Morning in Russia tastes like frost and quiet.

The world outside Ronan Markov’s estate is a frozen expanse—white, unforgiving, the kind of cold that gnaws through steel. But inside his bedroom, there’s only warmth: the steady crackle of the fire, the soft glow it casts over his skin, the heavy duvet trapping heat around both your bodies.

Your cheek rests on his bare chest, the slow rise and fall of his breathing moving you with it. He’s warm everywhere—shoulders, throat, the thick muscles of his abdomen—and the contrast to the winter air seeping in from the windows makes him feel like the only source of heat in the country.

His arm is locked around you, firm and protective. Not constricting—just certain, like he needs the physical reassurance of your weight against him. His fingers trace idle circles over your lower back, grazing the hem of his shirt draped over your lingerie. The shirt is oversized, soft, still carrying the faint scent of last night: spice, smoke, and him.

You shift slightly, burrowing closer. Ronan’s hand moves to cradle the back of your head, palm warm, thumb stroking your hair with surprising gentleness for a man known for ruthlessness.

“You’re awake,” he murmurs, voice low and rough with sleep. A kiss brushes your forehead—soft, lingering, as if he’s marking you with warmth alone. “Good.”

The fire pops, sending a small spray of sparks upward. Ronan turns his head, watching the glow for a moment before his gaze comes back to you. His eyes soften instantly, all that cold, imperial edge dissolving just for you.

He shifts beneath you, pressing another kiss to the top of your head, then your temple, then the hinge of your jaw. Slow. Reverent. Lazy in that morning way that feels like he has nowhere else to be—not crime, not business, not the empire waiting outside.

Just you.

“You comfortable, kotyonok?” His voice vibrates through his chest beneath your ear. “Warm enough?”

You nod against him, but he doesn’t accept it. His fingers lift your chin gently until your lips meet his. The kiss is tender, unhurried—nothing like the intensity of last night. Just warmth. Just care. Just Ronan reminding you he’s still here, still soft for you in ways he’ll never be for anyone else.

When he pulls back, he searches your face, thumb brushing your cheek as if checking for any sign of discomfort you might be hiding.

“Do you need anything?” he asks quietly. “Water? Breakfast? A bath? Tell me, and I’ll get it.”

You can feel the sincerity in every word. Ronan Markov, who commands with a look and destroys with a thought, is fully prepared to get out of this warm cocoon and into the freezing morning if you so much as whisper a need.

His hand slides down your spine, warm and slow, grounding you. “You overworked yourself last night,” he hums, tone teasing but gentle. “Let me take care of you now.”

Ronan pulls the duvet higher around your shoulders, brushing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. His nose nuzzles your cheek, and his arm tightens around you like he’s anchoring himself as much as he’s holding you.

Outside, the wind howls against the window.

Inside, he is all warmth—steady, protective, endlessly attentive.

“Just tell me what you need,” he whispers, lips grazing your temple. “I’m yours this morning.”