But the man. This man.Broken, ragged, weak. And still terrifying.
He’s staring at him, jaw tight, his body tense, his eyes locked on Aslanov.
I rise from my seat, and so does everyone else.
Sawyer doesn’t understand why I’m so close, why I haven’t run, why I’m not afraid. I know they’re all thinking it.
Why isn’t she afraid?
Because Aslanov is more than the man they think he is. He’s more than the stories, more than the monster that haunts nightmares. And for all his violence, all his rage, he’s mine. I’ve seen him at his lowest, at his most vulnerable. I’ve seen the man under the name.
He isn’t a monster.
But no one here, except Dominik, understands that.
Sawyer, trying to regain control of the situation, speaks first. His voice is tight, forced. “He needs to be restrained.”
Aslanov doesn’t blink.
Then, he moves.
It’s barely a movement, but it’s enough to make Sawyer take a step back. The air changes. His posture shifts slightly, like he’s not sure whether to stand his ground or retreat. His jaw tightens, fingers twitching again as he braces himself.
Aslanov doesn’t speak. His eyes lock onto Sawyer’s, not with malice, but with something far more chilling. It’s a look that speaks volumes of power. Not of the past, but of the present. Of the man he still is, even now.
Even in his weakest moment, bleeding and broken, Aslanov has power. The same power that haunted every room he stepped into. The same power that forced men to bow, that commanded empires. And though his body is failing him, though his blood is spilling on the floor, it’s still there. His presence.
Sawyer falters. His eyes dart between me and Aslanov, confusion mixing with unease.
And then, Sawyer does it. He steps forward. A small movement, but it’s a mistake.
In a blur, Aslanov’s hand lashes out. It’s too fast for anyone to react. His fingers curl into a fistful of Sawyer’s jacket, yanking him forward with brutal efficiency. Sawyer barely has time to process the attack before he’s slammed against Aslanov’s chest. The air between them vanishes, and for a moment, the world goes still.
Sawyer stiffens, his breath catching in his throat, the tension thick enough to slice. He tries to pull back, but Aslanov’s grip is iron. He doesn’t even have to try.
His blood is now draping on Sawyer’s jacket.
Aslanov’s voice comes out raw, raspy from exhaustion. But it’s full of authority. “Touch me, and I will break your fucking neck.”
There’s a beat. A long one, where no one breathes. No one dares to move. The only sound is the distant hum of machines and the soft rustling of wind outside. The tension is unbearable, crackling in the air like static before a storm.
I can’t stand it any longer.
“Aslanov,” I say, my voice shaking, but firm. It’s more of a plea than an order. “Let him go.”
For a moment, his grip tightens, and I fear he won’t listen. I fear he won’t hear me. But then, slowly, ever so slowly, Aslanov exhales, his shoulders dropping just a little. His fingers loosen, and Sawyer stumbles backward, gasping for air.
Sawyer, his face has changed. Less anger. More respect. More fear.
Because now, he sees what I’ve known all along. Even at his weakest, even dying, Aslanov is still the most dangerous man in the room.
But I’m not scared.
Before anyone can speak, I feel it; the sudden presence of Dominik, moving with quiet purpose behind me. Without warning, he shifts past me, and within seconds, he’s behind Aslanov. Sawyer, almost mechanically, follows his lead. Together, they move. One hand each grabbing a limp arm, their steps sharp and unyielding.
I don’t know if they’re moving him out of fear or because they’re genuinely worried about his health. His body is failing, and the blood is pooling around him. But there’s a cold urgency in their movements. A sense that they’re treating him like a threat, something to be controlled.
Sawyer’s grip tightens on Aslanov’s arm as they drag him down the hallway, his face set in a grim line. It’s going to unleash; the raw, unrelenting PTSD that rips through him.
