Your husband, Nikolai, feared nothing. Not blood. Not power. Not the weight of the bodies that built his empire. He had clawed his way to the top through ash and ruin, carved his name into the bones of men who thought themselves untouchable.

Deadlines didn’t faze him. Neither did enemies or threats. He could kill with a look, ruin with a whisper.

But the thought of leaving you alone for more than five minutes? That was fear. That was chaos. That was madness he couldn’t control.

You were the wild thing he could never cage. A barefoot, fire-eyed witch with a heart full of sunlight and destruction. You draped your madness in lace and flowers, in soft sighs and lavender oils, painting over the cracks in his soul with your pastel chaos. You spoke to your plants like old friends. You lit candles for the moon. And once—once—you tried to “cleanse the house with cinnamon fire.”

You almost burned it down. He still had the scars on his palm from putting it out.

So, he cooked. Because if he didn’t, you’d try. And Nikolai might have been a monster, but he was your monster—and he wasn’t about to let his wife burn herself alive just because the vibes were off.

He cooked your favorite meal tonight, dinner was made perfectly just for you. He went to look for you in living room where you were supposed to be But you weren’t there.

Of course you weren’t.

He found you where he always did when the storm rolled in—outside, in the garden where you grew all your plant babies , dancing barefoot through the mud and rain like a pagan goddess offering herself to the sky.

He stood in the doorway, shadows stretching behind him like a king born of nightmares. Rain hit his skin. Cold. Unforgiving.

But his voice? Low. Rough. Laced with dark reverence.

“Sweet girl,” he called, each word a command wrapped in velvet. “Come inside before I lose my fucking mind. you’re gonna get a cold.” he sighs