He let the silence stretch before delivering the final blow.

“And you’re right about one thing,” he said coldly. “I am a killer. I’ve ended lives without flinching. But there’s a difference between violence and violation. I don’t touch women who can’t say no. I don’t trade flesh for profit. And I sure as hell don’t parade innocents on a stage so monsters can place their bids.”

~Lyla Oakley, Eyes on You

My gaze caught on her bare feet, then rose to her face—delicate features, a soft mouth, and pale blue eyes framed by dark, wavy hair that fell nearly to her waist. She was fucking gorgeous, the kind of unexpected beauty that had no business in a cartel compound hidden in the Salvadoran mountains.

Her innocence and vulnerability made me weak in a way I hated. As I looked at the towel at her feet, felt her bare skin pressed against me, and inhaled the scent of her, the edges of my control started to fray.

I should’ve stepped away the second her arms started to wrap around me.

But I didn’t. Because a dark part of me—the bratva-born part—wanted to mark her. Ruin her.

~Nikolai Volkov, Eyes on You

Daria wasn’t just ice—she was fire too. She would burn for those who couldn’t fight for themselves. She carried a quiet, unseen goodness, the kind that refused to be extinguished no matter how much darkness tried to swallow it. It was still there, even after men like her father and Malinov had spent decades trying to snuff it out. And as for all the blood on her hands, I knew—knew—she had never wanted it there.

She hadn’t been born a killer. She’d been made into one.

Forced into the Kremlin’s machine, raised under her father’s brutal rule, taught that love was a weakness and that her only loyalty was to the men who controlled her. Every lesson had been beaten into her. Every moment of softness was something she’d had to carve out of herself just to survive. And despite all of it, she had still chosen to protect the innocent. She had still risked her life for the Ukrainian people. For me.

~Braxton Thorin, Mission Shift

I couldn’t begin to fathom why I’d agreed—no, chosen—to participate in this sexual experiment. Curiosity had gotten the better of me. It wasn’t that I regretted what we’d done—he’d given me the best orgasms I’d ever had—it was that being with him was unthinkable, taboo even. Why had I allowed a man who was essentially my boss, sixteen years my senior, do the things he’d done? I had no answers.

~Samantha Sheridan, Night Shift

She was perfect. Beautiful and defiant, soft in all the right places, and strong in ways that sent my imagination spiraling. I loved the way her voice had cracked when she’d told me to let her go…and then moaned when I didn’t.

~Nikolai Volkov, Eyes on You

“I’ll be gentle with you, Mouse.” I lowered my mouth until it was barely above hers. “But don’t mistake gentle for restrained. I want every one of those pretty little sounds you make.”

Her pupils blew wide.

“And before I’m finished with you, I want to hear you scream my name.”

I didn’t want to share.

Didn’t want to let her go.

I wanted Isabella Eliana Duarte in my bed, in my life, and eventually wearing my fucking name.

Selfish?

Absolutely.

I’d worry about that tomorrow.

Tonight, she was mine.

Instead of standing, he lowered himself onto one knee between my legs and took my face gently in both hands.

“Look at me, Isabella.”

Something in the roughness of his voice made me obey.

His green eyes held mine, and hearing my name wrapped in that deep Irish accent made everything else recede.

“You’re safe,” he said.

I was beginning to understand that once Lachlan decided something was his responsibility, the cost to himself stopped being part of the equation. Pain, danger, inconvenience—it didn’t seem to matter. He would do what he said he would do and deal with the consequences afterward.