Mikhail looked at him with terrifying seriousness.

"Give Nikolai a child. Do this for my family, and your entire life will be taken care of. You will never want for anything again."

Sasha’s breath hitched. The room felt entirely too small, his mind spinning at the sheer insanity of the proposition. A grandchild? For a man like Nikolai Volkov?

Sasha looked up at the oil painting of the cold, ruthless mafia Don, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. To the outside world, Sasha looked paralyzed by fear and desperation.

"I..." Sasha swallowed hard, his fingers gripping the edges of his worn manila envelope. He looked down at his shoes, hiding the sudden, intense heat blooming in his chest.

"If... if I agree to this..."

"Speak up, boy," Mikhail commanded gently.

Sasha lifted his head, his eyes wide and completely resolute, though his voice still trembled.

"You can never tell him. Nikolai can never know that I agreed to this. He can never know about this deal."

Mikhail raised an eyebrow, leaning forward on his cane, intrigued. "Oh? Most people would want the credit. Why keep it a secret?"

"Because he is a dangerous, proud man," Sasha whispered, playing into the old man's understanding of his grandson. "If he thinks I did this intentionally, or that I bargained for his family's bloodline just to get a scholarship... he will despise me. He will think I'm a parasite who trapped him. If this happens, it must seem to Nikolai like a complete, unavoidable accident.

Please, Mr. Volkov. You must swear to me that you will take this secret to your grave."

Mikhail stared at the young student. He had expected greed, or perhaps tears, but instead, he found a fierce, protective determination in the boy's eyes. The old man let out a slow, satisfied smile.

"You have a deal, Sasha. The scholarship is yours. And my grandson will remain entirely in the dark."

Three days later, the trap was sprung.

Nikolai Volkov returned to his secluded estate in the dead of night, bleeding, furious, and operating on pure, lethal instinct. A brutal turf war with a rival syndicate had pushed him to his absolute physical limit—and the extreme stress had triggered his biological rut early.

His vision was swimming in a haze of heat and aggression. He had locked himself in his private wing, tearing off his blood-stained suit jacket, his heavy breathing echoing in the dark room.

Downstairs, Mikhail Volkov handed a tray of linen and a specific suppressant tea to a trembling Sasha.

"He is in his private quarters upstairs," Mikhail murmured, his voice cold but heavy with anticipation. "The fever has taken over his mind. Go. Remember your promise, Sasha. Don't look back."

Sasha took the heavy silver tray, his knuckles turning white. He didn't look back. As he walked up the grand, dimly lit staircase of the Volkov mansion, his heart pounded so loudly he was certain the entire house could hear it.

He reached the heavy oak doors of Nikolai's bedroom.

Taking a deep breath, Sasha pushed the door open and stepped into the shadow of the wolf.

The heavy oak door clicked shut behind Sasha, locking him into a room that smelled faintly of expensive cologne, copper, and an overwhelming, suffocating warmth.

The bedroom was vast, cast in deep shadows, lit only by the amber glow of the city through floor-to-ceiling windows. On the edge of the massive bed sat Nikolai Volkov. His tie was ripped away, his white dress shirt torn open at the collar, revealing the broad, heavily muscled lines of his chest. His skin was slick with sweat, his breathing heavy and ragged—like a predatory animal backed into a corner.

Sasha’s knees shook. He had never been this close to Nikolai before. In the dark, the older man looked larger, infinitely more dangerous, and completely out of control.

"I told everyone... to stay out," Nikolai growled.

His voice was a low, terrifying vibration that vibrated right through the floorboards. His grey eyes flashed in the dark, blown-out and wild as he fixed his gaze on Sasha.

"I—I brought your tea, sir," Sasha whispered, his voice trembling as he forced his feet to move forward.

He kept his eyes lowered, terrified that the sheer intensity of his heart hammering would betray him.

Nikolai didn't care about the tea. The moment Sasha stepped into his space, the subtle, sweet scent of the younger man hit Nikolai’s heightened senses. To a mafia Don in the middle of a brutal, stress-induced rut, that scent was an instant, undeniable magnet.

Before Sasha could even set the tray down on the nightstand, a heavy, calloused hand clamped around his wrist.

