The Demolitionist

The Renovation Project, Book Seven
by Isla Wilde

Pairing: MF
Heat: 5/5 Inferno
Tropes: Age Gap, Blue Collar, Size Difference, Protector Romance, Touch Her and Die, Forced Proximity, Reverse Harem, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort

She thought protection meant control. He’s about to show her that the strongest hands can also be the gentlest.

Callie Monroe has learned a lot about herself—from Ford’s patience, Jax’s joy, Silas’s instinct, Dane’s command, Mac’s care, and Ellis’s precision. But nothing has prepared her for Anatoli “Tank” Volkov. Massive. Silent. A former enforcer with Russian prison tattoos and a past he can’t outrun.

Tank has spent twelve years proving he’s not the monster he once was. The brotherhood gave him a second chance. Ford gave him purpose. But he’s never let himself get close to anyone—because the hands that once destroyed can never be trusted to love.

When he arrives to demolish the basement walls and uncover what’s hidden behind them, he discovers something unexpected: Jack Callahan’s secret study, untouched for seventy years. As they uncover the final pieces of a love story that spans generations, Tank finds himself falling for the small, fierce woman who looks at his scars and sees not a killer—but a protector.

And Callie discovers that being held by someone strong enough to break her might be exactly what makes her feel safe.

The Demolitionist is Book Seven of The Renovation Project, a high-heat reverse harem romance series featuring size difference, protection kink, gentle giant romance, Russian endearments, found family dynamics, blue-collar heroes, and a woman discovering that the biggest, most dangerous man she’s ever met might also be the safest place she’s ever been. Contains explicit content intended for readers 18+. All activities are consensual between adults.

Content Notes

This book contains: explicit sexual content, significant age gap (21 years), size difference (he’s 6’5″ and 300 lbs), references to past violence and organized crime, Russian prison tattoos and their meanings, gentle dominance, protection kink, and the seventh book in a reverse harem series where the heroine is intimate with multiple partners.

Exclusive Bonus Scene

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Get an exclusive bonus scene from Tank’s POV that’s too steamy for Amazon — featuring the night he finally lets go completely, size worship like you’ve never read, and the Russian endearments that will make you melt…

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Read Chapter One Free

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Chapter One: The Giant

He filled the doorway.

That was my first thought when I opened the front door at 6 AM to find a mountain of a man standing on my grandmother’s porch. Not that he was tall—though he was, easily six-five or more. Not that he was broad—though his shoulders seemed to block out the early morning light. But that he filled the space in a way that made everything else seem smaller.

Including me.

“Miss Monroe.” His voice was a low rumble, accented in a way I couldn’t quite place. Russian, maybe. “Ford sent me.”

I knew about Tank. Ford had mentioned him—the demolitionist, the one who would tear down the basement walls and uncover whatever was hidden behind them. What Ford hadn’t mentioned was that Tank looked like he could bench press my entire house without breaking a sweat.

“You’re early.” It came out more accusatory than I’d intended.

“I don’t sleep much.” He didn’t apologize. Didn’t explain. Just stood there, waiting, his pale gray eyes studying me with an intensity that made me want to cross my arms over my chest—which was currently covered only by an oversized t-shirt.

“Right. Okay. Come in.” I stepped back, and he ducked through the doorway. Actually ducked. The frame wasn’t low, but he was just that big.

Inside, he seemed even larger. The foyer that had always felt spacious suddenly felt cramped. He moved carefully, deliberately, like a man who was very aware of how much space he took up and was trying not to break anything.

“Coffee?” I offered, because I didn’t know what else to say.

“No. Thank you.” His eyes were still moving—scanning the room, the doorways, the windows. Cataloging. Assessing. “I should see the basement.”

“It’s through the kitchen. I can show you—”

“I know.” He was already moving toward the kitchen door. “Ford gave me the layout.”

Of course he had. The brotherhood shared everything. I was learning that.

I followed him, watching his massive frame navigate the narrow hallway. He moved with a surprising grace for someone his size—fluid, controlled. Like a predator that had learned to walk among prey.

The thought should have scared me. Instead, I found myself staring at the breadth of his back, at the tattoos I could see peeking out from his collar, at the way his hands—God, those hands—seemed capable of crushing stone.

He stopped at the top of the basement stairs and turned. I almost ran into his chest.

“You should stay upstairs.” His voice was quiet. Careful. “Basement is not safe yet.”

“It’s my house.”

“Yes. But I cannot protect you if you are in the way.”

Something about the way he said it—protect you—made my stomach flip. Not because it was threatening. Because it wasn’t. Because he said it like it was simply a fact. Like protecting me was the most natural thing in the world.

“Fine,” I heard myself say. “I’ll make breakfast.”

He nodded once, then disappeared down the stairs. And I stood there, alone in my kitchen, wondering why I suddenly felt safer than I had in months.