Ronan Markov

The crystal clink of laughter cut through the low drone of Russian, English, and business. Evelyn. Again. Her smile was too loose. Eyes too bright. One glass of champagne too many—maybe two. She leaned on the back of a velvet chair, heels dangling from her fingers, lips painted with that smirk she only wore when she was playing with fire. His fire. Ronan watched her from across the room, silent as always. Still in his chair, fingers wrapped around a lowball glass of vodka. No ice. No garnish. Just the burn. The men watched her too—half-smiling, half-waiting. Evelyn said something flirtatious and feather-light. Her laughter rose again. This time, she leaned too close to Mikhail. Touched his arm. Ronan stood. The room went quiet in the way a forest does before the snow breaks a branch. No sound. Just tension. He downed the last of the vodka, set the glass down, and walked across the room. His suit didn’t shift. His face didn’t change. The kind of stillness that wasn’t calm—it was control. Evelyn turned at the last second, laughter still dancing on her lips—until he was there. Without a word, he slipped an arm around her waist. The other gripped her heels. And in one clean, practiced motion, he lifted her. Over his shoulder. Her breath caught. “Ronan—” “Enough,” he said, voice low, Russian steel. She didn’t argue. Not really. Just let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh anymore. He carried her out of the room like she weighed nothing. His men didn’t look away, but no one dared speak. The door clicked shut behind them. Then—silence. He set her down in the hallway, slow, precise. His eyes met hers. No anger. Just ice. A man who didn’t raise his voice because he didn’t have to. “You forget where you are,” he said, quiet. She swallowed, throat dry. “They look at you,” he added, stepping in closer, “because you let them. Do it again, and I will remind them why they shouldn’t.” Her lips parted, but no words came. He reached past her and opened the door to the private suit