Adrik POV: Joy, my joy, now my wife—lay beside me, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, lost in the quiet surrender of sleep. The moonlight stretched long fingers through the window, casting shadows across her face, softening the sharp edges of her beauty. I watched her, mesmerized, but there was something unsettling about the stillness, something that festered beneath my ribs like an ache I couldn't name.

I wanted to wake her. No, more than that, I wanted to shatter this peace she so carelessly claimed without me. It wasn't hers to take alone. Sleep was a sanctuary, a place I could not follow, and that was unacceptable. She should not rest unless it was in my arms, under my gaze, by my will. I resented the way her body curled in on itself, as if even in sleep she could keep something hidden from me. What did she dream of? Who did she dream of?

I reached out, brushing my fingers over the delicate curve of her throat, feeling the pulse beneath my touch, slow, steady, unaware. A part of me delighted in the vulnerability, the power I had in this moment.

She belonged to me, and yet, for these hours, she was lost to a world I couldn't enter. That thought gnawed at me, hollowing me out with something sharp and restless. My grip tightened just slightly, just enough for her to stir, for her brows to pull together in the faintest sign of distress.

Letting her go was never an option. It would never be an option. If it meant staining my hands with the blood of every last one of her relatives, of anyone who had ever known her, ever loved her, ever dared to believe they had a place in her life—I would. Without hesitation. Without remorse. She was mine, and I would carve that truth into the bones of this world if I had to.

From the moment I first saw her, I knew. There was no question, no uncertainty. She was the one. Not in the way poets speak of love, not in the way fools dream of fate. No, this was something far deeper, something violent and undeniable. It wasn't about choice. It was about possession. About inevitability.

She would be mine until the very last breath left her body. And even then, I wasn't sure I'd let her go.

I was never given the chance to be anything but this. From the moment I could walk, I was shaped into something ruthless, something lethal. My father—his father before him—ensured that I was forged in blood, hardened by brutality, stripped of anything useless like mercy or fear. By the time I took his place, the Bratva was mine, and I ruled it with the same iron fist that had once beaten me into the man I am today.

Some men hesitate before they kill. Some let their conscience whisper doubts in their ears. I don't. I never have. Death is not just a necessity in my world—it is currency. A language. A message written in red across city streets, whispered through the cries of those who dared to cross me.

There is no forgiveness in my line of work. No second chances. You betray me, you die. You steal from me, you die. You speak my name in the wrong circles, you die. And I don't just make you disappear—I make you suffer. I make an example of you.

I remember one in particular—a man who thought he could skim from my businesses, thought I wouldn't notice the missing money. When I caught him, I didn't kill him right away. No, that would have been too easy. I let him watch as I took apart everything he loved, piece by piece. His wife, his sons—they screamed for him, begged for mercy. But mercy is something I do not offer. By the time I finally turned my attention to him, he was already broken. Hollow. He thanked me when I put the bullet between his eyes.

And then there's my collection. My trophies. Not just the fools who thought they could cheat me, but those who had the misfortune of catching my attention in a different way. A special kind of prey. The ones whose fear was sweeter, whose pain was art.

My kill room is more than just a place of death—it is a masterpiece of suffering. A gallery of agony. Blood stains the floors, the walls, soaked into the very bones of the place. Some are displayed, their corpses a grotesque reminder of what happens to those who think they are untouchable. Others are stored in ways more... delicate. Pieces of them, kept like relics of a life that no longer exists.

And I will keep adding to it. Because in this world, power is not given—it is taken. And I have taken more than most men could ever dream of.

And then there is my wife, Joy. My beautiful, fragile Joy. She still clings to the foolish notion that she has some semblance of control, that maybe, just maybe, she can find a way out of my grasp. I see it in her eyes—that tiny flicker of defiance, that ember of hope she guards so desperately. Hope that she can escape me. Hope that she can run.

How wrong she is.

She does not understand the depths of my obsession, the chains I have wrapped around her, invisible but unbreakable. She is mine. Not in the way a husband claims a wife with vows and rings, but in the way a beast marks its territory, in the way a predator keeps its prey caged just to hear it beg.

It amuses me, watching her try to hide it. The way her body tenses when I brush my fingers down her spine, the way her breath catches when I linger too long. She smiles, she plays her role, but I see the truth beneath it. The quiet terror. The fear she doesn't dare voice.

And yet, she has only seen the tip of the iceberg of what I am capable of.

She does not know of the bodies I have carved open, their screams turned to echoes in the walls of my kill room. She does not know the names of the men who have begged for their lives before I took them apart, piece by trembling piece. She does not know that, with a single command, I could have the world around her erased—her past, her family, every trace of the life she once thought belonged to her.

She does not know that I already have.

