01

Russia, Moscow.

In a cold, dark room, gagged and wounded, I fight and resist. I face the hurricane shaking me, feeling even more vulnerable as I remain entirely unaware of my captor's intentions.

I curl up inside a thin quilt, trying to sleep despite the uncertainty. The fog in my mind is heavier than my reluctant eyelids. The silence is crushing, suffocating me and stealing my breath. The air escapes, and fear strips my soul bare, leaving no wall or barrier to protect me from the danger.

Nothing shields me from extinction.

Tears stream desperately, the thickness of sorrow flooding my being. I don't think I can escape death. The last thing I remember is being beaten violently before losing consciousness. Every muscle aches; an indescribable pain radiates across my back and crushes my heart.

I am starving. I can only recall eating a few crumbs over the last few weeks—far from enough to keep me going.

I cry. The spasms won't stop, and the intensity of the sensation is overwhelming, burning cruelly. My throat hurts, the pressure suffocates me, and I can't move because of my profound weakness.

I feel entirely powerless in this struggle.

I hear heavy footsteps, and my heart pounds furiously, sounding like drums in my ears. I shrink into a fetal position, clutching the quilt and trying to hide. But I know I can't escape; my limbs are weak, and I have no strength to face him.

The sharp click of the door announces the arrival of my captor. I grit my teeth hard.

"Luna Miller," he pronounces my name in a frigid tone, his deep voice generating an unpleasant sensation. I can perceive his malicious intentions saturating the atmosphere. "Luna... I know you aren't asleep. Get up. That's an order."

He is harsh. I certainly didn't expect gentleness from him. Yet only one thing holds me back: my weakness. I cannot comply with his demand.

I let out a whimper when the room suddenly floods with light. The glare strikes my eyes painfully. The man removes my gag, and for the first time, I get to inspect his face. He isn't the Italian who held me captive; this is a different subject with a somber appearance, though his striking attractiveness is undeniably captivating.

He squats down beside me, his features taking my breath away. His face is a mixture of dominance, possession, and danger, and a spark of desire ignites deep inside me. Despite his behavior, I have to admit he is handsome. But I must be delirious; I can't afford to think about that. The reality is that I am wounded and captive.

"Do you know why you're here?" he questions, firmly grabbing my chin.

I say nothing. I don't even know who I am anymore. So many events have scrambled my identity; I even doubt my own origins. I am driving myself crazy searching for answers.

Everything seems absurd.

I cannot believe my father has anything to do with this. He is not involved in dirty business; he is an upright, fair person. I can find no motive linking him to this situation.

So I remain silent.

"No, you don't know. You are in my hands, beautiful American," he says in a cold voice, his tone revealing perverse intentions. "Luna, I know you aren't asleep. Get up. That's an order."

Damn bastard!

Furious, I spit straight in his face.

"Go to hell, asshole!" I scream, my voice so hoarse I barely recognize it. My throat burns.

His expression hardens, and he strikes me hard across the face, snapping my head to the side. Tears gather violently, and the left side of my face burns. Another blow that breaks me just a little more.

My body and spirit wither.

I cover my face, holding back the sobs escaping my trembling lips. His violence destroys me on the outside, but deep down, I want to cling to a strength that still flickers amid the storm.

I want to believe these obstacles make me stronger, even though right now I only feel the pain embracing me and pulling me down into desperation.

I don't utter a single word. My vocal cords have grown mute, but my eyes burn with fury—a foolish attempt to protest his abuse, scorching him. Suddenly, he brings his thumb forward. I stare at him, a fragile, biting standoff. Then I squeeze my eyes shut as I feel his hellish touch; the cunning stroke of his fingers stirs a freezing vortex.

He leans in, stopping mere inches from my face, and whispers with venom.

I grope blindly for mercy in silence, begging and praying with fervor that he will take pity on me.

The metallic taste of scarlet lingers in my mouth, alongside the warm blood welling up from my skin right where he placed his hand. The man with the strange accent—Russian, by the sound of it—pulls his fingers back. I open my eyes and watch as he licks them in a manner so perverse it makes me shiver from head to toe. Then a lunatic smile breaks across his face. He is insane; what he just did is sick.

I stop breathing when he brings his face back to mine, never dropping his smile. I am inches away from a psychopath, and all I can think about is how fatal this is.

"You're facing the wolf. Welcome to Russia, Luna Miller," his mouth whispers with venom. I am completely disoriented by his words. He notices my surprise and smiles even wider. "Welcome to the Russian mafia, little Luna."

My blood boils. Being called that evokes a volcano of fury and sadness—a ruthless mix. Only Dad calls me that. Dad... he must be worried, I miss him so much. I've been keeping count of the days in my mind. Fifteen days as a prisoner, feeling like an abysmal eternity.

Now I've fallen into different hands, yet heading toward the same vile destination, the same disgusting intentions, while I remain lost in confusion.

"W-why?" I dare to ask, my voice torn.

He—who calls himself the wolf—fixes his eyes on mine, devouring me.

"Sometimes people must pay for someone else's mistake," he states, his breath washing over me and destabilizing my balance.

What he said is ridiculous, unjust by any measure. I can't be innocent and pay for everyone else's broken dishes. The questions rush back: in that case, what mistakes is he talking about? Who made them?

My lips detest his twisted, deceptive words that only make me loathe him. Yes, he's surely trying to wrap me in a fallacy. He is a madman. I suddenly sob. He mentioned something about the mafia, which brutally exacerbates my situation here.

He isn't just any crazy person; he is the worst kind. Fear binds me, turning me to ash.

"What do you want from me?" I weigh quietly, my heartbeat racing under his malicious gaze.

"You're asking yourself what I want from you?" he repeats. I hold back the urge to roll my eyes; his accent is so impertinent. "You should be prostrate before me. After all, I saved you from our enemies. So don't be ungrateful."

Who the hell does this idiot think he is?

"You're not God, asshole," I snap, flashing hatred at him.

I shouldn't have said that. In response, he grips my face with such force I whimper in pain. Forced to look him in the eyes, his gaze scorches me. The unbridled rage he radiates is ice, bordering also on a destructive fire.

He hurts me. He treats me vilely. He is the bad guy—a kidnapper, a killer, and a mafioso on top of all that. Yet why do I keep thinking about his striking physique?

"I bet you don't want to be prey. If that's the case, don't provoke me. You have no idea the thousand ways I can think of to satisfy my appetite, Luna," he warns, notable lust dancing in his eyes and the brazen tone of his voice.

"Don't you dare," I confront him, making an attempt to pull away, but he stops me by hauling me up in an unexpected movement.

His daring hands are on my waist, keeping me upright. Honestly, I couldn't stand on my own; energy and strength are in short supply. But his grip is rough, only hurting me further. He frees one hand and trails it over my bruised cheek, seemingly studying the injury. Incapable of enduring his invasion, I evade his gray-green eyes, which never stop reading me.

"Your insolence earned you this, but I'm not that wicked. I'll have a doctor check you," he declares as if genuinely benevolent. Then he makes a face of disgust, pinches the bridge of his nose, and shakes his head. "You reek. You're going to need a shower."

What?

My eyes widen in shock.

He is not going to do that. No way.