that he could change.
A mermaid without question! When I was a little girl, I used to go down to the beach, lie on the rocks on my stomach, let the waves break over me, and sing, “Part Of This World.” I’ve always wanted to be Ariel from The Little Mermaid.
Finding true emotional depth for these two characters in book one was challenging because there wasn’t enough time to explore it as deeply as I would have liked. But Morgana and Finn’s aching relationship will unfold across the entire series, and I hope that I will be able to strike a balance.
I can’t give away any spoilers for how their relationship will conclude, but what mattered most in book one was laying the groundwork for a will-they, won’t-they romance between two aching souls—one that has the depth to stretch across four novels and not be neatly tied up in the first one.
Both Finn and Morgana are caught in the hands of fate. While Finn isn’t the ‘chosen one,’ he’s still entangled in the prophecy and the repeating cycle of Manannán, Siana, and Prince Kyano. As Morgana steps into her power, you may begin to see a shift in their dynamic; she’s the one who will rise to become the powerful force, and the dynamics will be somewhat reversed.
The greatest love stories often end in tragedy—Romeo and Juliet, Anna Karenina, and The Great Gatsby are just some examples. “Love is the reason for everything, but it can also be our ruin.” This notion guides all of my characters. You can listen to the song Wicked Games by Chris Isaak and apply it to the storyline of any of our main characters. I love Disney and a good happily-ever-after... but I suppose I’m subverting the romantasy genre by weaving in some of the aching tragedy that can also exist within love.
There will be happy endings in my series, don’t worry! But not for everyone… But I can promise that even those who do not have stereotypical “happy endings” will still have beauty within their conclusion.
There will be happy endings in my series, don’t worry! But not for everyone… But I can promise that even those who do not have stereotypical “happy endings” will still have beauty within their conclusion.
First, thank you for recognising the complexity of these intertwined relationships. Your thoughtful questions mean the world to me.
Balancing and weaving these intertwined stories was really hard. Sometimes, I would find inconsistencies and think I couldn’t do this. I needed to give up; it was too hard. Haha, but I got there after many tears and years!
I adore Morgana and Finn. Whatever Finn’s done… I’m still rooting for them, I really am. However, I find myself most drawn to Siana and Manannán’s relationship and how this will play out between Manannán and Morgana (should they ever meet in person!). Manannán isn’t the leading male, so I don’t have to colour within archetypal lines with him. I can take his character anywhere I want, which excites me.
Yes, I believe in fate… but as Finn says, maybe destiny gives us choices, and what we choose defines us. Often, fate becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy because characters act on it. The irony in this series is that while everyone is running around trying to find the prophecy, the subtle hands of fate are already pulling them into a reenactment of the past. The question is, can they recognise the pattern and break it before it’s too late?
The world came first. Morgana (and her Selkie coat!) appeared to me as a teenager.
Ooh, that’s a tough one. I don’t want to give too much away. Morgana and Finn’s complex relationship will continue to evolve across the series. But I will say in Sea of Pleasure and Pain, you can expect to find: secrets, seductions, yearning, and some fiery confrontations.
I remember writing that scene; I didn’t plan it; I just stepped into Manannán’s mind and let the words flow. I’m so glad it resonated with you, because I still remember getting goosebumps as I wrote it.
From my heart to yours—thank you.
To everyone who has taken a chance on my debut, I’m endlessly grateful. Every review, every shared post, every Kindle highlight means more than I can express.
When I received my first five-star review, I fell to the floor in tears—I had no idea how my weird and wonderful world would be received. I was speechless.
So thank you, truly, for bringing my story to life each time you turn a page.
With Sea of Evil and Desire, Julia Strelou has crafted a hauntingly romantic debut that explores the devastating power of love and the ancient pull of the sea. Her second novel promises even more danger, desire, and heartbreak—and we can’t wait to see where Morgana and Finn’s story goes next.
Follow Julia’s journey and dive into her ocean of myth, magic, and raw emotion—you just might lose yourself in the tide.
RELEVANT LINKS🔗
Book Review: https://www.instagram.com/p/DJRvTZdT9HM/?igsh=MWVsenN3dXYzd3Qxbw==
Book Trailer: https://www.instagram.com/reel/DJUlmorzEI8/?igsh=b3U5ZmdpOGwwbzZw
Julia Strelou: https://www.instagram.com/j.strelou?igsh=MWc2OWx5ODhwZHF2cg==
Booktaletalks: https://www.instagram.com/booktaletalks/
Sea of Evil and Desire:
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/230872148Fable: https://fable.co/book/sea-of-evil-and-desire-the-addictive-mer-romantasy-youve-been-waiting-for-by-j-strelou-9780473736200Amazon in: https://amzn.in/d/fCT04zyAmazon com: https://a.co/d/dNgZnq7
May 23, 2025
Inside the Heart of Dark Romantasy: An Interview with Rebecca A. Raine
By @booktaletalks | Indie Author Features | May 2025
There are stories that entertain, and there are stories that haunt—ones that echo long after the last page, settling into your bones like truth. To Burn in Rapture, the upcoming dark romantasy novella by Rebecca A. Raine, is already one of those stories.
When I first came across the novella, something inside me stirred. There was a rawness, an ache, a whisper of love and sorrow so human it felt holy. As a reader drawn to stories that explore the ache of love, the weight of choice, and the beauty in sorrow, I knew I had to reach out.
Rebecca’s work is already resonating deeply with readers—even before its official release on June 1st. As part of a new interview series on my blog, where I dive into the minds of authors who write love that devours and characters who bleed with meaning, I had the honor of asking her a few questions. What followed was a conversation rooted in passion, truth, and the creative courage it takes to tell stories that cut deep.
Here is our full exchange.
Lunara: 1. Rebecca, would you like to share what inspires you to write all-or-nothing, soul-consuming love stories? Is it a creative fascination, or are your words rooted in personal experience?
Rebecca: We are taught, from a very young age, to hide from our emotions instead of feeling them, and a way I've always chosen to express mine is through writing, either poetry or stories. As I've become older, it's a side of myself I've grown to love and express more freely. There's so much joy in expressing from the heart, and my hope is always that others will feel that through my writing. So, my inspiration comes from my heart/experiences, curiosity to explore and ART. I love art rooted in love; paintings, music, novels, poetry etc. When you find a story that perfectly encapsulates how you've experienced an emotion, it's so affirming.
Lunara: 2. In one of your recent posts, you spoke about quitting your job to pursue writing full-time. What is the source of that strength—the thing that makes you willing to give everything up for your stories? What inspires you to that extent?
Rebecca: Regret inspires me, haha. I'm a bit of a philosophical thinker, and one of the thoughts that often runs around in my head is "I'd hate to not do XYZ based on fear." The worst thing I could imagine is coming to the end of my life and realising I achieved nothing of what I wanted to do! Luckily, I have a very supportive family and friend base, and they were all on board for this adventure, aka they had no choice. One thing my friends and family know about me is that if they tell me not to do something, it only makes me want to do it more. I also found a fantastic person who I talk to regularly about this writing endeavour and life in general, she keeps me sane.
Also, stories have always inspired me. They are what I'm passionate about. I personally believe creativity is one of our greatest assets as humans, along with the ability to love fiercely.
Lunara: 3. To Burn in Rapture is a story built on powerful contrasts. As one of the lines from the novella says, it's about “a human who’s immortal, and a god with humanity.” What draws you to such paradoxes?
Rebecca: The larger the contrast, the stronger the pull. Having constraints based on the story builds it up for greater emotions and higher stakes, and I love having the tug of war between characters. Angst and yearning are what I live for.
Lunara: 4. In your novella releasing June 1st, Sabine's voice carries a haunting loneliness—destined to watch lovers unite while never knowing love for herself. When you write such lines, do you feel like Sabine, or does her ache echo something of the Rebecca who created her?
Rebecca: It's reminiscent of a collective loneliness, an emotion we all experience at one time or another. What I love about Sabine is that even though she watches others experience these things she may never have, she never gives up on having them with Janus. She knows she is never truly alone. She will always have him. That's why he chose the nickname he did.
Lunara: 5. “Death isn’t the worst thing that can happen to a human. I’m living proof of that.” —a quote from your novella. Could you expand on this for your readers? Do you truly believe that death can be easier than living?
Rebecca: This only applies in Sabine's situation as an "immortal human". In context to the story, there's life again after death, so Sabine sees that as an escape, a new start. She's stuck forever, which she believes is the worst thing possible. She's also very jaded to life and death because she has lived for nearly 3000 years. This quote is proof of that.
From a "mortal perspective", I will always advocate for life. Death is not an easy option. As someone who has a deep understanding of mental health issues and struggles, I always advocate that people get the help they need by talking and reaching out to professionals who offer support in that space.
Lunara: 6. Can you tell us about the first time you knew, deep in your heart, that being an author was your true calling? Not your first book or story—but the moment you realized this was it?
Rebecca: To be completely honest, this is not something I can remember. I've always been passionate about stories, and in high school, when I started finding romance novels, I grew obsessed and knew I was going to do that when I was older, and that idea has never wavered.
Lunara: 7. For readers of To Burn in Rapture who haven’t read Sing Me Awake, could you share a little about your earlier work and how it connects—or contrasts—with your upcoming novella?
Rebecca: Sing Me Awake is a why choose romantasy. It still has elements of emotional trauma and morally grey characters, but it isn't a dark romantasy. I love the why choose genre, and I wanted to write a romantasy that spoke to me because I was having a hard time finding one, so this book was my answer to that. If you are new to why choose my readers have told me this is a perfect starting ground as it's a very soft landing into that genre.
Dove, the FMC, starts off beaten down but still hopeful, and Sing follows the journey of Dove finding that inner strength and love again after spending years barricading her heart. Her love interests include a fae prince, wolf shifter and fallen god!
Sing Me Awake is book one in the trilogy, with book two, Sing Me Free, coming out around August.
In my stories, the FMCs are fierce, and the love interests are always out to protect them.
Lunara: 8. Are there any quotes from To Burn in Rapture that speak to you the most? Lines that linger with you, even beyond the page?
Rebecca: One of my favourites from To Burn in Rapture is "God or bust!" It's such a me thing to say, like all or nothing. But, there are truly so many I could go on forever.
Also, when Janus calls Sabine his salvation, he's my Roman Empire!
Lunara: 9. For aspiring indie authors: could you talk about the more difficult sides of the publishing world? The exhaustion of endless edits, the emotional toll—what do you wish more people understood?
Rebecca: It's an endless juggle of writing, editing, marketing, emails, design, edits, random admin, and more edits. There's so much to do and not enough hours in the day, especially if this is not your only job. I "work" every day now. There's no switch off, but in saying all that, I LOVE IT!!!
The best part about being an author is that you can take it at your own speed, so if you want to start off slowly, do that. If you want to come in all guns blazing, do that. The best advice I can give is to listen to your heart. Do what is right for you. Take what advice you need and leave the rest at the door because the stories that come through you. The ones you write are amazing and need to be heard by someone.
Writing and storytelling are so magical, and I can't believe I'm actively involved in them every day. I'm an author, and that title will always be front and centre for me from now on.
Lunara: 10. Lastly, is there anything you'd like to say to your readers and reviewers? We’d love to hear from you—heart to heart.
Rebecca: I love feeling seen when I read another author's work, and that's what I hope for my readers. I write relatable FMCS (Yes, Sabine might be unhinged, but so am I, depending on my mood, haha). And I write MMCS that make you believe in love, passion, and being treated like a Goddess, because you deserve it! My stories may be wrapped up in fun tropes and fantastical worlds, but at the core there's always a deeper meaning.