The people who once cared for her, who might have tried to take her from me? They are gone. Some buried in unmarked graves, others rotting where no one will ever find them. She hasn't noticed yet, hasn't realized how silent her world has become. But she will. And when she does, I will be there to watch the moment that hope shatters completely.

Because there is no escape. There never was.

She is mine. And the sooner she understands that, the better. But if she wants to fight, if she wants to run, I will let her try. I will let her believe, for just a moment, that freedom is within reach.

Then, when I drag her back, broken and trembling, she will learn.

She will learn what it truly means to belong to me.

Last night was unlike anything I had ever imagined. The fear in her eyes, the moment she realized—truly realized—that there was no escaping me, sent a thrill down my spine unlike any pleasure I had ever known. I had seen fear before. I had caused it, fed off it, reveled in the way it could break a person down. But with Joy, it was different. It was intoxicating.

I have had my fair share of women—meaningless bodies, fleeting pleasures—but last night with Joy was something else entirely. She was fire and defiance, trembling beneath my touch, her body caught between fear and reluctant surrender. I might have acted like a beast, but how could I not? She was the most exquisite thing I had ever laid eyes on, and now, finally, she was mine in every sense of the word.

Those curves, that softness—meant for me and me alone. No other man would ever touch her, no other hands would ever roam her body. She was marked, claimed, taken in ways she could never undo. And I wasn't sure I would ever have my fill of her.

I took her over and over again, unable to stop, unwilling to let go. She was the sweetest of them all, and now she is mine.

I am eager, no, desperate to fill this house with children. My children. Joy's children.

The halls are too quiet, the rooms too empty. I want to hear the sound of small feet against the marble floors, the echo of laughter, mine, not theirs. Because their laughter will not be their own. It will be something I give them, something I allow. They will be raised in my image, shaped by my hands, taught from birth that their existence belongs to me.

Joy doesn't know it yet, but she will give me everything. She will carry my legacy inside her, bear the weight of my name in the form of something pure, something bound to me by blood. And when she does, there will be no more dreams of escape, no more foolish hope flickering in those frightened eyes.

A child is the ultimate chain. A tether she will never break.

She will come to understand that just as she belongs to me, so will they. My sons will be forged in strength, stripped of weakness before they ever have the chance to taste it. My daughters, delicate, perfect things, will know that their purpose is to be protected, watched, controlled. No one will ever touch them unless I allow it. No one will ever take them from me.

A family. A dynasty. A future where Joy's every breath, every moment, every thought is consumed by what I have given her.

She will be the perfect mother. And I will be the only father they ever need.

Joy doesn't know it yet, but she will give me everything. She will carry my legacy inside her, bear the weight of my name in the form of something pure, something bound to me by blood. And when she does, there will be no more dreams of escape, no more foolish hope flickering in those frightened eyes.

A child is the ultimate chain. A tether she will never break.

She will come to understand that just as she belongs to me, so will they. My sons will be forged in strength, stripped of weakness before they ever have the chance to taste it. My daughters, delicate, perfect things, will know that their purpose is to be protected, watched, controlled. No one will ever touch them unless I allow it. No one will ever take them from me.

A family. A dynasty. A future where Joy's every breath, every moment, every thought is consumed by what I have given her.

She will be the perfect mother. And I will be the only father they ever need.

**

I imagine it sometimes, late at night, when Joy lies beside me, curled up so small, as if making herself smaller could somehow make her disappear. The thought makes me smile. She still doesn't understand. She is not meant to disappear. She is meant to endure, to break apart and be put back together in the shape I choose.

I reach out and brush my fingers against her stomach, imagining the life that will soon grow there. She tenses in her sleep, instinctively recoiling from my touch, but I don't pull away. I press my palm flat against her skin, holding her there. Someday soon, I will feel more than just warmth beneath my hand. I will feel movement, proof of what I have planted inside her.

She doesn't know it yet, but she is already mine in ways she can never undo.

When she wakes, she will find me watching her. She will see the possessiveness in my eyes, the hunger. She will understand, in that quiet, terrifying way she always does, that her fate is sealed. There is no escaping me. Not now. Not ever.

And when the time comes, when she carries my child inside her, she will finally stop fighting. She will finally surrender to the truth.

There is no world beyond me. No future that does not belong to my hands.

Joy is mine. And soon, everything she creates will be too.

After we had spent some time in the garden, I decided I was hungry. But not for food. Not for anything that could be neatly served and consumed in a civilized manner. No, my appetite was far more primal, far more demanding....................................................... 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓻𝓮𝓶𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽 𝓸𝓷 𝓶𝔂 𝓟𝓪𝓽𝓻𝓮𝓸𝓷. Link in my bio

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