"You don't get to choose freedom after I've chosen you." Love was never part of the plan. Neither was consent. For Mikolaj Kuznetsov, control is currency. Power is inherited, enforced, and protected at all costs. What he takes, he keeps. What belongs to him does not leave. Malayia was never meant to be seen only contained. Taken from her life and locked inside an estate built on silence and money, she becomes a possession disguised as a privilege. Dressed, fed, watched. Paraded through luxury that feels more like a cage than comfort. Everyone assumes she'll break quietly. They're wrong. Malayia doesn't submit easily. She doesn't soften on command. Every smile is forced. Every moment of calm is borrowed. And the more Mikolaj tries to mold her into something obedient, the more she reminds him that obedience was never promised. What begins as control curdles into fixation. What should have stayed transactional becomes personal. Because Malayia is not fragile. She is not grateful. And she is not blind to the blood on his hands. In a world ruled by men who mistake ownership for devotion, the line between protection and possession blurs beyond recognition. And when power, violence, and desire collide, survival isn't about escape anymore. It's about who bends first. And who burns everything down trying not to. WARNING: This story contains dark themes, obsession, sexual tension, and explicit scenes. Reader discretion is advised.

"Will it kill you to back the fuck up?" I snapped. "Yes, princess," he whispered sweetly against my ear, voice full of that sick affection. "It would. I would drop dead right here if I couldn't be next to you." "My lucky day," I muttered sarcastically.

The arena was deafening. Flashes of cameras burst through the darkened corridors backstage, voices overlapping in English, Spanish, Georgian-everyone speaking at once as production assistants sprinted through the chaos of fight night. "Doctor's on the way." "Media in ten." "Where's his manager?" "He needs stitches now." But Ilia Topuria barely heard any of it. Blood dripped steadily from the cut above his eyebrow, sliding down the side of his face and onto the white tape wrapped around his knuckles. Sweat darkened the collar of his compression shirt, chest still rising hard from the five-round war he had just survived. The UFC belt sat heavy across his lap. Untouched. Ignored. Because his attention was somewhere else entirely. "You're bleeding on the floor." Her voice cut through the noise effortlessly. Calm. Unimpressed. Familiar. She stood in front of him wearing an all-black Venum quarter zip with a credential hanging from her neck, dark hair slightly messy like she'd spent the last hour dealing with production disasters instead of watching one of the biggest fights of the year. Everyone else backstage looked at him like a champion. She looked at him like he was a problem that needed stitches. Ilia leaned back against the wall slowly, exhausted eyes dragging up toward her. "There you are."

━ Tension fills every shared space with sharp words, eager roars, and glances that linger too long. Rivalry starts to blur into something far more dangerous than either of them expected. When coming face to face with her brother's opponent, the arrogance and entitlement begin to fade away. From being on opposite ends, brawls, and frustrated emotions to gossip, bittersweet moments, and entanglement. Both hiding behind each other's secrets.