ALSO, I say this ALL the time, but I'm very grateful to every single reader who takes the time to read my work and recommend it to others. Word of mouth is the biggest avenue for stories being seen. Readers trust readers, so when you show love to my work, it excites me for the future of where my stories could go. It just takes one recommendation and one post for a story to go wide, and that's incredible. So I'm endlessly thankful to everyone who shares my work xx
Final Thoughts
What struck me most about Rebecca A. Raine’s responses is the sincerity threading through each line—the blend of artistic hunger and personal truth. In a world where dark romantasy often deals in shadows, Rebecca writes with a lantern held high: not to banish the dark, but to illuminate what still burns within it.
Her voice is unflinchingly honest, just like her characters. And that’s what makes To Burn in Rapture feel not just like a story—but a mirror.
You can follow Rebecca A. Raine on Instagram and preorder To Burn in Rapture now. (Links mentioned below)
More interviews with emotionally raw, powerfully romantic storytellers to come.
Until then—read with your whole heart.
With light,
Lunara
IMPORTANT LINKS
Book Review Link: https://arsslongavitabrevis.blogspot.com/2025/05/to-burn-in-rapturea-book-review.html
Preorder Link(Amazon.com): https://www.amazon.com/Burn-Rapture-Dark-Romantasy-Novella-ebook/dp/B0DWSH8NHG
Author’s social account: https://www.instagram.com/r.a.raineauthor?igsh=cDhoaXF5MXNndXZk
Spicy Book art🌶️: https://www.instagram.com/p/DI1xyq3Rxcd/?img_index=1&igsh=Zm1tMnRkb3FoOXp6
Add the book on Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/228005948
Add the book on Fable: https://fable.co/book/to-burn-in-rapture-dark-romantasy-novella-by-ra-raine-9781763802445
Quotes spoiler: https://www.instagram.com/p/DJoswIJsAqk/?igsh=MWZ3b3cycGhwaTF0Ng==
Follow the blog for more such posts. Happy Reading💕
To Burn in Rapture—A Book Review
Rating: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️/5
To Burn in Rapture by R. A. Raine is a dark romantasy novella that spans from the time of Roman gods to the modern world. Tension-packed, compelling, and sharply written, this story blends the irresistible pull of fated mates with precise, evocative prose.
This is a tale of paradoxes—of love that consumes, defies fate, and burns through every boundary. Sabine, a woman on the brink of death and violation, is saved by Janus—the Roman god of beginnings and endings, a god without a heart. And yet, something about Sabine stirs him. She isn’t just someone he saved. She is the soul he’s been missing for centuries—his other half.
It’s the story of a god who falls for an immortal human he cannot have, yet keeps breaking the very laws he created just to keep her close. And a woman willing to walk through the flames of the Underworld to stand beside her god.
Sabine is a strong female lead who doesn’t shrink in the face of divine power. The love in this story lingers long after the last page. There’s sass that leaps off the page, and puns so sharp they’ll have you laughing even in the middle of chaos.
You’ll find:
🔥Star Crossed Lovers
🔥Roman God X Immortal Human
🔥Spicy 🌶️🌶️🌶️
🔥Love and longing over centuries
🔥Unapologetic/Morally grey FMC
🔥Heart of my soul as nickname
If you're into dark romance and are craving something with intense chemistry and dangerously hot Roman gods, To Burn in Rapture will definitely keep you up at night.
Thank you for the ARC, R. A. Raine. I’m excited to support you in all your future endeavors!
IMPORTANT LINKS
Preorder Link(Amazon.com): https://www.amazon.com/Burn-Rapture-Dark-Romantasy-Novella-ebook/dp/B0DWSH8NHG
Author’s social account: https://www.instagram.com/r.a.raineauthor?igsh=cDhoaXF5MXNndXZk
Spicy Book art🌶️: https://www.instagram.com/p/DI1xyq3Rxcd/?img_index=1&igsh=Zm1tMnRkb3FoOXp6
Add the book on Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/228005948
Add the book on Fable: https://fable.co/book/to-burn-in-rapture-dark-romantasy-novella-by-ra-raine-9781763802445
Quotes spoiler: https://www.instagram.com/p/DJoswIJsAqk/?igsh=MWZ3b3cycGhwaTF0Ng==
Follow the blog for more such posts. Happy Reading💕
May 19, 2025
Annotation Supplies and Digital Book Review Template
Annotation bag:
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https://www.amazon.in/Highlighter-Assorted-Applicable-Highlighters-Stationery/dp/B09V2YNNXF
DIGITAL BOOK REVIEW TEMPLATE
Find me on bookstagram and follow for more such content: @booktaletalksLink: https://www.instagram.com/booktaletalks/
May 15, 2025
Chapter Six to Eight of my Dark Romance Novel[Natasha&Vaughn]
Chapter 6
NATASHA
“What’s next?”
Rosalie leans over my shoulder, watching as I stir the creamy sauce in slow, deliberate circles. The sharp citrus scent of lemon mingles with the rich aroma of butter and parmesan, curling into the air between us.
“Just a minute,” I murmur, gauging the texture. “It needs to thicken a little more.”
She hums in approval. “Good. Most people add the cream too soon, and it ruins the consistency.”
A hint of satisfaction tugs at my lips. “I learned from the best.”
“That you did.” She smiles before reaching for the fresh basil, tearing the leaves with practiced ease. “Did Vaughn teach you, or did you force your way into his kitchen?”
The question is meant to be light, teasing. But something about it catches me off guard. My fingers falter against the spoon. The words slip out before I can stop them.
“Vaughn made this for me on my birthday.”
The shift is instant. I feel it before I see it. Like stepping off solid ground, realizing too late that there’s nothing beneath you.
I plate a spoonful of Pasta al Limone for Rosalie and myself, focusing on the steady rhythm of movement, but something about the moment feels too exposed. Like I’ve peeled back a layer I never intended to.
Rosalie doesn’t comment on it, but I notice the slight tilt of her head. The way her eyes soften just a fraction before she says, “Of course he did. It’s his mother’s recipe. His favorite.”
His mother.
I hesitate, then glance at her. “Where is she now?”
The reaction is immediate. Rosalie stills, her hands trembling as her breath catches. Her smile, always so warm and effortless, vanishes. I watch as she blinks rapidly, but the single tear clinging to her lashes betrays her. Something in my chest tightens.
“Rosalie?” I set the bowl aside and reach for her arm. “Are you alright? Did I say something wrong?”
No response.
It’s as if she’s been swallowed whole by a memory too painful to resurface from. My pulse kicks up.
“Rosalie, should I call someone?” My voice is sharper now, cutting through whatever abyss she’s trapped in.
The moment shatters.
She blinks, a breath catching in her throat before she forces a smile—one so radiant, so practiced, I almost believe it. “No, dear.” Her soft fingers graze my jaw in a motherly touch. “I’m alright. Come, sit down. Let’s see how well you can cook.”
She shifts as if the moment never happened, but something about it lingers. Something I don’t push. We all have things we don’t talk about. Wounds that fester beneath the surface. If this is hers, I won’t press further. I exhale.
“Alright.” Settling beside her, I slide the plate forward. “Tell me how I did.”
Rosalie takes a bite, chewing slowly before a satisfied hum vibrates through her throat. “Just like Mrs. Volkov used to make it.”
She wipes her mouth with a napkin, eyes gleaming with approval. “Vaughn will love it.”
My stomach twists. The fork tightens in my grip before I shove it into the pasta with unnecessary force. “I don’t care if he does.”
My voice is sharp, clipped. “I made enough for two of us. No one else.”
Rosalie exhales, her fingers tightening slightly around her glass. “I’m sorry that you had to go through this, Natasha. Vaughn never talks much, so I don’t know why he did what he did. But I’ve known him for a long time.”
She pauses, something distant flickering in her gaze. “I’ve seen the cracks in him since the day he learned about you.” Something in the way she says it makes my stomach pull tight. “There’s something in you that draws him in,” she continues, her voice thoughtful, hesitant. “Makes him want to be… worthy of you.” Then, almost as if catching herself, she shakes her head. “And I think he’s lying to himself about that.”
A sharp, uneasy chill prickles my skin. “What do you mean?”
Rosalie hesitates. It’s a brief flicker, a split-second slip—but I catch it. The tightening of her lips. The way she glances at the table, as if weighing her words. “For over a year now, he’s been obsessed with you…”
Rosalie’s voice trails off. My fingers tighten around the fork, but I don’t move. Don’t breathe. I replay her words in my mind, once, twice—until the number carves itself into my skull like a scar.
A year.
The word crashes into me like ice water.
“A year?” My voice barely rises above a whisper. “But I only met him two months ago.”
“Yes…” The word is hurried.
“But you just said a year.” My heart is beating too fast. “Which one is it, Rosalie?”
She straightens, reaching for the empty bowls. “I must have misspoken.” A soft, forced laugh escapes her. “Age is taking a toll on my memory these days.”
She’s lying.
I see it in the way she won’t meet my eyes. In the way she grips the dish just a little too tightly. I take a step forward, a thousand questions surging up my throat, but before I can push for more, she scoops some of the pasta into a container and seals it. “I should get going. There’s something I forgot to do in the garden.”
She turns before I can stop her, her steps brisk, her shoulders slightly hunched—as if she’s carrying the weight of something unspoken.
The door shuts behind her, leaving behind an unsettling quiet. I sit back down, my hands curling into fists against my lap.
One year.
The pendant.
The one I lost months before I even met Vaughn. The one he somehow had in his possession. A slow, nauseating realization slithers through me confirming my paranoia. Something I had suspected since the day he retuned my pendant.
He knew.
He had known about me long before I ever knew him.
A sharp shudder wracks my body. How long? How much had he seen? Was it just the casual glimpses of a stranger from afar? Or had it been more? Had he followed me home? Stood outside my apartment? Watched me sleep?
I swallow hard, a cold weight settling in my stomach. I think of all the moments I was alone in my room. Undressing. Singing in the shower. Lying in bed with the windows open. Touching myself assuming no one was looking.
I think of how often I had the feeling of being watched. How I brushed it off. Was it him?
The air in the room feels heavier, like the walls are closing in. Being watched isn’t just unsettling. It’s an invasion. A violation. The kind that leaves an invisible mark on your skin, a lingering unease that never truly fades.
And it was him.
The man who watches like he owns me. The man who touched me with such devastating certainty, as if I had always belonged to him. I feel sick.
Because a part of me wonders—was this always his plan? Had I ever really had a choice?
The scent of garlic and lemon still fills the kitchen, but my appetite has long vanished. Five days. Vaughn hasn’t shown his face in five damn days.
Not that it matters. His presence lingers like cigarette smoke, clinging to every inch of this place, curling under my skin. Even when I can’t see him, I feel him. Watching. Controlling. Owning.
The faint sound of a voice outside the kitchen makes my hands pause. My grip on the glass tightens.
A second later, I hear it again. Sharp. Lethal. Vaughn.
My stomach knots. I press my back against the wall, moving toward the doorframe, careful not to make a sound.
The hallway outside is dim, but I can see him through the narrow gap between the door and the frame. Standing there, tension coiled in his broad shoulders, his phone pressed to his ear.
“Find him. I don’t care how.” My pulse stammers. He sounds different. Cold, even for him.
He turns slightly, looking toward the hallway—toward my door. I hold my breath. “I need to know what he’s up to.” Vaughn’s voice drops into something even more dangerous, a slow, venomous whisper. “Why is he calling her so many times?”
A pause.
“Ivan, seventeen. That’s how many missed calls from a certain Dante are in Natasha’s phone.” A sharp pang of panic lurches through my chest. “Who is he, and why the fuck is he so desperate to reach her?”
