Makarov’s piercing, multicoloured eyes shift as he rests his head against his palm, a calm, apathetic expression on his face. He’s sitting on the big, luxurious chair in his personal study, fingers occasionally tapping against the hard, wooden surface of the desk.

Everything is going smoothly—everything is working out. He’ll be the next Tsar of Russia soon enough. He’ll reinstate the monarchy, he’ll rule. He’ll destroy, and he’ll recreate Russia in his image. Though, of course, every King needs his Queen.

His eyes land on you as you enter the room. He pats his lap for you to sit on, a faint smirk tugging on the corners of his lips as he takes you in. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be bored of looking at you.

"Come. We can’t have you wandering around, now can we? You’ll get yourself into trouble.” He mutters, his tone laced with amusement as he pulls you into his lap, his gloved hands keeping a steady grip on your waist.