A man lounges on a leather couch, head resting against its cushioned back, buttons of his crisp white shirt undone.

In the center of the room, three scantily dressed women sway their bodies sensuously to the sound of the soft music playing in the background, while another woman lies sprawled on the long leather couch besides the man, loose-limbed and thoroughly fucked.

"Lord Nazyalensky is attempting hard to gain your favour, Pakhan."

Azriel blinks opens his dark eyes at the offhanded statement, rolls his neck in a slow, languid motion.

"You wound me, Igor." He drawls, a tch sound in his throat, voice rough, words aimed at his most loyal shadow who stands against the large glass panel of the room with his back facing Azriel.

His eyes flicker towards the nameless woman laid by his side, blinking stars, and wraps a palm around her hair, fingers twisting in her locks as he drags her up and hauls her into his lap, dress barely hanging onto her body.

"You think—" Azriel snarls, sucks a bruise on her skin as the woman begins to pant brokenly, "that worthless shlyukha like these—" bites the soft flesh of her shoulder, lips moving lower and lower, "—can help someone win my favour?"

The man named Igor snorts, lips curving in a too sharp smile as he turns to stare at Azriel unashamedly, one eyebrow raised. "I was not talking about the whores," he states plainly.

Azriel smirks at the reply and beneath his lips the woman moans, high and desperate, a wet mess as if he'd not just fucked her minutes ago.

zhadnyy shlyukha

He carelessly pushes her off him and onto the couch as he leans towards the table and pours himself a glass of gold whiskey. He drinks a mouthful from the glass and lets it burn down his throat, before he finally turns his eyes towards Igor, only to find the older man's gaze settled on the woman who had risen from the couch and was now busily running her hand up and down Azriel's bare chest.

"You know you're always allowed to partake once I'm finished with them, Igor," Azriel murmurs, head tilting, dark humour swirling in his eyes. "Only your gods know how many years have passed since you've had a good fuck!"

"I would have to respectfully decline, Pakhan." Igor grunts, glaring warningly at Pavlov and Samson, the other two of his tenevoys currently present in the lounge, both of whom had barked out a soft laugh at Azriel's words.

Azriel simply shrugs, hiding his sharp grin behind another mouthful of alcohol, finding it as humorous as always to know that he could ruffle the usually stoic man's feathers.

He settles himself more comfortably against the couch, his eyes flickering towards the glass walls that allow him an unobstructed view of the party going on in the ballroom, can see the guests dancing and mingling, ecstatic as they celebrate the newly minted alliance between the Kozlov and Nazyalensky families, a fruitful union that hangs on a promise to be signed off in blood, a binding of two lives.

Azriel's lips curl in disgust, humor fading.

"Pakhan."

His eyes snap towards Igor, who leans against the glass panel, hands crossed over his chest.

"Yuri Nazyalensky arrived on multiple separate occasions to know when he could be granted a meeting with you."

"And why would I do that?" Azriel drawls

His query makes Igor's lips twitch, the jagged scar on his left cheek lifting as he smiles. "Because he believes that the favor you bestow on Sergie would extend to him as well, now that he is getting his daughter married in the Kozlov family."

"I cannot be blamed if the man is an ignorant fool far too busy warming his cock to realize the truth even when it spits him in his fucking eyes," Azriel replies easily, but the flicker of his irritation flares up like a flame in his eyes.

Igor must surely know how close he is to testing his patience, for he bows his head deferentially, a ghost of a chuckle on his lips. "Pakhan," he says, pushing away from the glass wall—

and it is then Azriel sees her for the first time.

A slip of a girl tucked away in a corner.

A kukla. A nimfa.

In those first few moments when his eyes fall on her, Azriel hears nothing except the rushing of blood, nothing but the pounding thump-bump of his heart that fills up his eardrums.

The girl is small, barely over 5"3' if he had to guess, dressed in a pink gown, her blonde hair seemingly shining under the light.

She is turned in profile and speaking to two girls Azriel doesn't recognize or care about, pressing a dainty hand to her mouth, presumably to stop the laughter from slipping past her lips, but he catches sight of the dimple in her cheek, the lift of her pink lips before she hides it from his eyes.

She seems young, around eighteen compared to his twenty-nine years but he looks at her and he wants.

A yearning like never before growls in the pit of his stomach, gluttony on his tongue.

"—your presence for the commencement of the ceremony, Pakhan. The congregation from both sides have assembled and are patiently waiting for your arrival."