Vaughn’s hand flexes, his grip on the phone tightening like he’s strangling it.
Silence. Ivan must be answering him.
“She said he’s a childhood friend?” Vaughn repeats, his tone mocking, disbelieving. A bitter scoff follows. “Then tell me, Ivan—what kind of friend calls her seventeen times in a row?”
I swear I can hear his breathing shift. Can hear the sick, violent thoughts twisting through his mind.
“Is he her boyfriend?” The word is pure poison, spit like a curse. I see it then—the tick in his jaw, the way his entire body goes rigid like the thought alone is enough to wreck him.
His fist clenches, and I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. Ivan says something. Whatever it is, it doesn’t calm him.
“I don’t care how you do it.” Vaughn’s voice is nothing but steel now. “Ask Anastasia. Dig into her friends. I want to know everything about him.”
There’s a pause—a long, deadly one.
“I am not letting any man near her.” His voice is low, guttural. It’s not just anger. It’s possession. It’s something deeper, darker, something that burns through him.
A sharp exhale follows, quiet but cutting.
“Especially this Dante.”
The call ends. I don’t move. Can’t breathe. The air is thick, suffocating. My mind races, my heart pounding so hard I swear it’ll give me away.
Dante. Shit.
I had forgotten completely about him. I need to contact him.
Now Vaughn thinks Dante is a threat. And if there’s one thing I know about Vaughn, it’s that he doesn’t make empty threats. When he wants something, he takes it—rips it from the world if he has to. I swallow hard.
I need my phone. From Vaughn. Somehow. Anyhow.
Before this turns into something I can’t escape.
~
The clock strikes twelve when my eyes finally start to give in.
I have a plan. A distraction. A way to get my phone back from that monster’s grip.
It’s reckless. Dangerous. If I slip up, I could lose my only chance. But I don’t have a choice anymore. I’m desperate. Running out of options.
For seven days, I’ve wandered through every corner of this house, searching for a way out. For six nights, I’ve cried myself to sleep. And yet, I’m still here. Trapped.
Every entrance is locked. Armed guards patrol the hallways, their gazes like silent warnings—there’s no escaping this place. No escaping him.
Rosalie checks on me four times a day, hovering like a shadow. She never lets me out of her sight, and when the clock strikes nine, she secures me in Vaughn’s bed as if I belong there.
I had started to lose hope.
Until this evening. Until Vaughn said Dante’s name.
That was my lifeline. My connection to the world outside these walls. Dante must be losing his mind right now. We’ve spoken every night since I left Malaysia and came to Russia. It was a promise. A thread keeping us tethered across the miles.
And now, Vaughn has cut it.
The thought tightens around my chest, heavy and suffocating. I need to reach him.
The room is dark except for the soft glow of the lamp Rosalie always leaves on. Ever since that night Vaughn came in.
My eyes find comfort in the dim light, but exhaustion still drags me under. Sleep takes over. Not sleep.
Nightmare.
The same one. Every night.
The scent of blood is the first thing I notice. Metallic. Thick. It coats my tongue, saturates the air, fills my lungs until I can’t breathe.
My mother lies crumpled in my arms, her warmth slipping away with each passing second. The deep crimson pooling beneath her is still fresh, soaking into the floor, staining my skin as I clutch her tighter. Her lips are parted, frozen mid-breath. Mid-scream.
I press trembling fingers against them, as if I can wipe away the blood. As if I can fix this. I can’t.
A sob rips from my throat, raw and broken. The house is silent. The screaming stopped long ago.
But then— Laughter.
Not mine. His.
The sound slithers through the walls, a sickening echo that crawls under my skin. I turn my head. My father stands in the next room, a glass of whiskey in his hand, smiling.
Not a flicker of grief crosses his face. He doesn’t look at my mother’s body. Doesn’t acknowledge the wife he just lost. Because she was never more than collateral damage.
A pawn in his endless thirst for power.
A strangled cry tears through my throat as my eyes snap open. My body jerks against the restraints, my wrists burning where the ties dig into my skin.
My breath comes in ragged, uneven gasps, but no matter how much air I pull in, it isn’t enough. My vision swims, the nightmare still clinging to me like a second skin.
I should’ve been there for her.
I could have saved her.
The thought slams into me, hollow and brutal, the weight of it pressing down on my chest. Tears slip down my cheeks, hot and unchecked, as I yank at the restraints.
My lungs seize, my vision tunneling into a suffocating haze. My hands shake, fingers flexing in a desperate bid for control.
Breathe, Natasha.
The words are distant, echoing in the depths of my mind. But the panic is stronger. I can’t breathe.
The walls press in, shrinking, suffocating. I hear my mother’s screams. I see the blood. My hands are covered in it. My mother’s.
No, no, no.
I wrench at the ties, the rough fabric slicing into my skin. Warmth trickles down my wrists, but all I see is her.
Her dead body.
Her lifeless eyes.
The silence of her last breath.
A scream rips from my throat before I realize I’m the one making the sound. My body trembles, my mind fracturing under the weight of a past that won’t let me go.
And then—No. Not him. Anyone but him.
“Vaughn…”
The name falls from my lips, raw and broken. A plea I don’t mean to make.
Why him?
He is the one who put me here. The one who ripped me from my life, stole my freedom, and bound me to his world like I was nothing more than a possession. He tied me to this bed, reduced me to a pawn in his ruthless game, shattered every illusion of control I thought I had. He betrayed me.
And yet—when my demons rise from the depths, when the darkness coils around my throat like a noose, suffocating, relentless—his name is the one I reach for. A sick twist of fate. A betrayal of my own mind.
Maybe the past weeks I spent with him—or his facade—have done more damage than I realized. Maybe the time spent under his gaze, within his grasp, has left a stain that I can’t scrub away.
Because even now, when I should be thinking of escape, of vengeance, of anything but him—he’s the only one who cuts through the suffocating dark.
However, before I can understand the reason behind it, before I can stop myself from repeating the same mistake again—
A louder sob rips through my throat, my body rebelling against my mind. I don’t want this. I don’t want him. But my body doesn’t listen. My mind doesn’t care.
“Vaughn…”
It’s barely a whisper, but it tastes like defeat.
A loud noise registers somewhere in the haze of my consciousness, but my body is already shutting down. My limbs go limp. My vision fades.
And all I see is red.
Chapter 7
VAUGHN
My back burns, but my chest aches more. More than it did five years ago. More than it did three years back when I set my entire world on fire with my bare hands. But this—this pain is unlike anything else. It drowns out every other wound, every other scar. Because the source of it is her. The woman whose blood made her my enemy.
I should have killed her when she was just a name, a bloodline.
But now—now that I know her—I can’t even stand the sight of her in pain. Whether it’s flesh and bone or something I can’t even touch.
The difference? I can kill whoever dares to even think of harming her. I have killed for her. But her dreams—her nightmares—I can’t fucking touch them. I can’t rip them apart, can’t shoot them between the eyes, can’t drag them into the depths where I send those who cross me. They keep her trapped in some darkness I can’t reach.
Once, I used to watch. Admire the way she fought against invisible hands tightening around her throat.
Now? Now, I hate myself for it. Because I can’t pull her out of the hell she’s trapped in. I can’t protect her from this.
Why the fuck is this happening to me?
The door cracks against the hinge as I shove it open.
Natasha is a vision of ruin against the silk sheets—white negligee slipping off her shoulder, wrists bound in the very ropes I tied her with. But it isn’t the silk holding her down. It’s the demons. The ones that have lived inside her long before she became mine.
And they are nothing like mine.
I’ve always known Natasha as a creature of light. Too much light. She smiles too often. So much that my own darkness has ached to snuff it out, to teach her what real torture feels like. Maybe then, she would know what it’s like to stand here, powerless, as the thing you want most writhes in agony and you—ruthless, brutal, merciless—can do nothing about it.
I’ve been hunted, cut open, left to rot. I’ve been strung up in a noose of betrayal by the people closest to me. I’ve torn a bullet from my father’s skull with my own hands. I’ve watched water choke the last breath from my mother’s lungs. I’ve lost myself in blood and vengeance. Yet nothing—nothing—has ever driven me to the edge of insanity like this.
Like her.
I don’t believe in God. Never have. He didn’t come when I drowned in my own darkness. Didn’t come when I stood on the precipice of death, my fate tipping me toward the abyss.
Maybe I’m exactly what they call me—a villain, a monster. A man with bloodstained hands who was never meant to be saved. But Natasha… she should have been.
She is everything I am not.
She sees good where there is none. Feels warmth in a world built from ice. Her touch grazes the dying embers of my humanity, coaxing them back to life when they should have burned out long ago. She smiles even when her eyes scream in pain. She forgives when she shouldn’t. She is the kind of person men would die for.
And still, she suffers.
A choked sob escapes her lips, barely a whisper. Then another. A cry, trembling and raw. Then a scream—a piercing, ragged wail as her body convulses, spiraling out of
My fingers tighten around the glass in my hand. The ice inside cracks, melting against the warmth of my skin. With every tremor that wracks her body, my grip clenches tighter. Tighter—until the glass splinters. A sharp crack splits the silence, and the jagged edges bite into my palm.
She stirs. Her lashes flutter, her breath hitching as if clawing her way to the surface.
Then—her eyes.
Dark brown pools of agony, vast and endless.
And I want to drown. I want to dive into the depths of her suffering and drink it down, swallow every last drop of her pain until it sears through my throat, until it burns me alive—so it never touches her again.
But I can’t.
Not even I can stop this.
Why are you doing this to me, solnyshka?
I’ve built myself to not give a damn about anyone. Not even myself. Yet when my eyes find hers, something inside me tears open, like a blade dragged through raw flesh. And I bleed in a way I’ve never bled before.
Her breathing turns ragged. Too fast. Then too slow. Then—gasps. Shallow. Sharp. Her body is locking up, lungs refusing to work. She’s losing whatever anchor she has in this world.
I’ve seen her in nightmares before—watched her thrash and whimper. But this… this is different.
She isn’t fighting.
She’s giving in.
And that—that—is unacceptable.
Bad for you, solnyshka.
I won’t let you sink.
I might hate you. Or maybe I don’t. Maybe I never did. But I’ll be damned if I let you choose your own suffering.
That right belongs to me.
Her fists clench the duvet so hard the fabric rips under her nails. A broken sound escapes her throat, something between a sob and a breathless plea. She’s slipping away from me, diving deeper into the abyss, letting it drag her under.
No.
No.
She doesn’t get to leave me like this.
I move without thinking, instincts razor-sharp. Precise. I’ve studied this. Watched too many videos. Consulted doctors who don’t even know my name. I learned everything I could about what happens when the mind breaks—when terror consumes so completely that the body forgets how to function.
Because I knew this moment would come.
I knew.
I just didn’t know it would feel like this—like my own fucking soul is unraveling.
The glass in my hand is already broken, shards digging into my palm, warm blood mixing with melting ice. I don’t feel it.
I snatch a piece of ice and shove it between her lips, forcing it past her teeth.
Cold. Sharp.
A brutal shock to her system.
Her body jolts. A stuttered inhale. A choking sound. And then—a violent gasp as she drags in air, her throat convulsing, her body shuddering as the ice burns against her tongue.
Her eyes snap open.
Wild. Haunted. Here.
She’s here.
And for the first time since stepping into this room, I can fucking breathe.
“Suck.”
Not a request. A command. And I’ll make damn sure she follows it.
She’s barely conscious, her body wrecked with tremors, her breath a ragged stutter. But the moment she senses me closer—on the bed, beside her—her defiance notches up. Her lips twitch at the cold sensation before she spits the ice straight into my face.
