Tyson sat alone in his office, the late afternoon shadows crawling across the walls like silent spectators.
A glass of whiskey rested in his hand—on the rocks, just the way he liked it when the weight inside him grew too loud to ignore.
The amber liquid swirled, mirroring the storm brewing in his mind.
He didn't want to feel broken when this ended.
He didn't want to lose anyone else—especially not the few who still breathed beside him in this brutal life.
But deep down, he knew the truth.
In this game, someone always loses.
And more often than not… it's everything.
Tyson stared out the window, the city sprawling beneath him like a chessboard soaked in blood and betrayal.
The whiskey burned his throat, but not enough to drown out the ghosts.
He had made choices—sharp, final, unforgivable.
Built an empire stitched together by loyalty, silence, and blood.
But some ghosts refuse to stay buried.
Her name hadn't been spoken all day.
Still, it rang inside him—loud, unrelenting.
He rested the glass on the edge of his desk and pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to breathe around the crushing weight.
This wasn't weakness. He didn't believe in that word—not for men like him.
But tonight...
Tonight, he was haunted.
Not by what he lost.
But by what he touched and could never have again.
He tried to focus on strategy—who needed to bleed, who needed to disappear.
But even in that, she appeared.
In the color red.
In the scent of danger.
In the shape of his regrets.
The clock ticked louder.
He closed his eyes.
And that's when it started.
The pull.
The memory.
Her.
♤>♡
Her back slammed into the wall with a muted thud, his breath crashing against her lips before they even touched.
His hands found her hips—rough, desperate—pinning her there like she might vanish if he let go.
Heat poured from him, a storm barely held back.
"You shouldn't be here," he rasped, voice wrecked, forehead pressed to hers, breathing her in.
Her fingers clawed at his shirt, yanking it open, buttons flying—sharp little sounds swallowed by the thundering of their hearts.
"I don't care," she whispered, fierce, reckless, the tremor in her voice betraying just how much she did.
He cupped her jaw roughly, forcing her to look at him, as if memorizing her face in this stolen sliver of time.
"I'll ruin you," he warned, voice a raw scrape of need and regret.
"You already did," she breathed—and pulled him down into a kiss that was teeth and heat and a thousand silent apologies.
Their bodies crashed together, unspoken wars spilling into every frantic touch, every bite of teeth against skin.
He lifted her, slammed her harder against the wall, her legs wrapping around his hips, her nails carving desperate paths down his back.
His mouth found the curve of her throat, the place where her pulse thrummed wild and alive.
"You taste like fucking danger," he growled against her skin, making her shudder.
"And you taste like a mistake I'll make again," she gasped, grinding against him like she needed to feel him everywhere at once.
The air between them burned hotter with every second—clothes shredded from bodies, breath stolen, sanity forgotten.
He traced the scar near his collarbone with her mouth, his groan breaking open something savage inside him.
He gripped her hair, forced her head back to see her eyes—wild, furious, wanting.
"No one else gets to touch you," he hissed, desperate and deadly all at once.
"No one else could," she snapped back, voice shaking with too much truth.
They fell together, a beautiful collision—flesh against flesh, heart against heart, a war neither could win.
In that moment, there was no empire, no betrayal, no blood-soaked streets waiting for them outside.
There was only this—
The way he buried himself inside her like he was trying to carve her into his soul.
The way she moaned his name like a weapon aimed straight at his heart.
The way they both knew—this was the last time.
When it ended—when the sweat cooled and the first light of dawn bled through the curtains—
He turned away first.
He didn't look back.
And she never forgave him for it.
♤>♡
Tyson's eyes snapped open.
The room was still.
The storm raged only inside him now.
Thunder echoed in his chest, not the sky.
He dragged a hand down his face, fingers pausing at his lips—lips that still remembered the shape of her name, even if he never dared speak it again.
With shaking fingers, he refilled his glass.
The ice cracked against the whiskey, sharp and violent.
He didn't sip.
He swallowed.
She had been everything soft and dangerous all at once—velvet laced with poison.
And he let her in, knowing it would destroy him.
