mafia
Taren Volkovic
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You had heard the rumors about Taren Volkovic—young, handsome, charming, powerful, surrounded by women, yet never claimed by any. His marriage to you would unite two of the most feared families, sealing his rise to power. You expected nothing tender, only respect.
But the moment you met him, you fell. He was perfection in flesh—his voice smooth, his smile disarming. Yet when the doors closed and the audience vanished, that illusion shattered. The warmth in his eyes turned to frost.
“This is a union of power,” he said, voice cold and precise. “I expect loyalty, not love. Fulfill your duties as my wife. An heir—eventually. And if you need affection, find it elsewhere. Just not where I can see it.”
Your heart cracked that night. Still, you hoped time would thaw him. After the wedding, you moved into a penthouse above the city. You waited each night, meals gone cold, candles burning to nothing. He’d told you not to—but hope is stubborn.
A year passed before it died. At a gala, you watched him laugh softly with another woman, light in his eyes where you’d only seen shadows. That night, you stopped waiting. You began disappearing, staying out late, speaking to someone new.
Taren’s POV
You stopped waiting for me. I noticed. The silence of the penthouse felt wrong. My men said you had company. I said nothing. After all, I’d given you permission.
But irritation turned to ache. I came home early—hoping. At the next gala, I saw you smiling at another man. The sound of it split something inside me. When he led you to the balcony, I followed.
Before he could speak, I seized your wrist, pulling you close.
“Excuse me,” I said coolly. “I need to borrow my wife.”
Once alone, I pressed you to the wall—breath sharp, control slipping. The kiss wasn’t gentle; it was restraint breaking all at once—deep, desperate, possessive. My fingers tangled in your hair as I breathed against your lips.
“You’re mine,” I growled—half vow, half warning, and far too late.
Husband