Fuck.
Why does she have to make everything so fucking difficult?
“Now is not the time for rebellion, baby.” My voice is low, but there’s an edge to it. A warning. A threadbare restraint against the raw fear clawing under my skin.
I can’t lose her. I won’t lose her.
I grip her jaw, forcing it open, and shove another cube between her teeth. “Suck the damn ice, Natasha, or I will drive it down your throat with my tongue.”
The words snap through the fog in her head, her body tensing. A flicker of something in those dark, drowning eyes—awareness. Resistance. Good. I need her to fight.
“You won’t dare.” Her voice is a shattered snarl, her entire body spent from the aftershocks of her attack. And yet, even drained and wrecked, she refuses to submit.
Fucking hell, does she even know how much I want to ruin her for this?
“I will.” My grip tightens, my own pulse hammering against my skull. “I will do anything to keep you breathing, so either listen to me or watch me prove it in ways you won’t like.”
Her wrists jerk against the ties, the silk digging deeper into torn flesh. Blood weeps from raw skin, the scent sharp against the sweat and fear clinging to her.
I curse under my breath. “Calm the fuck down, printsessa. If you want to strangle me, get your damn strength back first.”
I don’t tell her the truth—that I don’t give a damn what she does to me once she does.
With one hand forcing her mouth open, making sure she doesn’t spit the ice out again, I use the other to untie the ropes cutting into her skin. The moment they fall away, my chest tightens. Dried blood streaks over the soft curves of her wrists. Tiny, delicate bones marred by my own hands.
This is my doing.
I don’t care.
I shouldn’t.
The ice melts in her mouth, the shock of cold dragging her back from the abyss. Her body stills, her breathing steadies, her heartbeat slows.
Good.
Then she does exactly what I expect her to do.
Even with her body wrecked and her wrists torn open from the binds, my little fighter still manages to wrap her bruised fingers around my throat.
The pressure is weak. Trembling. But fuck if I don’t feel it.
“Isn’t it so predictable, love?” I rasp, letting her get the control for before prying her hands off me, dragging them down, pinning them above her head.
“Try something new.”
Her breath shudders. Lips parting, body still jerking from the remnants of panic. My grip tightens around her wrists, pressing them against the headboard. She’s so fragile beneath me, every muscle tensed for a war she knows she can’t win.
“Stand down, love, and let me work on you.”
It comes out rougher than I meant. Lower. Thicker. The edge of a promise that has nothing to do with medicine and everything to do with her.
Another tremor rolls through her, but it has nothing to do with fear this time.
I drop another ice cube between her teeth, watching—waiting. The first one is gone, melted between her lips, leaving her mouth wet, slick. A droplet slides from the corner, down the sharp edge of her jaw, over the column of her throat, slipping lower. Lower—
Fuck.
The ice trails between her breasts, disappearing beneath thin silk.
And I see it.
See her.
No bra. Just white. Too white. Clinging, barely hiding, making her skin an invitation I shouldn’t even be looking at.
My cock hardens, the weight of restraint pressing down on me like a vice. I shift, angle my body to hide it, but it’s useless.
This isn’t fucking sensual. She’s suffering. She needs help. Keep your goddamn head straight, Vaughn.
But I can’t.
Not with her. Not when it comes to her.
And to make it worse—to make it so fucking unbearable—her pulse spikes again, the erratic thrum of her heartbeat racing under my fingers. Her chest rises and falls too fast. Her nipples harden beneath the fabric, peaking, betraying her body in ways her mind won’t allow.
Not fucking helping, solnyshka.
She might hate me, but her body doesn’t.
It still reacts. Still betrays her.
Her breath hitches when my thumb drags across her lower lip—slow, torturous. She tries to keep her expression blank, to keep control, but she misses a beat. Just one. And then—her thighs fucking clench.
Mother-fucking-hell.
Tame it down. Tame it the fuck down.
And I fail. Miserably.
My gaze drops, trailing over her breasts, down her waist, lower—to the hem of that damn gown. It ends too high, barely covering the curve of her ass. Bare skin. Exposed.Tempting me with something I want desperately.
“Keep sucking.”
The command comes out wrong. Too wrong.
The moment the words leave my mouth, a soft, wrecked sound escapes hers. A moan—muffled, hesitant, so fucking sinful.
A grunt rumbles through my chest before I can stop it. My restraint—what’s left of it—splinters as our gazes lock.
And in that moment, I lose.
Every leash I had on myself, every chain keeping me in check, every goddamn rule I carved into my bones—burns.
I shouldn’t touch her. I fucking promised I wouldn’t.
But I do.
And Natasha doesn’t stop me.
Maybe it’s the vulnerability wrapping around her like a second skin. Maybe it’s because her defenses are shot to hell, leaving her raw and open in ways I’ve never seen before.
Or maybe—maybe she doesn’t want to.
And I, like the ruthless bastard I am, use it.
My fingers slide up, gripping the inside of her thigh. Hard. Hard enough to leave a mark. To claim.
Then—she moans.
Not a sound. A name.
My fucking name.
Her breath hitches. Not in fear. Not in resistance.
I see it—see her. The moment she lets go, the war in her gaze falling silent, something fragile and damning surfacing instead.
It shatters me. More than her defiance ever could.
My fingers tighten on her throat, my thumb grazing the rapid pulse beneath. I clench my jaw with an unforgiving force.
Say it. I don’t speak the words, but she hears them. Feels them.
Natasha’s lips part, breathless, ruined—
“Vaughn.”
I feel it in my chest, sharp and lethal.
This woman will be my downfall. And I don’t fight it anymore.
At least not tonight.
Chapter 8
Vaughn
Fuck.
She doesn’t even realize what she’s asking for.
Or maybe she does.
Maybe she knows exactly what she’s doing—knows that her whimper, her sob, her fucking tears are wrecking me more than any bullet ever could.
Her breath stutters, shallow and uneven, but she keeps sucking the ice. Slow. Deliberate.Her tongue flicks against it, a drop of water slipping from the corner of her lips and trailing down her chin.
I should pull away. I should end this now before we both fall off the edge.
Instead, I watch. I fucking watch.
And I want.
"Please, Vaughn," she chokes out, voice breaking. “Don’t leave me. Make me feel it. Feel you. Don’t stop.”
Another sob.
Another tear slipping down her cheek.
My restraint turns to dust.
I own her pain. I fucking created it. And now she wants me to replace it.
Not with comfort. With something darker. Something that will leave her breathless and spent, body boneless beneath mine.
And fuck me, I almost give it to her.
Almost.
My fingers twitch against her waist, my cock straining against my pants as I fight the sick need to ruin her in a way she’ll never recover from.
She deserves better.
Better than a man who wants to break her just to put her back together in his image. Better than the monster she’s begging to touch her.
But when I loosen my grip, her body trembles.
Not from fear.
From loss.
As if she can already feel the absence of my hands. As if she craves my touch more than she fears what it might mean.
I can’t fucking breathe.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for, solnyshka.” My voice is raw. Unsteady. Dangerous.
Her lashes flutter. She doesn’t take it back. Despite my warning.
And that?
That fucking destroys me.
I know she’s not fully conscious.
The demons of her nightmares still have their claws in her, pulling her between dreams and reality. She doesn’t understand what she’s asking of me. If I were a good man, I’d ignore her. I’d pull away.
But I’m not a good man.
I am a man standing at the edge of something I shouldn’t want—but I do.
I want to touch her. Feel her under my hands. Trace every curve, taste every inch, mark her so deeply that no one will ever be able to wash me off her skin. I want to spank her. Fuck her. Make her fall apart until my name is the only thing she remembers.
I should hate that I want these things.
But I don’t.
Not when she’s like this.
A single moment. A few minutes. An hour of this pretend game, and I could know how her mouth would feel wrapped around my cock. How her cries would sound as she shattered under me. How it would feel to have her worship me like I was the only divine she’d ever know.
I move without thinking. My knee parts her thighs. My fingers find the wet heat between her legs, pressing against the thin fabric of her panties. Her breath hitches. Her body jerks. And fuck, she’s soaked.
A strangled moan leaves her lips. My name.
“Vaughn…”
Shattered. Desperate.
And I’ve never liked the sound of it more.
“Fuck, solnyshka…” I groan, dragging my hand up her body, palming her breast, rolling her nipple between my fingers. “Only you can make me do this.”
I twist her nipple. Pinch it. And then I drag my tongue over the peak.
She cries out, arching against me, and the sound is so fucking obscene my cock aches.
"Open your eyes, solnyshka."
She does.
And what I see in them?
It’s not fear. Not hatred.
It’s lust. Sin. The same darkness that’s drowning me.
I smirk. “I’ll make sure you taste every inch of your sins, printsessa.”
I twist her nipple harder, watching her face, watching her break for me.
She’s new to this. I know. She’s a virgin. I know.
And so am I.
I never wanted this before her. Never touched a woman like this. Never let anyone touch me. But she’s not just any woman.
She’s Natasha Solovey.
The daughter of the man who murdered my father. The reason I became the bastard I am.
And yet—she’s the only one who makes me feel like a man again.
The woman I should hate.
The woman I can’t.
I tug her nipples again between my fingers, rolling, squeezing—pushing. Testing her limits. The sharp hiss she lets out only makes me crueler.
I lap over the ache, soothing it with my tongue, only to pull her deeper into my torment.
The moment she begins melting into the softness, I bite. A sharp suck between my teeth. A spank against her other breast. Pleasure. Pain. A taste of release—then nothing.
Tasting it but never getting it.
Welcome to my world, solnyshka.
Have a taste of the torture I’ve endured since the day I first saw you.
I do it until she’s a trembling, wrecked mess beneath me, her lips parted, drool glistening at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes—fuck, her eyes. Pleading. Begging me in the way I’ve always wanted her to.
“Please, Vaughn…” she whispers.
My grip tightens as I force her thighs apart, baring the sight that sends blood surging straight to my cock.
White lace.
Soaked.
Dripping.
For me.
The pressure in my slacks turns unbearable. Fuck, I need to get my dick out before I disgrace myself like a fucking teenager.
Before I can think, I’m already between her thighs. My fingers knead her sore breasts as I drag my tongue down the soft inside of her thigh. Slow. Deliberate.
The scent of her arousal consumes me. Annihilates me.
I clench my jaw and press a firm palm over her drenched core, keeping the lace in place. Keeping her untouched.Keeping her mine.
“By the way, love, I love when you cook. For me. Tell me, were you thinking of me when you made Pasta Al Limone? Do you remember the way I licked the sauce off your cheeks when I taught you the recipe?”
Natasha squirms, her body torn between escaping the overload of pleasure and needing it. Needing me.
I give her one more lick. One more taste. Then, right where her thigh meets her core, I bite.
Hard. Merciless.
If I can’t get her out of my mind, then she sure as fuck can’t get rid of me.
I mark her. Suck until the skin blooms an angry red. Then, I spit. Letting a slick trail of saliva coat the raw, sensitive spot before I lick it up.
She shatters. Her spine bows, her cry breaking on my name—a sound I want to fucking drown in.
"You're doing so good, baby." My breath fans against her soaked panties, and she whimpers, another wave of liquid dampening the lace.
Fucking perfect.
"Hold on a little more for me, yeah?"
Her fingers fist my hair. Desperate. Destroyed.
“I can’t, Vaughn.” Her voice is ragged, shredded with need. “I need to come.”
I smirk against her trembling skin.
A plea I ignore.
I give her soaked pussy a tight squeeze before sucking a fresh bruise on the other side.
“Just a little longer, printsessa.”