The silver tray clattered to the floor, the teacup shattering against the hardwood. Sasha gasped as he was suddenly yanked forward, his small frame colliding directly with Nikolai’s burning, solid chest. Nikolai’s grip was like iron, pinning Sasha against him. The older man buried his face into the crook of Sasha's neck, inhaling sharply, his hot breath scorching Sasha's skin.

"Who sent you?" Nikolai panted, his mind completely clouded by the fever, operating entirely on primitive instinct. He was fighting his own body, trying to retain a shred of his sanity. "Get out... before I ruin you, kid..."

But even as he said the words, his arms tightened around Sasha’s waist, pulling him onto the bed.

Sasha looked up at the terrifying, beautiful man hovering over him. He knew he could run. He knew the grandfather’s trap was set, but the choice to stay was entirely his. Seeing Nikolai—this usually untouchable, powerful king of the underworld—so vulnerable and burning alive in his own skin, something inside Sasha broke.

"It's okay," Sasha whispered softly, his hands trembling as he reached up, his fingers gently brushing the damp, dark hair away from Nikolai’s overheated forehead. "I'm not leaving."

Those gentle words shattered the last of Nikolai's restraint. The fever took over entirely.

The night dissolved into a blur of heat, heavy gasps, and overwhelming dominance. Nikolai was relentless, driven by the pure biological urge of his rut, but beneath the terrifying power of his movements, Sasha met him with a quiet, yielding tenderness. He held onto Nikolai's broad shoulders, enduring the storm, willingly giving himself to the dark world he had just stepped into.

Six weeks later.

The grand dining room of the Volkov estate was dead silent, save for the ticking of a grandfather clock.

Mikhail Volkov sat at the head of the table, calmly sipping his morning espresso. Across from him stood Nikolai. The 35-year-old Don looked immaculate, dressed in a sharp, three-piece charcoal suit, but the aura radiating off him was pure, unfiltered murder.

Nikolai slammed a stack of medical documents onto the table, right next to his grandfather’s coffee cup.

"Explain this," Nikolai said, his voice dropping to a lethal, quiet register. "Before I burn this house down with both of us in it."

Mikhail didn't blink. He picked up the papers, glancing at the positive pregnancy confirmation and the name printed at the top: Sasha.

"It seems I am going to be a great-grandfather," Mikhail replied smoothly. "You should be celebrating, Nikolai. The Volkov bloodline continues."

"Celebrating?!" Nikolai’s control snapped. He slammed his fist onto the table, making the china rattle. "He is twenty-one years old, grandfather! A college student! He came here for a scholarship foundation, and you used my early rut to trap him? You threw an innocent kid into my room like a lamb to a slaughter just to satisfy your greed for an heir?!"

Nikolai’s chest heaved with a mixture of fury and a profound, sickening guilt. He remembered flashes of that night. He remembered how small the boy felt beneath him, how gentle his touches were despite the violence of the rut. Nikolai believed, with every fiber of his being, that his grandfather had manipulated and forced a helpless, desperate student into his bed.

"I am a monster," Nikolai spat, his grey eyes burning with self-hatred. "A mafia boss with blood on my hands, and you dragged a pure, innocent kid into my filth. You ruined his entire life. His future, his education—gone."

"His scholarship is fully funded," Mikhail pointed out calmly. "And he is being taken care of."

"I don't give a damn about your money!" Nikolai growled, straightening his cuffs, his face hardening into a mask of absolute resolve. "The deed is done. The boy is carrying my child. From this moment on, you do not touch him. You do not speak to him. He is my responsibility now."

Nikolai turned on his heel, his coat billowing behind him as he stormed out of the dining room and marched toward the guest wing of the mansion. He was going to face the boy he believed he had broken.

The door to the guest suite was heavy, but Nikolai pushed it open with a gentleness that contradicted his massive, intimidating frame.

Sasha was sitting by the large bay window, his knees pulled up to his chest, looking incredibly small against the backdrop of the massive Volkov estate. When the door opened, his shoulders visibly tensed. He lowered his legs and turned to look at the man who had haunted his thoughts for the last six weeks.