Note:I'm still new here so please don't hesitate to correct me if I made a mistake with my not✌️

note:and also this has some more I guess??

Anyways straight to the story🫤

You where a photographer in Italy, you had to travel to Russia because you got hired for a photoshoot, after 5 hours of work at the studio you and your group decided to go to the club to loosen up, past forward you unexpectedly catched the eye of the most feared mafia boss in Russia and well he was certainly intrigued by you, he invited you to his private room drinking while you where on his lap you weren't drunk yet but The bar was warm, buzzing, alive. Music throbbed low through the walls. Laughter spilled between the clink of glasses. You and your crew slipped into a corner, ordered shots, and tried to shake off the weight of the day. You were mid-laugh, mid-sip, when the room shifted.

He walked in.

Dimitri Volkov.

He didn’t just enter a bar, he owned it the moment his shadow crossed the threshold. A black tailored suit clung to his body, sharp enough to cut. Dark hair slicked back, eyes like a predator scanning prey. People moved for him without realizing they were moving, conversations faltered mid-sentence. The air turned electric.

And his eyes locked on you.

Not your crew. Not the models. You.

The weight of his stare was like fire across your skin. He didn’t even pretend to look elsewhere. He cut through the bar, slow and deliberate, until he was standing at your table like he’d already decided he belonged there.

“Move,” he told your crew, voice low, Russian accent thick and heavy. And they did. Just like that, they scattered, leaving you alone with him.

“Prince,” he said, testing the word like it belonged to you. “My prince.”

You laughed, a little tipsy, a little reckless. “Prince? You don’t even know my name.”

“I don’t need it.” His eyes dragged down your body and back up, shameless. “You look at me, and I know.”

He ordered vodka for both of you, poured heavy, and drank like water. You matched him shot for shot, the burn numbing, the night hazing, and still his eyes never left you. His hand brushed yours once, twice, before it didn’t just brush — it took. Fingers closing around yours, firm, demanding.

“Come,” he said. Not a request. A command.

You should’ve said no. You didn’t.

The hotel was a blur. The elevator ride a haze of heat and stolen kisses, his hands gripping your waist, yours tangled in his shirt. By the time he shoved you into the suite, the restraint was gone.

Clothes hit the floor like they were on fire. He pinned you against the wall, mouth hot on your neck, teeth scraping, growling curses in Russian you barely understood but felt in your bones.

“Mine. Fucking mine, prince.”

The bed barely survived. Sheets twisted, your body bent, his pace brutal, unrelenting. He fucked like a man starved, like taking you was the only thing keeping him alive. Every thrust was a claim. Every kiss was possession. He left bruises on your skin like he wanted the world to see them, proof you’d been marked by him.

You clawed his back, bit his shoulder, cursed his name, and he only went harder, deeper, until your voice broke, until you were both wrecked and trembling.

Hours bled away. You lost track of how many times he pulled you back under, refusing to let go, refusing to stop. By the time sleep took you, you were a mess in his arms, his chest heaving, his hand tight on your hip like if he loosened it you’d disappear.

And in the morning, you did.

When Dimitri woke, the bed was cold. The sheets empty. The only thing left was the faint trace of your scent on the pillow.

He sat up slow, rage simmering low in his gut, hand dragging through his hair. His chest hurt, his jaw clenched. He’d had a taste, and you’d fucking run.

“Prince,” he muttered, voice rough, a promise burning behind it.

The obsession began.