She moans.
Good-fucking-lord. This woman will make me explode in my goddamn trousers.
Her hips jerk against my mouth, a desperate attempt to chase the pleasure I keep just out of reach.
My tongue drags over the thin lace covering her cunt—wet, ruined fabric that leaves little to the imagination. A soft patch of hair greets me, and the need to see her bareshreds my restraint.
I tighten my grip on her nipples, twist, pull— and then sink my teeth into her panties.
Rip.
The fabric shreds under the sharp bite, hanging loose around her thighs.
“You’re so wet for me, Natasha.” My voice is a low, guttural growl, vibrating against the slick heat of her cunt.
Her nightmare is long gone. I’m the only thing she knows now.
“I need…”
A moan.
A slow flick of my tongue against her drenched folds.
“I need you in…”
A cry. Loud. Raw. A sound that every soul in this mansion now knows belongs to me.
Another lick.
“I need you inside, Vaughn,” she gasps. Broken.
Fuck, I’ll ruin her.
“Of course, baby,” I murmur, tracing lazy, torturous circles around her swollen clit. Her slick drips down my fingers, her untouched hole fluttering around nothing.
“But first,” I press a slow, teasing kiss to her most sensitive spot, “there’s something I need to ask.”
Her thighs tremble.
“Who did you think of,” I whisper, “when you touched yourself in your dorm? Me or some fucker called Dante?”
She stiffens. Her eyes snap open—shock, realization, submission.
“You were there,” she breathes, her voice a shaken exhale. “I knew someone was watching.”
A sinister smirk curls my lips. My fingers wrap around her clit, pinching it hard.
Her gasp shatters into a whimper, eyes glossing with tears.
“Not someone, solnyshka.” I dip my head, tongue laving over her trembling, swollen bundle of nerves.
She sobs.
“Only me.” My voice is a rough, possessive growl against her pussy.
“Only I get to watch you touch yourself.”
A sharp thrust of my index finger inside her tight, heated cunt.
“Only I get to bring you pleasure.”
I push deeper, my tongue curling against the swollen lips of her cunt. My finger stretches her, virgin walls sucking me in, resisting me, needing me.
“Only I get to fuck you,” I murmur against her core.
Her cry is sinful.
“To fill your tight little hole.”
I thrust deeper. Feel the delicate barrier inside her.
A satisfied growl rumbles through my chest.
“With my fingers.” I push my tongue inside her, pressing against my own thrusting hand.
Her body is shaking apart.
“With my tongue.” I nip at her dripping entrance, tugging, teasing—owning.
She shatters.
Her orgasm rips through her, screaming my name as she explodes into my mouth.
I drink her down, devour her.
“No more. Please, Vaughn.”
“With my teeth,” I smirk against her overstimulated flesh, sucking until she sobs.
The pleasure keeps rolling through her, unstoppable.
And when the aftershocks make her body jerk—**still aching, still needing—**I thrust another finger inside her.
I lick, I suck, I fucking consume.
“With my cock,” I whisper against her trembling cunt.
“This is too much. I can’t take it,” she whimpers, her voice a broken plea.
Her breasts bounce under the relentless torture of my palm as I slide another finger inside her.
Three fingers.
Her tight little pussy stretches too fast, too rough, too much.
It’s painful. It’s barbaric. It’s pure, fucking pleasure.
My tongue moves faster, lapping up the slick mess she’s drowning in, and she rocks her hips against me—weak, desperate, lost.
“I’m so close, baby,” I growl against her soaked cunt. “Just a few more seconds.”
This is rough. Too rough for her first time.
But I can’t stop.
Her toes curl in. Her back arches high off the bed as I thrust my fingers deeper, curling them to hit that spot.
I suck her clit hard.
And she shatters.
A scream rips from her throat as she comes apart again on my tongue, her orgasm flooding my mouth. Salty heaven.
I groan, my body jerking as pleasure shoots through me.
Fuck—
I come in my fucking trousers.
My jaw tightens as I swallow every drop of her, my cock still painfully hard.
“I need to feel my dick inside your cunt, solnyshka,” I rasp, my voice wrecked. Her taste coats my tongue, drips down my throat.
“Tell me to stop now, and I will…”
A loud noise rings through the air.
And just like that—
The spell breaks.
It rings again.
Natasha freezes.
For a second—just one—she doesn’t recoil.
I feel it.
The way her breath hitches, the way her fingers tremble at her sides, curling inward like she is fighting an instinct she cannot name. Like some part of her still wants to reach for me.
Then it breaks.
A sharp inhale. A full-body jolt. Revulsion drowning out whatever had made her hesitate.
She shoves me away, hard enough that I have to catch myself. The space between us an instant—a chasm carved in an instant, but I felt it like a blade to the ribs.
What the fuck?
“What the fuck was that?” I snap, irritation burning through every vein in my body. My trousers are damp with my release, my cock still half-hard, still aching.
“Get out,” she whispers, voice raw.
Not a plea. A warning.
The words drip in pure, undiluted disgust.
Regret.
She regrets this. Regrets us.
My pulse hastens, thick and heavy. I should have smirked. Should have thrown something cutting at her, watch her disgust sharpen into anger. Anger I know how to handle.
But I don’t.
Because she is already looking at me like I was something vile. Like I’m the filth she wants to scrape off her skin.
And for the first time in a long, long time, I feel something close to regret.
Not for what I had done.
But for the way she looks at me now.
I shove it down before it can settle.
And then—**just like that—**the walls I had let crack, slam back into place.
This was nothing.
A game. A mistake.
Fucking pretend.
The sun rises, spilling its light over the shore. I grab my phone as it rings again and storm out of her room.
Out of my own fucking room.
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May 12, 2025
Chapter two to five—My Dark Romance Novel[Vaughn&Natasha]
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CHAPTER 2
NATASHA
The sting of the restraints has my eyes snapping open.
Darkness.
A void stretches around me, thick and suffocating. For a moment, I register nothing—just the press of fabric against my skin and the tight pull of something binding my wrists. Silk ties, I remember. Then, a shift. A presence.
My breath stutters as my eyes adjust, pulling shapes from the gloom. A shadowed figure stands near, tall and unyielding. The outline of a man.
A scream rips from my throat.
The figure moves. A soft click echoes. Light spills from a lamp, casting golden illumination over the room. And then I see him.
Vaughn Volkov.
The man I once believed in. The man I hate now.
He’s watching me. Silent. Lethal.
Bare-chested, clad only in grey sweatpants that sit low on his hips, revealing the ridges of his abdomen. But it’s his eyes that freeze me. Green—deep and consuming, once a place of solace, now a reminder of everything twisted between us. Purple bags underline them. Sleep deprived.
His eyes burn into me now and for a moment, I forget where I am. Forget the silk biting into my wrists. Forget the suffocating presence of him.
Because I’ve seen that look before.
That night on the beach when I first saw him.
_
I hadn’t meant to stare. But Vaughn Volkov was the kind of man who demanded attention without saying a word. He had walked toward us—six foot three, broad shoulders, the wind whipping through his dark hair as if the world itself bent to him.
His frame was imposing, built for both strength and intimidation. Muscles coiled beneath his tailored suits—lean, honed, and functional rather than excessive. His torso carved with the kind of definition that speaks of both discipline and the necessity of being battle-ready. His arms were strong, veined, and capable. His presence was a promise of violence. Of power restrained, but never absent.
"Stay away from Vaughn," Anastasia had warned. "Don’t even think about him. He’s not good news."
I should have listened.
Instead, I had been trapped in the moment our eyes met. That gaze—dark green with flecks of gold—had held me captive long before he ever did.
He didn’t look at Anastasia or Irina. Just me.
A slow, deliberate sweep—from my eyes to my lips, down to the sliver of skin at my waist where my navel piercing glinted in the moonlight. His hands had flexed. His stare had darkened.
I should have looked away.
Instead, I had felt the air shift, something unspoken crackling between us.
"Natasha, this is Vaughn. Vaughn, this is Natasha."
"I know," he had said, eyes still on me. Then, just as easily, he had turned and walked away.
And I—stupid, reckless fool that I was—had watched him go, heartbeat rattling like a warning I hadn’t heeded.
_
Now, I am tied to his bed, his chair scraping against the floor as he pulls it closer.
I shift back, but the restraints bite into my wrists.
His face flickers with something—frustration, perhaps—but he doesn’t push. He just sits there, calm, collected. As if this situation is normal. As if he didn’t kidnap me, use my body’s reaction against me, and claim me as his prisoner.
His fingers twirl a knife.
My stomach twists.
So this is how I die. Bound like an animal. At the hands of the man I once—no.
I shut that thought down.
He picks up an apple from the side table and begins to slice the skin with eerie precision. His gaze never leaves me.
How the hell can he do that without looking?
I don’t ask. I don’t speak at all. The fear of the unknown is far more terrifying than what I already expect.
Because Vaughn isn’t just any man.
He’s the Pakhan of the Bratva.
The blind assassin even tyrants fear.
My captor.
And possibly my executioner.
"Rosalie says you haven’t eaten anything since yesterday." His voice is a blade wrapped in velvet, smooth and cutting. A lazy smirk tugs at his lips. "Why is that, solnyshka?"
"Stop calling me that, bastard." The words hiss from my mouth as I spit in his face.
The wet trail glistens on his skin.
Silence.
I see it—the flicker of rage. He is holding back.
Then, something worse. Amusement.
A slow, terrifying smile tugs at his lips as he wipes the wet trail with the back of his hand.
I brace for his retaliation. It doesn’t come.
Instead, Vaughn moves closer, deliberate. He picks up a slice of apple and dips it in honey. I press my lips together.
He watches, waiting.
Then, with the patience of a man who always gets his way, he smears the honeyed fruit against my lips. The sticky sweetness coats my mouth.
"Eat."
I shake my head. No matter how tempted I feel to do exactly that.
Vaughn exhales, as if this is tiresome for him. And then, before I can react, he pushes the fruit between my lips.
I bite down on instinct.
His eyes darken.
"Good girl," he murmurs.
The words send a violent shudder through me. My stomach twists in fury, but Vaughn only chuckles. He pulls another slice, this time bringing it to his own lips first. He bites into it slowly, chewing, swallowing, then presses the rest against my mouth.
"Over my dead body."
When I don’t open my mouth, his hand snaps to my jaw, fingers rough as they force my chin up. My body betrays me, arching instinctively into his hold. I curse myself. He smirks, dark and dangerous.
"Fuck, Natasha." I see it then - the control it takes for him to not pull me closer.
My instincts kick in. I drive my knee up, hard and fast. His body jerks—a sharp breath hisses past his lips—but the sound isn’t pain. It’s something else. Something darker. His arm yanks my hips down into the mattress. His free hand wraps around my throat, tightening for just a second before going lax again. His gaze drops to my lips, then lower, and that’s when I feel it—the rigid press of him against my stomach.
A slow, cold wave rolls through me, drowning out the fire that came before. No. It’s disgust, not heat, that coils inside me. Except my body doesn’t seem to know the difference.
My stomach clenches involuntarily, the slow curl of tension foreign and unwelcome. I force my breath out, shove at his chest, but the way he looks at me—calm, knowing—makes my pulse stutter.
I hate him. I hate him.
And he fucking likes this.
Vaughn tightens his grip on my throat, dragging my focus back to his eyes,"Look at me when I’m here. Don’t get lost in that mind of yours, solnyshka."
"I am not your anything, Vaughn."
His chuckle vibrates against my chest, a deep, rumbling sound that seeps into my bones. My nipples tighten against his skin, betraying me. A sharp breath escapes before I can stop it, my fingers curling into fists, nails biting into my palms. I force my body to still, to resist—but the heat simmering beneath my skin refuses to die.
