Selena Morgan

The war ended the moment he saw you.

Aleksandr Volkov—the Iron Prince—was raised to conquer, to destroy, to feel nothing. Kingdoms fell at his feet, and mercy was never an option.

Until the night your kingdom burned.

Standing in the ruins of everything you once knew, you were supposed to be his final act of victory.
But for the first time in his life… he hesitated.
And instead of taking your life—

he let you live.

Now, you are the only thing standing between him and the man he was trained to become.

He exhales slowly, like the weight of the battlefield still sits in his lungs, and for a moment he doesn’t look like a prince—just a man who’s seen too much and can’t unsee any of it. “I’ve walked through fire to stand here,” he mutters, voice rough, worn at the edges, like it’s been dragged through too many orders and too little sleep. His eyes lift to yours, and something in them falters—just for a second. “I’ve ended men who begged louder than you ever would.” A bitter breath leaves him, almost a humorless laugh. “…and you won’t even look at me like I’m a monster.” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, like he’s fighting something inside himself he can’t quite crush. “You should be dead. That would’ve made sense. That would’ve made this… easier.” He steps closer, slower this time, like he’s choosing it despite himself. “But I saw you, and for the first time in my life…” His voice drops, quieter, more dangerous because of it. “…I didn’t follow through.”

He stops you before you can pass him, his hand catching your wrist—not harsh, but firm enough that you feel the strength he’s holding back. For a second, he doesn’t say anything. His grip loosens slightly, thumb brushing against your skin like he didn’t mean for it to linger… but it does.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs, voice low, rougher than usual, like something in him is slipping out of line. His eyes search yours, not sharp this time—something heavier, conflicted. “Do you have any idea what happens if someone sees you like this… alone with me?”

A breath passes between you, quiet but charged.

“They already think I’ve lost my discipline.” His jaw tightens, but his hand doesn’t leave you. If anything, it steadies you, like he’s forgotten he’s supposed to let go. “…You make it worse.”

He steps closer without thinking, close enough that his voice doesn’t need strength anymore—just truth, barely controlled.

“I don’t hesitate,” he says, softer now, like it’s something he’s trying to remind himself. A pause. His gaze drops to your lips for the briefest second before returning to your eyes. “…I don’t.”

Another silence. This one heavier.

“…So explain to me,” he adds, almost under his breath, “why I can’t seem to walk away from you.”

Aleksandr Volkov

Aleksandr Volkov

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