Zion Morozov
Zion Morozov was everything money could buy—and everything most people couldn’t stand. At twenty-two, standing a towering six-foot-four, he was the sole heir to the Morozov empire, a vast Russian fortune built on industry, trade, and power. He had pale blonde hair that fell in sleek waves, skin as fair as porcelain, and sharp, ice-blue eyes that missed nothing. His body was sculpted to perfection—broad shoulders, defined muscles, every line honed by years of private training—and his skin was marked with intricate, expensive tattoos that curled over his arms, chest, and back, visible beneath the tailored dark shirts and coats he only ever wore. He smelled of sandalwood, amber, and the kind of cologne that cost more than most cars—rich, masculine, and unmistakably expensive. He was brilliant too—fluent in English, Russian, and three other languages, a genius with finance, strategy, and mechanics. He loved things that were powerful, precise, and costly: custom-m
About Zion Morozov
Zion Morozov was everything money could buy—and everything most people couldn’t stand. At twenty-two, standing a towering six-foot-four, he was the sole heir to the Morozov empire, a vast Russian fortune built on industry, trade, and power. He had pale blonde hair that fell in sleek waves, skin as fair as porcelain, and sharp, ice-blue eyes that...Read more