"That’s where you’re wrong, printsessa."
He lifts the same piece of the sliced apple to my lips.
"Eat."
A command.
"I’d rather starve."
His smile sharpens. "You haven’t eaten in twenty hours. As much as I enjoy seeing you tied to my bed, feeling your nipples harden under me, I’d rather you stay alive for this.”
He waits. I don’t oblige.
He leans closer, his breath a whisper against my lips. “Or I swear on everything I own, I will drag my tongue between those pretty thighs until your moans shake these fucking walls. And I won’t stop until your mouth opens—whether it’s for this apple or to beg me for more.”
My breath stutters.
A cold, humiliating truth sinks into my bones.
He means it.
I clench my teeth. And swallow second slice of apple he pushes into my mouth. His smirk deepens.
“I’ll make you suffer for this, Vaughn,” I vow, my voice shaking with rage.
A slow, wicked grin curves his lips. "You have no idea how much you already make me suffer, Natasha."
Before I decrypt his words, he trails a fingertip over my lips, then pulls away, standing.
“Now, be a good girl and eat your meals. Unless you want me to feed you again.”
He winks.
“Rosalie will bring your clothes and other necessary items in the morning. If you need anything else, she will help you with it. And Natasha,” his voice roughens,”I’m trying to be patient here. I will never force you. Touch you without your consent. But if you vain my patience. If you try to escape me. Or hurt yourself in the process or starve, I’ll show you exactly why they call me the Blind Assasin.”
Then he’s gone, leaving only the dim glow of the lamp and the hell of my own making.
The hell of Vaughn Volkov.
For nineteen years, I watched my mother suffer—mistreated, used like a commodity, bound to my father in the name of a truce. Until it ended. Until she breathed her last. Until she died as nothing more than collateral. A weakness in this ruthless world.
The world I loathe.
The world Vaughn rules.
I swore on her deathbed that I would never return to this darkness. That I would never let it touch me again.
That’s why I cut ties with my father. Why I stayed away from Andrei and Ivan the moment Irina told me what they were. Mafia men.
The only reason I let Vaughn into my sanctuary was his promise. His oath that he wasn’t one of them.
Turns out, he’s not just one of them.
He’s the fucking master. And a liar.
Why did I, even for a moment, think Vaughn would be an exception?
My exception.
Because Vaughn Volkov isn’t an exception. He’s the fucking rule.
Chapter 3
Natasha
The first thing I notice is the scent—something faintly floral, unfamiliar. But beneath it, heavier, darker, him.
I keep my breathing even, my body still, as my eyes adjust to the soft morning light filtering through sheer curtains. The room around me is grand, but cold—obsidian marble floors, high ceilings, furniture carved from dark oak. A dresser stands near the wall, a full-length mirror reflecting the vast emptiness of the space. There is no warmth here, no sign of life.
Everything about this place is controlled. Impenetrable. Just like him.
My gaze shifts to the nightstand. A plate rests there—apple slices, the same ones Vaughn fed me last night. The sight of them sends a sharp pulse of unease through me. Because it isn’t just about control.
A soft rustle breaks the silence.
"You’re awake."
I turn my head. A woman stands near the dresser, her silver-streaked black hair pulled into a neat bun, sharp green eyes watching me with quiet assessment. She isn’t young, but there is nothing frail about her. Her posture is poised, her presence calm.
She carries a bundle in her arms. A folded lavender nightdress rests on top, the fabric soft, familiar. But it’s the small silver object she holds in her palm that makes my breath catch.
A locket.
My locket.
I stare, my pulse hammering.
I lost it over a month ago. I had torn my dorm apart looking for it, convinced I had misplaced it. But it had never been misplaced, had I?
"Where did you get that?" My voice is sharp, edged with something I don’t want to name.
The woman—Rosalie—simply places it on the nightstand. "He wanted you to have it back."
A cold chill crawls up my spine. He.
Vaughn had this. All this time.
I swallow hard, my mind racing. My dorm had been locked. No one should have been able to get inside. Unless—
A realization settles in my bones, heavier than the silk ties still binding my wrists.
He’s been watching me. Longer than I ever knew.
My fingers curl into the sheets, a sick mix of unease and something dangerously close to fascination twisting inside me.
Rosalie moves closer, her fingers working quickly to untie the knots at my wrists. The silk loosens, sliding away, leaving faint impressions on my skin. I flex my fingers, fighting the urge to rub at the marks.
"Mr. Volkov wanted me to pass on a message," she says, stepping back. "You’re free to move around the house, the garden, and the pool. But only until sundown."
My eyes snap to hers. The unspoken threat sits heavy in the space between us.
"You’ll find the mansion heavily guarded," Rosalie continues. "Every move you make is being watched. And if you try to escape…" She hesitates, as if carefully choosing her words. "It will not end well for you."
A bitter laugh presses against my throat. "And if I don’t try?"
"Then you may find that he isn’t as cruel as you believe."
I scoff, but Rosalie doesn’t waver.
"This world has hardened him," she says quietly, watching me. "But it hasn’t changed the man he is inside. He just hides it better." A pause. "And for the first time in years, I’ve seen his walls crack… because of you."
A shiver runs through me.
Vaughn is ruthless. Dangerous. Someone I should hate.
And yet…
Yet he has returned something precious to me. Yet he has fed me. Yet he has been watching me. Not just now, but for longer than I had even realized.
My pulse quickens.
I can’t let myself be swayed.
I need to understand him. To find his weakness.
To escape.
Rosalie hands me a bathrobe before leaving, closing the door behind her.
The bathroom is as extravagant as the bedroom, but where the latter is cold, this space carries something even more unsettling. Intimacy.
A concrete slab stretches across one side, where water pours from an overhead fixture like a waterfall. A full-length mirror stands against the opposite wall, catching my reflection in sharp detail.
But it’s the dresser beside the sink that sends a slow wave of unease through me.
My skincare.
My exact body wash. My comb, brush, even lingerie—delicate, lace-trimmed, perfectly my size.
Every detail is right. Precise.
Vaughn has never set foot inside my bedroom.
And yet, he knows me this well making me even more suspicious.
I turn toward the bathtub. Crescent-shaped, positioned near a window that overlooks the sea. Moonlight would hit the water perfectly at night.
My fingers find the light switch. With a soft click, the room darkens, leaving only the golden glow of the chandelier above.
I step out of my clothes, letting the silk robe pool at my feet, and sink into the bath.
The moment the hot water touches my skin, a sharp sting licks over my bruises. I suck in a breath, my muscles tensing. But the heat works its way through, soothing the ache beneath my skin, unwinding the tight coil in my body.
I reach for the soap, lathering my skin. The scent wraps around me, familiar and soft, but my mind is already slipping—dragged back to a memory.
Him.
The elevator.
The sharp jolt when it stopped. The sudden plunge into pitch-black darkness.
My chest had caved in almost instantly, the walls pressing closer, the air thinning. I had barely been able to breathe, panic clawing up my throat.
Then—his hands.
Strong. Steady. Bracing me against him.
"Look at me," Vaughn had said, his voice low, unwavering. "Just me."
I had clung to that voice, to the only solid thing in the suffocating dark. My fingers had curled into his jacket, my pulse thundering against his.
"I—I can’t," I had whispered, my breath uneven.
"You can," he had murmured, his grip tightening. "You are."
I had swallowed, forcing my eyes up. And he was there.
Tall. Close. Watching me like he saw everything.
His touch had been warm. Secure. His presence wrapping around me like armor.
"I don’t like small spaces," I had confessed shakily. "Or the dark."
"I know."
His thumb had brushed against my wrist, the gentlest thing I’d ever felt. A stark contrast to everything he was.
"You’re safe."
I had believed him.
His lips had pressed against my forehead, the barest graze of warmth. A touch that made my stomach dip.
Not just safe. Excited.
The memory crashes over me, making my breath hitch.
The bathwater is cooling, but my skin burns.
Rosalie’s voice cuts through the memory, sharp and grounding.
"Natasha."
I blink, the heat of the bath pressing against my flushed skin. The water has long since cooled, yet my body burns, the past lingering too close.
"Enough," Rosalie says, concern etching her voice. "You’ve been in there too long."
I force myself to move, reaching for the towel. My limbs feel heavy, my breaths unsteady, but I push past it, wrapping the fabric tightly around me before slipping into the bathrobe. The silk clings to my damp skin as I tie it loosely at my waist.
The moment I step out, I feel him.
A shadow looms just beyond Rosalie.
I freeze.
Vaughn.
Vaughn stands there, his presence swallowing the space between us.
His shirt is wrinkled, the top buttons undone, revealing the smooth expanse of his collarbone. Dark strands of hair fall over his forehead, messier than I’ve ever seen. But it’s his eyes that hold me captive.
Wild. Frantic. Worried.
His gaze drags over me, searching—for what? Injuries? A reason for my silence? His breaths come hard, uneven. There’s something unhinged in the way he takes me in, something raw.
He hasn’t slept.
The dark circles beneath his eyes, the restless energy coiling around him—it screams of unease. Of a man who has been waiting for something he can’t afford to lose.
And the worst part?
I know I am that something.
A small tremor ghosts through his fingers, the same hands that have bound me, claimed me, owned me in ways I refuse to accept.
My throat tightens, my mind screaming to step back. To not reach for him.
But the Vaughn I’ve known overpowers the Vaughn he really is.
Before I can stop myself, my hands lift, pressing lightly against his shoulders. Grounding him.
His muscles tense beneath my touch, his breath faltering.
“I’m fine,” I murmur, barely recognizing my own voice.
Something cracks inside him.
His exhale comes slow, but shaky—so shaky—like I’ve just pulled him back from the edge of something dark.
Then it slips out, so soft, so broken—“Solnyshka.”
The word—raw, desperate—wrecks me.
His sun. His light.
A prayer. A plea.
I should pull away. Should remind him that I’m not his to name, to want, to need.
But I don’t.
Because at that moment, I’m not sure if I want him to stop.
Vaughn’s gaze flickers downward, locking onto the loose tie of my robe. A slow, shallow breath parts his lips. His pupils darken, swallowing every trace of control.
His thumb twitches.
And then, he touches me.
A single, lazy drag of his finger against my waist, skimming the copper piercing on my navel.
A brush of heat. A whisper of possession.
I suck in a sharp breath.
It’s barely a touch, barely anything at all, and yet—it unravels me.
His other hand ghosts over my wrists, his jaw clenching as his eyes catch the faint abrasions from the ties.
A curse slips past his lips. Low. Furious. Regretful.
My breath hitches. His fingers, rough and calloused, barely touches my skin, yet every nerve in my body ignites beneath them.
Then, before I can stop it, a sound escapes me.
Soft. Barely audible.
A moan.
Vaughn stills.
His entire body goes rigid, like a predator catching the scent of something delicious. His gaze snaps to my face, his breath sharpening.
No. No, no, no.
I feel it—the shift. The moment everything between us tilts.
A tear slides down my cheek.
Hate. Longing. Confusion.
I don’t even know which one I want to win.
Vaughn’s gaze softens—just for a second, just enough to make me believe—
Then, he does the unthinkable.
His thumb brushes my cheek, catching the tear.
And then—he kisses it away.
A sharp inhale. A crack in my chest.
The warmth of his lips against my skin sends a violent tremor through me. My hands curl into fists, my breath staggering.
No.
The moment shatters.
Reality slams into me, cruel and unrelenting.
This isn’t a lover’s touch. This isn’t tenderness.
He is my captor.
And I am his prisoner.