The words fall on Azriel's ears, but he cares not for them, dark eyes staring unblinkingly at the girl.

He watches her with avid eyes, watches her as her two companions leave her side and she tucks herself even further away from the crowd, pink lips turning down in a small pout, hands wringing nervously.

like a little rabbit left unattended amongst a pack of wild animals

The thought makes a ravenous grin split his face.

(In the background, his tenevoys turn stiff)

But his amusement spills into fury in an instant when he sees the little thing begin to walk through the crowd attracting the attention of several men who turn their heads at the sight of her, eyes following her while she walks with her head bowed, sweetly, gallingly unaware.

Azriel's jaw clenches, thinks about cracking heads open against the floor, his leather shoes shining with blood as he stomps on mangled faces until eyes pop out of skull, eyes that dared to fucking touch—

A press of lips against his ear jolts him back to awareness before a curtain of dark hair falls before his eyes and they flicker towards the whore who straddles his lap.

"May we move to a more private setting, my lord?" The woman grinds her hips against his suggestively, and flutters her eyelashes, all coy, a mask of innocence on her face.

It makes him want to wring her neck.

She places her hands against his shoulder, and he turns his head just in time so that the wet press of the woman's tongue misses his lips and brushes the side of his jaw.

A collective, sharp intake of breath sounds around the longue.

Igor hisses, furious. "You dare —"

Azriel simply raises his palm and his loyal shadow falls silent.

He stares at the woman who seems to look back at him with a mixture of fear and lust, before he smiles, an awful cold smile that sends shivers down her spine, and entangles his fingers around her hair, making her eyes flutter shut at the false soothing action, only for them to fly open when he pulls her head back roughly, a pained gasp on her lips.

"Your lips were only meant to suck my cock," he murmurs, nerves alight with impatience. "I should take your tongue out for this offense."

He's not lying. And the woman knows it too, for she shakes her head desperately, ugly tears beginning to run down her face as she spews out nonsensical apologies.

Azriel pushes out a sharp breath, his lip curling in a snarl, but he lets her go, shoving her away from him and onto the floor.

"Kneel." He commands, does not spare the whore another glance to know if she had followed his order or not, as he turns his gaze back towards the glass panel and towards his kukla, only to find her gone.

He pushes off the couch and walks towards the glass walls, fingers curled around a glass of whisky as he searches for her in the crowd, a little thing she is, not difficult for her to slip between the throngs of people, but try as he might, he does not find her anywhere.

Azriel knows his guards are exchanging curious glances behind his back, unsettled by his unblinking gaze. But as always, it is only Igor who dares to voice their thoughts as he clears his throat and questions, "Are you searching for someone, Pakhan?"

He does not answer.

Azriel simply tips the last mouthful of the drink in his mouth, before he turns and begins to walk towards the exit, waving his palm dismissively at the guards both inside and outside the lounge who attempt to follow after him.

He would find the girl himself.

.

.

.

.

He does not expect to run into her in a dark hallway.

She really is a little thing, he thinks. A slip of a girl.

She runs head first into his chest, and he immediately pulls her trembling body close, looks at her, spun white-gold in the dim light

His stomach growls at the sight of her in his arms, the touch stirring something beneath his skin that he thought long dead, like a gnawing, bottomless need —

Her head remains lowered, hair covering most of  her face, and Azriel moves his hand to cradle her neck, raises her head with a feather-light touch, fearful that the girl was nothing but a mirage that would disappear if he were to press his body into hers like he longs to do.

Her eyes remain rebelliously shut, body tight, and Azriel feels cheated, thinks of shaking her, but stops when he feels her hummingbird heart beat against his, her soft curves fitting so perfectly against his body.

His heart continues to pound in his ears, loud and fucking alive.

Azriel does not mean to speak, but the words roll off his tongue.

"What are you?"

He questions, low and deep with disbelief and near enthralment, his heart filling with a near possessive need to cage the girl in his arms, peel her eyes open, and make her look, look at what she has done to him on mere sight alone.

So lost he is that he doesn't expect the push when it comes, could never have believed that the little girl would have the strength to make him stumble and fall.

(She really is a nymph, he would later think, for there could be no other explanation. A fucking magical nymph.)

Him.

Azriel Ilyas Romanov, the King of the fucking Bratva, the Pakhan, laid flat on his butt by a little kukla.

The fucking nerve!

He laughs and laughs. There is exhilaration like never before that runs through his veins. He feels alive for the first time in years. Inexplicable, wonderful, comforting warmth stirring beneath his skin.

