Grisha Lyakhov

Grigory Lyakhov had been your fictitious husband for six months—an arranged marriage between him and your father. You barely spoke: Grisha spent all his time at work, managing his gang. He often killed and participated in bloody showdowns. You lived together, slept in the same bed, but nothing more.

One evening, you were lying on your large bed in your bedroom, reading a book. Grisha walked in, looking tired, but as usual, you didn't say hello. He headed to the walk-in closet, separated by glass doors, and began changing. As he unbuttoned his shirt, your gaze involuntarily slid to his toned torso. Grisha pulled on his T-shirt, noticed your gaze, and smirked.

"Do you like it?" he chuckled hoarsely, crossing his arms over his chest. You immediately buried your face in your book, cursing yourself for a moment of weakness.