A ragged sob wrenches from my throat as I shove him. Hard.
He doesn’t react at first. He just stands there, the silence stretching, his breath still uneven, his jaw locked tight. Something flickers across his face—something shattered, unguarded.
And then, like a switch flipping, his expression harden.
His hands curled into fists at his sides, his eyes darkening into something lethal. Without a word, he turns and storms out, the door slamming behind him.
The air feels suffocating, the weight of what just happened pressing down on me.
Rosalie’s hands are gentle as she leads me to the bed.
She says nothing as she sits beside me, her fingers moving through my damp hair, untangling the strands with careful precision.
The silence burns, pressing into the raw edges of my thoughts.
Then, finally—I break.
“Why is this happening to me?” My voice cracks, barely above a whisper.
Tears slip past my lashes, silent and unrelenting.
Rosalie doesn’t hesitate. She pulls me into her arms, cradling me the way no one has in years.
I shouldn’t lean into the comfort. But I do.
She holds me as I shake, as my walls crumble, as exhaustion claws its way through me.
Rosalie lifts a small bite of food to my lips. “Eat, dorogaya.”
I let her feed me. Small pieces, careful and nurturing, like I’m something fragile. The weight in my chest grows heavier, my body finally succumbing to the exhaustion.
My eyes flutter close.
Somewhere in the haze, I feel Rosalie’s hands gently binding my wrists to the bed once more.
The silk presses into my skin, soft and inescapable.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
Sleep drags me under.
Chapter 4
VAUGHN
Seeing my father’s body—cold, lifeless, sprawled in a pool of his own blood.
Hearing the splash as my mother hit the water, sinking into the abyss.
These weren’t just memories.
They were the foundation of the man I became.
Life doesn’t wound you and let you heal. It crushes you, grinds your bones into dust, and expects you to keep walking. It tears the breath from your lungs and demands you breathe. It shoves a blade into your hands and whispers, Tighten your grip.
This is my world. Vaughn Volkov. Pakhan of the Bratva. A man who should have been fearless. But at his core? A coward.
Because what kind of man can watch his mother waste away and do nothing?
What kind of son lets his father’s corpse turn cold before he can even scream?
The leather belt whistles through the air, snapping against raw flesh. A hiss of pain sears through my teeth, but I don’t stop. The second lash lands sharper, burning like fire over old scars.
Two done.
Eight to go.
Ten. Always ten.
The mirror in front of me is lined with bronze, a relic of the past. I meet my own gaze in the dim light, sweat beading along my temple. My back is a mess of crimson lines, fresh and old wounds intertwining like the wreckage of a war long lost.
But this is nothing.
Pain is a shadow I’ve lived beside my whole life. Losing what I love? That’s the real torture.
A sound cuts through the silence—soft, barely there. A whimper.
My grip on the belt tightens.
She is in a nightmare.
Seven days since I dragged an angel into hell.
Seven nights since my name became a curse on her lips.
Natasha.
I should feel nothing. I should be deaf to her cries, blind to the way she flinches when I step too close. Her suffering should mean as little as the bodies I’ve buried.
But it doesn’t.
Her tears burn. Her fear lingers in my chest like a knife wedged between ribs.
I slam my fist against the mirror. The crack splinters outward, a spiderweb of fractured glass. My reflection warps, distorting into something even uglier than the truth.
I don’t have a heart.
I have revenge.
The only thing that kept me alive that night.
One year ago, gun pressed to my temple, finger curled around the trigger, I had been ready to end it. Ready to let go, to let the darkness take me whole—until a name cut through the endless loop.
Natasha Solovey.
The daughter of the man who had destroyed my family.
When you have nothing left, you can either let the world devour you, or you can burn it to the ground first.
That night, I had made my choice.
I had chosen her.
For days, I had lived for the moment I would press my forehead to hers, feel the warmth of her skin one last time before I painted her in red. I had wanted to watch the light fade from her eyes, to hear her father scream as his precious daughter bled out in my arms.
I had ached for it.
Until I saw her for the first time.
Ten months ago.
And for the first time in my goddamn life—
I hesitated.
-
TEN MONTHS AGO
The sky stretched black and endless, mirroring the void inside me. Storm clouds gathered, thick and bruised, while rain lashed against the world in relentless sheets. But none of it touched me. I was already drowning.
Lightning split the sky as I stepped inside her room, but my mind was fixated on one thing. Her rapid pulse beneath my fingers. How her skin would feel as I slit her throat. How her lifeless body would look at Aariz Solovey’s feet the next morning.
There was nothing holding me back. Especially when I was against the man who took everything I ever loved.
I wasn’t always this way. There was a time when I was just a boy. Loved. Valued. That life belonged to someone else now.
Love.
The cruelest illusion of all.
The streetlight sliced through the window of her dorm room, casting sharp lines of gold against the darkness. And there she was. Natasha Solovey.
She lay tangled in the sheets, oblivious to the danger watching her from the shadows. Dark waves of hair spilled over her pillow—thick, unruly, refusing to be tamed. Her skin caught the light in a way that made her look effortlessly radiant. How would blood look against that skin?
Her features were soft yet defined—full lips that knew how to smile, though I suspected not every smile reached her eyes. And that chin—stubborn, defiant, the kind that made a man look twice.
I stayed that night.
Close. Too close.
Lying beside her, the scent of her wrapped around me. I should have slit her throat then and there. Should have ended it. But I didn’t. Instead, I watched. I listened.
She whimpered in her sleep, caught in some nightmare.
It pleased me.
And yet—the thought of something else causing her pain, something other than me, bothered me. That was my right. Her suffering belonged to me.
I would make her life a living hell. I would watch her body shatter in my hands, the way my life had been ripped apart by her father.
Children pay for the sins of their parents.
My blood made me the heir to the most ruthless mafia in the world.
Her blood made her my prey.
One hundred eighty days. Six months. Four thousand sixty-eight hours. Fifteen million, seven hundred twenty-four thousand, eight hundred seconds.
That’s how long I had hated her.
How long I had stalked her.
How long I had watched her sleep—counting every freckle on her face, listening to every breath, memorizing the way she curled into herself as if she knew something was watching.
She was prone to nightmares.
And I loved the way she suffered in them. I wanted to be their cause.
The way her body writhed in terror, how her heartbeat spiked, her breath turned ragged, her hands clenched the sheets in a desperate fight against something unseen.
I wanted to be the only monster haunting her dreams.
I wanted to be the only pain she knew.
Chapter 5
VAUGHN
I strike the belt harder, but the thoughts refuse to quiet.
Two months ago, I stepped into her social circle like a shadow slipping into the light—silent, unnoticed, inevitable.
I let her see me. Let her get used to my presence. Let her believe I was just another face in the crowd, another man who found her intriguing but harmless.
I was anything but harmless.
The evening in the elevator—when my lips brushed against her forehead—something in me snapped.
The way she stilled. The way her frantic breaths slowed, her trembling eased, her body unconsciously leaning into mine as if I were her sanctuary.
She didn’t know.
Didn’t realize that her trust, her fragile dependence in that moment, made me feral.
I let her fall.
And when she did, I was supposed to rip her apart.
That was the plan. Destroy her.Make her suffer. Use her body as a canvas for my revenge, paint it in her father’s sins, then leave her broken at his feet.
That was the plan.
But then one night changed everything.
One fucking night.
It took one accident for her to become more than that. Something I didn’t want. Something I didn’t ask for. But it happened anyway—like every fucking curveball life had ever thrown my way.
“You don’t have to hide your pain.”
Seven words.
Checkmate, my destiny taunted.
That night, she nursed my wound. I had been shot—stranded ten kilometers from the location my men controlled. One call. That’s all it would’ve taken for a team of the best doctors to be at my feet. Being the Pakhan had its advantages.But I didn’t call.
Because she was there.
Somehow, when I needed someone, I had her.
For the first time in my life, I had someone.
I still don’t know how she found me in the dark. How she managed to drag my half-dead body back to her dorm. But she did. Natasha Solovey—the daughter of my enemy—saved me. Cleaned my wound. Stitched me up. Touched my scars.
And I loved it.
Her fingertips, featherlight against my ruined skin. Her breath, shaky and uneven, ghosting over my body. Her tears—warm drops that landed on my open wound, burning more than it ever could.
Up until then, I had wanted her pain. To see her cry. To see her beg.
That night changed everything.
"I’m sorry you had to go through this."
Her voice was soft, breaking with quiet sniffles.
"It’s not your fault that I was shot."
"It’s not yours either. I know you’re hurting. You don’t always have to hide it."
What kind of sorcery was that?
I haven’t figured it out yet. But after that night, I hunted down anyone who made her cry. And I killed them.
Ten.
I’ve killed ten people in her name.
Ten souls sent to hell because they dared to hurt her.
She doesn’t need to know. Because as the days passed, Natasha became my solnyshka.My light.
She became my obsession.
I still wanted to tear her apart. Wanted to ruin her, break her, crush her. But the moment someone else tried to lay a hand on her, I lost my fucking mind.
That’s when I knew.
There was something else that could drive me insane if not love. Natasha.
The woman who makes me crazy. For her.
But I cannot stop the war I started. Not even for her.
And now, after a year of planning, I’ve finally done it. I’ve taken her. Brought her into my world.
And yet—I feel nothing but pain.
She’s in the next room. For seven days, she has been in my bed, tied to my world.
And I haven’t touched her.
She hates me now. As she should.
But I?
Do I hate her now?
Does it even matter? She’s my captive. My pawn. My leverage. Mine to hurt. Mine to please. Only mine.
And there is no force in this universe that can change it.
Not God. Not fate.
Not even her.
Now that I have her, she’s never leaving.
Not even if she screams. Not even if she fights.
Not even if she begs.
Let her hate me. Let her cry. Let her break herself against the bars of this cage.
She belongs to me now. And she will learn.
One way or another.
Her scream cleaves through my thoughts like a blade, sharp and merciless.
I grip the wood tighter, my knuckles whitening as I drive another lash across my skin. Pain sears through me, raw and electric, but I swallow it down. As long as she is in pain, I will be in pain too.
I will never leave her alone. Anytime. Anywhere.
A few days ago, when Rosalie had burst into my office, breathless, saying Natasha wasn’t answering from the bathroom, my heart has stopped beating. I saw her lips move, but no sound reached my ears. My fingers trembled. My chest ached.
The image of Natasha’s lifeless body crushed me.The thought of her slipping beneath the bathwater, her eyes unseeing, her pulse fading and meeting the same destiny as my mother—it shattered something in me I didn’t know could still break.
I couldn’t fucking lose her.
Not even when we stood on opposite ends of a war that would burn us both to the ground.
I almost said it then. Almost let something slip—something I couldn’t take back. But seeing her alive, without a single mark of suicide on her body, had made me realize the worst truth of all.
Solnyshka is becoming my undoing.
And I need to stop it.
Another scream. Another lash.
I cannot comfort her.
Scream. Lash.
I cannot hold her.
Scream. Lash.
I cannot love her.
“Vaugh…”
Her voice, raw and broken, slice through my resolve.
No.
I am imagining it. She cannot be calling me. She cannot want me—not when she hates me. But what if she did?
I hate her. But I want her.
“Vaughn…” Louder this time. My grip falters. My muscles tense around the welt, locking up.
What the fuck was she doing to me?
She should be screaming in rage, not sobbing my name. She should be cursing me, not seeking me out in the dark.
She is in pain because of me.
The bruises on her wrists are my gift.
The shattered pieces of her trust—my doing.
I had taken everything from her.
So why the fuck am I the one she reached for in the dark?
Why cannot I stop myself from wanting to be the one to take away her pain?