Maybe it already had.
He told himself that night was strategy.
A mistake.
A necessary evil.
But his pulse always betrayed him.
Especially when someone mentioned her name.
Especially when no one did.
She never begged.
Never asked him to choose.
She just left—with fire in her eyes and revenge in her blood.
Now she stood on land that once belonged to him.
Now her men moved like shadows where his power used to reign.
And still—
Still he wasn't sure if he wanted to destroy her, or somehow remember the man he used to be—the man she once saw.
But that man?
That man was long dead.
And she lit the match.
He downed the rest of the whiskey in one unbroken motion.
The burn was a punishment he welcomed.
A loud sigh ripped from him, followed by a guttural groan.
"FUCK!"
The glass slammed down hard on the desk, the sound sharp enough to cut the air.
He braced both hands against the wood, head hanging low between his shoulders, muscles locked tight.
He was trying to outrun his own mind—
But his thoughts kept circling back.
To her.
It infuriated him.
Frustrated him to the very marrow of his bones.
She lived in the corners of his silence now.
Not loud.
Not screaming.
Just there.
Like smoke in his lungs.
And the harder he tried to breathe, the more she filled him.
His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
He lifted the pistol again—cold steel against his palm—and began the ritual:
Click. Separate.
Click. Reassemble.
Cock it. Point it at nothing. Lower it.
Click. Separate.
Click. Reassemble.
Cock it.
Point it at nothing.
Lower it.
The tremor grew until it felt like his bones themselves were rattling.
With a roar of frustration, he slammed the gun down onto the desk, the metal ringing through the room like a gunshot.
"FUCK!" he spat again, voice raw and wrecked.
"Why now?"
His chest heaved, hands pressed flat on the desk, eyes burning as he stared at the scattered gun parts.
He didn't speak her name.
He didn't need to.
The silence between the pieces said it all.
A sharp knock at the door cut through the suffocating air.
Tyson's chest seized.
His bloodshot eyes flicked toward the door, breath ragged.
He didn't answer.
The door creaked open, and one of his men slipped inside, moving carefully around the broken silence and the pistol parts.
He froze, seeing Tyson—the trembling hands, the fury boiling just beneath the surface, the way Tyson's jaw locked so hard it looked painful.
Danger radiated off him like heat off black steel.
Still, the man stepped forward, spine straight despite the fear curling inside him.
Tyson leaned back, the leather groaning beneath him, eyes cold and unblinking.
"Speak," he barked, voice like a whipcrack.
The man swallowed hard. His words came out dry, brittle.
"Boss... the arsenal's been relocated. Second move since the cargo port. We're guarding it. No snipers have a clear shot."
He glanced nervously at the pistol parts—then back at Tyson's frozen glare.
Tyson's chair scraped the floor as he surged forward, voice booming:
"RECHANGE IT AGAIN!"
The man stiffened, heart hammering against his ribs.
Tyson leaned across the desk, eyes burning holes into him.
"At first light," he growled, "everyone wakes up not knowing where we are. Understood?"
The man nodded so fast he almost stumbled.
"Y-Yes, boss. First light."
Tyson sat back slowly, tension rolling off him like smoke.
He picked up a piece of the pistol, turning it between his fingers like a judgment.
"Good," he said softly—too softly.
"Now get out."
The man bolted, door clicking shut behind him.
Silence reclaimed the room.
Tyson leaned back into the chair, sagging into the shadows, forehead resting against the cool wood of the desk.
His breath was shallow.
His heart a war drum in his ears.
Had any of his choices ever been right?
Every strategy.
Every alliance.
Every betrayal.
Were they all just deeper steps into the pit he now called home?
The whiskey-burn in his chest pulsed with the question—and the answer he refused to face.
"""""
Hours later, as Moscow's pale morning light spilled through the tall windows, Tesmee stepped into the room.
Dust motes danced in the cold sunlight as she closed the door quietly behind her.
She slipped off her coat, draping it over the back of the leather chair across from Tyric's massive walnut desk.
Silent.
Composed.
But the war she carried inside her... was just beginning .