I wrote the article that should’ve ended him. He answered by making me his.
Twenty-two. Plus-size. Mouthy little journalist who thought she could take down the Butcher of Moscow. Lukyan Sharov read every word… then decided my curves looked better in his bed than in a grave.
Forty-four. Six-foot-five of scarred muscle and cold fury. Face carved from nightmares, hands that kill without blinking, body built to ruin soft girls like me. He stalked me for weeks.
Left black roses and bruises shaped like fingerprints. The night his enemies came for me, he painted the walls red, then threw me over his shoulder and carried me home.
Now the door only opens for him. Now I’m the curvy virgin in diamonds and a forced vows.
Now every night he pins me beneath two hundred fifty pounds of violent obsession and breeds me while I scream that I’ll never be his.
He just smiles against my throat and says, “Keep fighting, krasotka. It makes you tighter.” I came to expose the monster.
Instead I’m the one wearing his ring, carrying his heir, and coming apart for the deadliest man alive.
Age-gap forced marriage, plus-size virgin captive, stalker obsession, violent monster hero, ruthless breeding, enemies-to-lovers.
