Quicksand

Adrik POV:
Joy, my joy, now my wife—lay beside me, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, lost in the quiet surrender of sleep. The moonlight stretched long fingers through the window, casting shadows across her face, softening the sharp edges of her beauty. I watched her, mesmerized, but there was something unsettling about the stillness, something that festered beneath my ribs like an ache I couldn't name.

I wanted to wake her. No, more than that, I wanted to shatter this peace she so carelessly claimed without me. It wasn't hers to take alone. Sleep was a sanctuary, a place I could not follow, and that was unacceptable. She should not rest unless it was in my arms, under my gaze, by my will. I resented the way her body curled in on itself, as if even in sleep she could keep something hidden from me. What did she dream of? Who did she dream of?

I reached out, brushing my fingers over the delicate curve of her throat, feeling the pulse beneath my touch, slow, steady, unaware. A part of me delighted in the vulnerability, the power I had in this moment.

She belonged to me, and yet, for these hours, she was lost to a world I couldn't enter. That thought gnawed at me, hollowing me out with something sharp and restless. My grip tightened just slightly, just enough for her to stir, for her brows to pull together in the faintest sign of distress.

Letting her go was never an option. It would never be an option. If it meant staining my hands with the blood of every last one of her relatives, of anyone who had ever known her, ever loved her, ever dared to believe they had a place in her life—I would. Without hesitation. Without remorse. She was mine, and I would carve that truth into the bones of this world if I had to.

From the moment I first saw her, I knew. There was no question, no uncertainty. She was the one. Not in the way poets speak of love, not in the way fools dream of fate. No, this was something far deeper, something violent and undeniable. It wasn't about choice. It was about possession. About inevitability.

She would be mine until the very last breath left her body. And even then, I wasn't sure I'd let her go.

I was never given the chance to be anything but this. From the moment I could walk, I was shaped into something ruthless, something lethal. My father—his father before him—ensured that I was forged in blood, hardened by brutality, stripped of anything useless like mercy or fear. By the time I took his place, the Bratva was mine, and I ruled it with the same iron fist that had once beaten me into the man I am today.

Some men hesitate before they kill. Some let their conscience whisper doubts in their ears. I don't. I never have. Death is not just a necessity in my world—it is currency. A language. A message written in red across city streets, whispered through the cries of those who dared to cross me.

There is no forgiveness in my line of work. No second chances. You betray me, you die. You steal from me, you die. You speak my name in the wrong circles, you die. And I don't just make you disappear—I make you suffer. I make an example of you.

I remember one in particular—a man who thought he could skim from my businesses, thought I wouldn't notice the missing money. When I caught him, I didn't kill him right away. No, that would have been too easy. I let him watch as I took apart everything he loved, piece by piece. His wife, his sons—they screamed for him, begged for mercy. But mercy is something I do not offer. By the time I finally turned my attention to him, he was already broken. Hollow. He thanked me when I put the bullet between his eyes.

And then there's my collection. My trophies. Not just the fools who thought they could cheat me, but those who had the misfortune of catching my attention in a different way. A special kind of prey. The ones whose fear was sweeter, whose pain was art.