The Trap is Set

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.

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