The sound of boots echoed violently across the marble hallway—sharp, impatient, unforgiving.
Damian Sokolov walked like a storm.
People moved out of his way before he even reached them. Some because they feared him. Others because they valued their bones unbroken.
He didn’t care.
He wasn’t here to be polite.
He wasn’t here to be civil.
He was here because he was pissed.
And only one person in the entire building had the audacity to piss him off before noon.
He didn’t knock.
He slammed Leonid Morozov’s office door so hard even the portraits trembled.
Leonid didn’t.
Of course he didn’t.
The man sat behind his massive dark-wood desk, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, fingers moving across a tablet as if multimillion-dollar decisions were more interesting than Damian’s entrance.
He didn’t even look up.
Damian’s eye twitched.
His temper twitched harder.
“Leonid,” he snapped.
Cold golden-grey eyes finally lifted.
Not startled.
Not impressed.
Just… mildly inconvenienced.
Like someone had interrupted him while he was organizing his sock drawer.
“Damian,” Leonid replied, voice calm as winter ice. “I assume you’re here because you cannot read my message properly.”
Damian barked a humorless laugh. “Your message? You mean the essay you sent at 7 a.m. about ‘discipline’ and ‘protocol’ and ‘not setting things on fire during business hours’?”
Leonid blinked once. “I thought the wording was gentle.”
“Gentle?!” Damian threw his hands up. “You practically called me an arsonist with no self-control!”
Leonid paused. Thought.
Then nodded. “That was accurate.”
Damian stepped closer, and the room thickened with tension—not romantic tension, not yet—but the kind of tension that made even the air nervous.
“I didn’t set anything on fire,” Damian growled.
Leonid lifted one brow. “You set a car on fire.”
Damian crossed his arms. “In my defense, it was a very punchable car.”
Leonid pinched the bridge of his nose like he was reconsidering the entire concept of human existence.
“Damian,” he said slowly, “cars are not punchable.”
“Oh? Have you met the car? It existed. That’s offensive enough.”
Leonid exhaled. “You cannot behave like this.”
“Says who?”
“Says common sense.”
“Never met him.”
Leonid stared at him. Damian stared back.
Two opposites.
Two disasters.
Two men with enough power to ruin the city if they truly tried.
And somehow… this was their normal.
Leonid finally stood.
Damian hated it.
Not because he disliked Leonid—no, the problem was that Leonid was tall, elegant, annoyingly composed—and Damian hated how his own heartbeat reacted like a stupid drum.
Leonid walked around the desk with that calm, controlled grace that irritated Damian more than anything.
He stopped right in front of him.
Not too close.
Not too far.
Just enough to show that he wasn’t intimidated.
Damian stepped forward.
Leonid didn’t move.
This bastard never moved.
Everyone else flinched when Damian came too close.
Leonid?
He looked him dead in the eye, completely unbothered.
And Damian… hated how his chest tightened.
“Why did you do it?” Leonid asked quietly.
Damian rolled his tongue against his cheek. “Because I wanted to.”
“That is not a reason.”
“It is for me.”
Leonid sighed. “Damian, you can’t solve every problem with violence.”
“Watch me.”
Leonid’s lips twitched. Barely.
Was that a smile?
No. Impossible. Morozov didn’t smile before 3 p.m.
“You’re exhausting,” Leonid murmured.
“You’re boring,” Damian shot back.
“You’re reckless.”
“You’re emotionally constipated.”
“You lack self-control.”
“You lack personality.”
Leonid blinked again.
Damian grinned, completely smug.
The door suddenly opened.
Adrian Volkov peeked in, expression sharp and deadly—but then froze.
His gaze flicked between Damian glaring and Leonid looking visibly done with life.
Adrian whispered, “…Are you fighting or flirting?”
Both men snapped, “Fighting!”
Adrian held up his hands. “Alright. Alright. Carry on.”
He closed the door slowly, as if escaping a crime scene.
Leonid inhaled deeply. “Damian, we have real work.”
Damian leaned closer—close enough to test him.
Close enough to see if Leonid would finally break that stupid calm expression.
Leonid didn’t move an inch.
“Tell me,” Damian whispered, voice dangerously low,
“If I did set it on fire again… what would you do?”
Leonid’s calm eyes darkened, just a fraction.
“I would stop you,” he replied.
Damian smirked. “Yeah? Try me.”
Leonid stepped forward—so subtly that only Damian noticed.
“Damian,” he murmured, “don’t tempt me unless you’re ready for consequences.”
For the first time that morning… Damian had no comeback.
Not because he was scared.
But because—
God.
This man.
This boring, cold, logic-worshipping, emotionally suppressed man…
Was ruining him.
Leonid pulled back, expression back to neutral.
“Good. Now sit. We have a briefing.”
Damian scoffed. “I don’t sit.”
Leonid pointed at the chair. “Sit.”
Damian sat.
He hated himself a little.
Leonid’s lips twitched again.
AUTHOR’S SASSY NOTE
Ahh yes—Damian Sokolov, the human wildfire, obeying a single word from Leonid Morozov.
Readers, don’t lie, you felt that.
If you’re enjoying this chaos, you better read my other BL novels too—
don’t make me send Damian after you.
(He’ll complain, but he’ll go.)
Chapter 5 coming soon—
and trust me, Damian is NOT ready for what’s next.
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