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I keep my eyes closed, afraid that if I look at him, I’ll start crying. Because in this quiet moment, with his big hands moving so gently between my legs, wiping away the evidence of what we just did, something settles deep in my chest.

Even when I’m gray and old, even when every other memory has faded, I will remember this man. This beautiful, nameless stranger with mismatched eyes and a voice like smoke. He’s ruined me. Completely, irrevocably. No one else will ever measure up. No touch will ever feel this safe and filthy and perfect all at once.

When he’s done, he presses a soft kiss to the inside of my thigh, then pulls the covers up over me. He joins me in bed, and I find myself curling up to him, and he wraps his arms around me.

I wake up with the urge to ease myself. I open my eyes to find the room bathed in darkness, and the space beside me empty. Past midnight, the clock on the nightstand glows red: 12:47. The suite is silent except for the distant hum of the ocean outside the windows. It’s obvious my companion isn’t in the suite.

I sit up slowly. My body protests, aches in places I didn’t know could ache, but I force myself to move. I slip into the ensuite, do my business, and when I come out, I slip into my red dress.

I grab my purse, smooth my hair as best I can in the dim light, and take one last glance around the room. The massive bed with its tangled sheets.

I have no idea where he’s gone, but it’s a good thing that he isn’t here. This was a one-night stand. I don’t want the awkward morning after, the forced small talk, the polite goodbyes, the walk of shame in broad daylight, makeup smudged, and my dress screaming what I did.

Better to do it now, while the world is still asleep. I ease the door open, step into the hallway, and let it close softly behind me.

The corridor is empty, carpet muffling my footsteps. I don’t look back.

The wedding passes in a surreal, mechanical blur.

Sharon floats down the aisle in white lace and triumph, Luke beams like he’s won the lottery.

But none of it registers. All I can think about is him.

The stranger from last night. The man whose hands mapped my body like he’d been studying it for years. The way he pinned me to the mattress, flipped me, bent me over the edge of the bed, every position, every thrust.

The low rumble of his voice in my ear, calling me “good girl” until the words melted into my bloodstream. The way he made me come, five times. Five. Freaking. Times. Each one more shattering than the last, crashing through me until I was sobbing, boneless and trembling and begging when I thought I couldn’t take another second.

I’ve made myself come before. Plenty of times. But nothing like that. Nothing so overwhelming, so consuming, so… much. Even now, hours later, after a scalding shower that should have washed him away, my skin still feels cold where his hands were hot.

Goosebumps rise every time I remember the way he held me, like I was fragile and unbreakable at the same time. Like he knew exactly where to touch, exactly how hard, exactly when to slow down and draw it out until I was shaking apart.

I’m so lost in the memory, cheeks burning, that I almost don’t hear Jenna giggling beside me as we watch the couple have their first dance.

“Oh my God,” she whispers to another of our colleagues. “He’s here. The rumored Bratva devil himself.”

“Who are you guys talking about?” I ask.

“Andrei Popov,” Jenna giggles.

“I heard he’s involved in the Russian mafia or something,” Milene whispers.

“Really?” I ask, curious to see the rumored Bratva devil for myself.

I turn toward the cluster of my colleagues near the edge of the reception tent. They’re all staring at something. Someone.

And there he is.

Tall, broad, charcoal suit tailored to every lethal inch of him. Dark hair still slightly tousled. Those mismatched eyes scanning the crowd with that same quiet, predatory focus he turned on me in the bar.

My heart slams into my throat.

I step back on legs that feel detached from my body. “What is he doing here?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

Jenna turns to me. “He’s the uncle of the groom.”

The world tilts.

I stare at her. “What?”