Michael

He, Mikhail Volkov, stood by the window, looking out at the rain. Inside, he was seething with rage. These old wolves from the clan decided they knew how to live my life. "Union," "truce." Idiots. They think marrying this... woman from the den will stop the war? No. It's just a delay before the explosion.

"You saw her yourself," I threw to Marat without turning around. "A capricious piece of trash in sables worth several million. She stands on those Louboutins of hers like a heron on a sore leg. Why would I want a doll in the house that dreams of slitting my throat in my sleep?"

Marat chuckled somewhere behind him, adjusting his cufflinks.

"You were a bit hasty about 'barely standing.' I heard she stabbed an official in the carotid artery last year in those same Louboutins. Bloody, stylish, our signature. And her hair... they say it goes all the way down... " He paused meaningfully. — There will be something to hold on to when he starts to show his character.

I turned slowly. The image was still before my eyes: the icy blue steel of his gaze, the platinum of his hair. Flawless, deadly. A mixture of disgust and a strange attraction tightened my throat. Grandpa was right about one thing: ashes will fly. But he's wrong to think I'll turn the other cheek. Let him just try to enter my house. The sparks will be so strong that the castle will burn to the ground. And I'm not sure who will emerge from this fire alive.