(He doesn't chase her. Knows that he could but he doesn't. Doesn't need to. For where in the world could she run that he wouldn't be able to find her?)

His shadows find him in the dark hallway, laid out on the floor and laughing like a madman.

"Pakhan!"

Igor and Samson fall to their knees, worried and furious, while the others form a protective circle around him, eyes seeking a nonexistent attacker.

"What happened? Did someone attack you? Are you injured? My lord, please answer!"

Azriel simply points towards his chest. It feels like his heart is about to explode in his rib cage, beating, thundering.

He pushes himself to his feet, can feel the traces of her on his body, traces that start to slip away as soon as he enters the lounge and the whores turn their gaze towards him.

"Leave!" he snarls and his one command is enough to make the women run, clutching their dresses to their bodies to hide their modesty as they beat a hasty retreat.

He walks towards the glass walls to overlook the ballroom once more, only to confirm his suspicion. The girl was gone.

"Do you wish to mark... your presence now, my lord?" He hears Igor question, hesitation in his normally controlled voice.

Azriel knows that his servants await his presence for the ceremony, heads bowed and eyes lowered and yet, he cannot bring himself to walk into a room with the short encounter playing behind his eyes, the memory of the touch lingering on his skin like a fucking itch.

"No." He shakes his head, eyes dark and flared with thrill and covetousness. I wish to find her.

Igor's face turns stone cold, unsettled, and it makes Azriel's lips curl.

He leaves the party, his shadows following him silently.

.

.

.

The next day he sits in his office, documents with deals worth billions strewn across his table, the Kozlov and Nazyalensky patriarchs at his doorstep to grovel and beg forgiveness for an unknown slight they think they have committed, but he cares not for any of it, his eyes glued to the pictures of the girl taken from the security camera, spread out on his desk

"Who are you?" he whispers for what feels like an umpteenth time, fingers tracing her face. 

Pavlov stands behind him silently, head bowed in submission.

And as if answering his question, Igor walks in, bowing his head in greeting, a thin black file in his hand.

He immediately dismisses his shadows. Wants to be alone for this. Wants to be alone when he first reads out her name, savouring it.

He reads the file twice, thrice, enough times to memorize each word that describes her life. He isn't happy, to say the least.

She is seventeen and not eighteen like he had originally assumed. An orphan living in a children's shelter home in Oklahoma. She has no family, not even a distant one. Attends the public school. A bright student, and a prodigious artist.

It would be so easy to have her at his side, he could steal her away at any moment and there would be no one to try and stop him,

so easy, so easy —

But she's fucking seventeen. A little girl.

Seventeen years and eight months, a treacherous voice in his head whispers.

Azriel knows he's a monster, and yet not monstrous enough to want to fuck a little girl, shouldn't want to, but there's this fucking itch beneath his skin, a thrum in his blood, covetousness raging like a fucking inferno in his heart the longer he looks at her picture; his eyes tracing her face, her neck, thinks about pressing his mark against her skin, in her body and her soul, marking her up as his.

But she's fucking seventeen yet and Azriel has never been that kind of a monster before.

The muscle in his jaw ticks. Knows that he needs to let the girl go, but the idea itself makes him wrathful, his hands curling tighter over the glass pyramid on his desk that he hurls over a cabinet that shatters loudly at the impact, causing his guards to come running inside, eyes alert, ready to shoot at ghosts

(but the ghost is a girl hundreds of miles away, a little thing that has him enticed by sight, a mere touch, a girl that he craves and yet can't have )

"Out!" he roars.

Their eyes widen and they hurriedly back off.

Azriel turns his eyes towards her picture, the hungry empty place inside of himself going quiet when he sees the smile on her face, wonders how it would feel against his lips.

He's not that kind of a monster, he's not.

He's not.

But fuck, if he isn’t a selfish man.

"Igor?"

He does not need to raise his voice for his most loyal guard to walk in.

"Pakhan." He bows respectfully.

"Have you ever been to Oklahoma?"

Igor's eyes widen.

Azriel smirks.

"I'll see you soon... Ana Winters," he whispers, her name falling like suckled honey from his lips, idly wondering if the rest of her would be as sweet as the taste of her name.

He smiles, ravenous for a taste. "Very soon."

.

.

.

Hundreds of miles away, Ana gasps awake.

***

zhadnyy shlyukha- greedy whore

tenevoys - shadow ( Romanov elite guards)

kukla- doll

nimfa- nymph