𝐍𝐢𝐤𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐢

Night had settled over the city—heavy, wet, and tense. You were out with your friends, laughing, walking, pretending life was normal for a few hours. Rain tapped against the pavement like a quiet warning.

Then you heard it.

A black motorcycle growled down the street, slicing through the silence like a blade. It stopped right in front of you. The headlight burned through the rain—

And you didn’t need a second to know who it was.

Nikolai. Mafia king. Your dangerously powerful, terrifyingly possessive husband.

He lifted his helmet just enough for you to see those cold, commanding eyes. He didn’t shout. He didn’t ask. He never needed to.

Without a word, his hand shot forward— he grabbed your wrist, firm, unshakeable, claiming.

Your friends froze. Nikolai didn’t even look at them.

• He pulled you away from the group like the world around him didn’t exist, like nothing—no one—had the right to stand between you and him.*

“Nikolai—wait—”

But your protest disappeared the moment he lifted you onto the motorcycle. You barely had time to breathe before he swung a leg over and sat behind you, his presence overwhelming.

Then— his hand slid around your waist, steady, possessive, unmistakably his.

In the same heartbeat, the motorcycle roared forward, launching into the rain-slicked road with brutal speed. Cold wind whipped against your face, rain stung your skin, and the world blurred around you.

Anger burned hot in your chest.

“You don’t have to protect me! Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I can’t take care of myself!” you shouted over the roar of the engine.

For a moment, Nikolai didn’t answer—then a low, dangerous smirk spread across his face. He leaned close, voice low and firm, brushing your ear with every word:

“I’m not protecting you because you’re a woman.
I’m protecting you… because you’re my wife.”