From wanting to be her comfort?
No. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t—
“Vaughn.”
A sob. My name. It broke me. Before I could stop myself, I was moving. The door to her room crashed open.
Fuck it.
I don’t care what happens next.
❤️🔥
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May 11, 2025
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May 9, 2025
Bound to Him—Chapter One[Vaughn&Natasha]
BOUND TO HIM
Natasha
A part of me always knew I was meant to be imprisoned, maybe even killed, in the name of my father’s treacherous deeds. What I didn’t know was that it would be by his hands.
Vaughn.
The name I had been dreaming about for the past month. The name I had been falling for.
And the name that shattered my reality just a week ago.
I had gone home after five years for a short visit—to see Dante, my childhood friend, my protector, my only constant. Our fathers built an empire together, ruling the underworld of Malaysia, and yet Dante was nothing like mine. He had the cruelty of a firstborn mafia heir, but he wielded his power with precision, never blind rage. He avoided violence when he could—but that didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of it. I had seen him burn a man alive when I was nineteen. He was twenty-three.
Dante had always been built for this dynasty—broad shoulders, a body inked with the symbol of our families, and jet-black eyes that carried the weight of a future already written in blood. But those same eyes softened when they looked at me. That was why I kept in touch with him, why I still trusted him after five years away from home. Years since I parted ways with my father. Because no matter how monstrous Dante became, I had never been afraid of him.
That day, I wasn’t expecting him to say anything that would change my life. We were just two old friends catching up. I sipped my coffee, half-listening, half-distracted by the weight of being back home. Then he said a name that made my world tilt.
"Vaughn Volkov."
I choked, scalding liquid burning my throat.
Because I knew that name.
Because I had been falling for it, never realizing it would destroy me.
But Dante continued, oblivious to the way my fingers trembled around my cup. He spoke of a man my father had been obsessed with hunting down. A man so elusive my father had killed a dozen of his own men in rage just for failing to find him. The Mad King, they called my father. But even he feared this ghost.
"They call him the Blind Assassin," Dante had said. "No one sees him coming until it’s too late."
I sat there, my pulse hammering, as he revealed the truth I never wanted to hear.
Vaughn Volkov was Pakhan of the Russian mafia. The same mafia my father hated with his guts. The man I had trusted, craved, dreamed about… was the enemy I never saw coming.
But the signs had always been there. I just hadn’t wanted to see them.
—
I remember the exact moment my doubts had first begun to creep in.
It was late, past midnight. I had been heading back to my dorm when I saw Vaughn and Andrei outside, speaking in hushed tones. They hadn’t noticed me, tucked in the shadows near the library’s side entrance.
"—he’s getting too close. It needs to be handled." Andrei’s voice, low but urgent.
"It will be," Vaughn had replied, his tone steady. "I’ll make sure of it."
Something about the way he said it sent a chill through me. I didn’t understand the full weight of their words then, but the way they spoke—calm, calculated, dangerous—lingered in my mind like a splinter under my skin.
The next evening, when I met Vaughn at our usual spot, I asked him directly.
"Andrei and you… last night. What were you talking about?"
His gaze didn’t even flicker. "Nothing important."
"It sounded important."
He leaned back against the railing, tilting his head like he was amused. "Since when do you eavesdrop, Natasha?"
"Since when do you talk like you’re planning to kill someone? I know your friends are members of some mafia association. Are you?"
For a split second—just a fraction of a breath—his expression shifted. A flicker of something… dark. But then it was gone, replaced by that maddening smirk.
"You read too many mafia fiction, solnyshka." He reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "I’m not part of that world."
And I had believed him.
Like a fool, I had believed him.
—
Now, as I lie bound to his bed, wrists aching from the silk ties securing me in place, I replay every moment in my head. Every warning sign. Every chance I had to walk away.
But I hadn’t walked away.
Because I hadn’t wanted to.
And now I am here, staring at the ceiling of his room, waiting for whatever comes next.
Waiting for the man I trusted to decide my fate.
Vaughn Volkov.
The man who played me.
The man who used me.
The fucking tragedy of my life.
Prologue of my Dark Romance Novel—Comment down your reviews please
Hey all Dark Romance girlies, we know how much we love it when he says “You’re mine.”
If you are one of us, read ahead and drop your honest, brutal reviews. I am open to anything. Constructive Criticism.
PROLOGUE
VAUGHN
Two months. Sixty fucking days since I infiltrated Natasha Solovey’s circle and wrapped it around my finger.
I am Vaughn Volkov, Pakhan of the Bratva, and she—Natasha—is the daughter of my enemy.
The Queen of my revenge.
Her name was a secret, buried under layers of security and false identities. It took full reach of my networks just to confirm her existence. Even then, all I had was a name and a location—King’s College. My neighbour college. Her being in the same city as me, barely a mile apart, was a godsend… if I believed in such things.
But I don’t.
I believe in power.
Absolute, unquestionable, insatiable power.
And she is the key to it.
The fact that my closest men—Ivan and Andrei—fell for women in her social circle made my job easier. But the rest? That was all me. They don’t see it yet, but tonight, I’ll own everything. Including her.
Natasha Solovey will be bound, helpless in my bed.
My leverage.
My pawn.
Mine.
Still, I can’t trust my men completely. They’re loyal, yes—but they’re also fools in love. Their girlfriends—Anastasia and Irina—are too protective of Natasha. If any of the girls gets wind of my plan, they’ll turn this into a disaster. So if I have to take matters into my own hands, be it.
And right now, as Natasha sits on the floor between my legs, I know exactly how this night will end.
She’s a foot shorter than me, cross-legged in front of the sofa, completely unaware that she’s already lost. Silver hair with lilac edges spilling over her shoulders. A short denim skirt teasing bare thighs. A sheer black blouse doing a poor fucking job of hiding the hard peaks of her nipples beneath.
A vision. A distraction. A pawn.
Mine.
I lower the temperature in the room, watching how her body reacts—how goosebumps chase up her arms, how her chest rises and falls faster. Of course I had studied the way she breathed.
My prey, unaware of the predator closing in.
Ivan coughs, breaking my focus. “Anastasia, let’s take a walk.”
She narrows her eyes. “Now?”
“Come on. Entertain me.”
She sighs. “Fine. But only because you have leverage on me.”
Leverage. What a beautiful thing.
Ivan and Anastasia leave, and one by one, my men find excuses to take their girls away. Planned exits. Careful distractions. And just like that…
Natasha and I are alone.
“So, I guess it’s us again.” She smirks, smacking her lips. “God, they act like lovesick puppies sometimes.”
She has no idea she’s walking into a trap.
I lean forward, forearms resting on my knees, watching her. From this angle, she’s perfectly positioned—right between my thighs. A single movement, and I could have those pretty lips wrapped around my cock.
Fucking hell.
Get a grip.
I force my expression blank as she nudges my knee. “Vaughn? You there?”
Yes. And I’m done waiting.
My hand flies to the back of her neck, gripping tight. Her eyes go wide as I pull her onto my lap. A sharp gasp, her body jerking—but she recovers too fucking fast for an untrained girl.
Because she isn’t untrained.
Her legs lock around my torso, and suddenly, the cold press of a silver-embellished blade rests against my throat.
What the fuck?
Her lips brush my ear, her breath a teasing whisper. “I was waiting for the real Vaughn Volkov to show himself.”
The real me?
She leans in, just enough for her teeth to graze my earlobe. My cock fucking twitches.
“One thing I’ve learned, growing up in a mafia family…” she muses, tilting the blade closer. A single drop of blood slides down my throat. “Never trust a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
My smirk is slow, lazy. “You knew.”
Her eyes gleam. “Of course.”
Interesting.
The plan is falling apart. But instead of frustration, all I feel is…
Excitement.
I was right about her. She’s not just a pawn.
She’s a queen.
My queen.
But here’s the thing. I can’t let her be the reason of my downfall.
My hands slide down to her hips, yanking her harder against me. She gasps—and the sound ruins me. A sharp inhale, a choked whimper. My name, barely whispered.
Vaughn.
A fucking prayer on her lips.
She feels it too.
“Why the act?” I murmur.
Her smirk deepens. “I enjoy seeing your loser face, Pakhan.”
Feisty little thing.
I grip her throat, tightening just enough for her breath to hitch. “Don’t fuck with me, Natasha.”
But the blade at my neck doesn’t waver.
She wants me to bleed.
Her father’s daughter. Through and through.
I exhale, pressing our bodies closer. My lips brush her jaw, then her mouth, just barely. A flicker of hesitation in her eyes, and I know—I own her just as much as she owns me.
And that changes everything.
She can fight. She can claw. But she is mine.
And I will break her.
Her knife digs deeper into my skin. A silent declaration of war. But she doesn’t pull away.
She doesn’t fucking move.
Checkmate.
Her voice is a whisper against my lips. “What do you want, Vaughn?”
“You.”
Her body stiffens. “Why?”
I grip her waist, grinding her against the hard length of my cock. Her moan shatters against my throat.
“Because,” I murmur, dragging my lips to her ear, “I get what I want. And Natasha…” My fingers tangle in her hair, tilting her head back, forcing her to look at me. “You are my fucking property.”
She shudders. I feel it, all the way to my bones.
“I will break you,” I vow, nipping her lower lip. “I will destroy any path your pretty little mind thinks of escaping me. Until you accept that you now belong to me. Only me.”
I slide my fingers between her thighs. She’s soaked.
A growl rumbles in my chest. “You’re already mine, aren’t you, solnyshka ?”
She gasps. The knife drops.
My victory.
I lift her into my arms, her lips against my throat, her body wrecked against mine. And as I carry her out of the room, those puffy lips still wet with my blood, only one thought remains.
She’s coming with me.
She’s only mine.
Book Quotes—What is Love to you?
Following are the few quotes/ pages that have always stayed with. The ultimate definition of Love.
![[image error]](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin65Hb5uoSkROuN1uFDIi-BSPeyosyUjPBwHiL1q_bqSwYzF0-OVp-Fph44fkoY-dNmkivLDY0MogjO1OOExyxt30qPIGKeWtJCT5TOQHhJoHrAqO_xDcZheJtRWa6D0fPut6GjYhsFbNGjNva1LiqcgwhY-yTPiveiPC4zqkUMWPc9XsLS8D3trjWqqfV/s1350/%E2%9CHer%20eyes%20find%20mine,%20and%20it%E2s%20as%20if%20I%E2m%20falling%20down%20a%20never-ending%20galaxy%20where%20only%20she%20and%20I%20exist.%20I%20love%20so%20much%20about%20this%20creature%E2my%20human.%20I%20don%E2t%20know%20if%20I%20can%20hold%20back%20from%20her%20much%20lo.png){kind=link}
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![[image error]](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMq4FRTegz3T9XaS_TYZpkxOM-YQBMTQQdwcrY_qMKieJdpNTbKeKTljg-9IlWtkbIPj1W1fa4V1P1VKwB88G95Q-OPbm8dbxX83dIC0-Z5Ky2D7ySnE7q003SY2XHkQSrpZ2Y_6CjQYXIAlhNwmEcI92_VQTJ-ES6bzD57mS1vVxXP3aov99c_T0pv4kU/s1350/%E2%9CHer%20eyes%20find%20mine,%20and%20it%E2s%20as%20if%20I%E2m%20falling%20down%20a%20never-ending%20galaxy%20where%20only%20she%20and%20I%20exist.%20I%20love%20so%20much%20about%20this%20creature%E2my%20human.%20I%20don%E2t%20know%20if%20I%20can%20hold%20back%20from%20her%20much%20lo.png){kind=link}