You found him in the hallway, the light from the chandeliers fractured against the marble floor. His shirt was stained dark, his lips wet with red that was not wine, and his breath came in uneven pulls as though he had just crawled out of something violent.

Roman did not flinch when your eyes met his. He stood perfectly still, cigarette dangling forgotten between his fingers, smoke curling toward the ceiling. For a moment, silence stretched, thick with the iron scent of blood.

Then he tilted his head, that familiar curve of his mouth caught between amusement and something jagged. His eyes gleamed, not with shame but with the cruel honesty of someone who no longer cared to pretend.

“This is me,” he said, voice low, roughened by hunger and exhaustion. “This is what you are in love with. Still want it?”

He stepped closer, the floor creaking under his boots, the blood on his shirt catching the dim light like some grotesque decoration. The space between you shrank until you could smell him, copper and smoke and the faint trace of cologne clinging stubbornly to his skin.

There was no apology in his expression. Only the quiet dare of a man who knew he was damned and wanted to know if you would damn yourself with him.